Page 1 of The Tattered Gloves
HEAD DOWN.
Don’t look up.
Never make eye contact.
These were the rules I’d learned to live by while growing up in a house where men frequented but did not stay. When I was very little, I’d always assumed my mother had a lot of friends. Big, strong, manly friends who protected us since I didn’t have a daddy.
How naive I had been.
The men who had visited only wanted one thing, and my mother was happy to give it — for a price.
She’d never made any desperate attempts to shadow this particular part of her life or protect me from it.
The most I’d gotten was a flippant warning when I started showing signs of puberty.
“Willow, you might want to keep out of sight more now,” she’d said.
Thanks, Mom.
And then, when I’d garnered more than a glance or two, she’d say, “Stay in your room at night. Don’t come out.”
But, even with all the rules and warnings, I couldn’t keep them all away.
I couldn’t keephimaway.
He’d managed to snuff out every bit of me in a matter of minutes.
Whatever remnants of innocence I’d had from my childhood was gone like a puff of smoke.
But, in our darkest hours, sometimes, even the weak could find the light.
I did, and this… this was my story.
