Born and Broken Every Single Time.

“I’m not in the mood for this,” I moaned to my mother from under the protection of my duvet.

“No,” she snapped upon realising where this was going. “You’re not doing this again today.” She snatched my cover off me, throwing it out of my room before my attempt to snatch it back could succeed. I stood up, aiming just to casually pick it back up and resume my original position.

“NO,” she yelled as she shoved me back onto my bed, my head unceremoniously smacking against the wall. “You can’t do this,” she yelled, voicing a mix between anger an upset. As I tried to get up again, my head throbbing from the harsh contact with the wall it had just shared, I was shoved back down and from nowhere she just started hitting me.

“Off,” I snapped as I shoved her back. Mother or not she was not getting away with hitting me, whether it be my arms or my stomach which she had suddenly decided to attack.

“Come on!” she yelled with a demented smirk on her face. “Hit me then!” she taunted as she slapped me feebly.

“You know what?” I yelled. “If I hit you, you’d fucking know about it. But the difference here is I won’t resort to violence, so you can fuck right off if you think I’m going to turn out like you or dad.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she snapped as she pushed me harshly back onto the bed. This time I managed to avoid the wall thankfully.

“Whatever,” I challenged. “You have no idea!”

“No idea about what?” she glared.

“Come on! You think you and dad are the only people who’ve ever smacked me one. I didn’t say you’d know about it if I hit you for nothing,” I hissed. I’d confided to them time and time again of how people had just started stuff with me on the street, and I had to fight my corner or be seriously done over. I might not have won all challenges, but I put up a good enough fight, not that they ever cared.

“And you wonder why?” she smirked, much to my shock. “Look at you. You dress like a freak, you’re rude, you’re fat, why should anyone like you?”

I just stared blankly back at her as she smiled, picking up my cover and throwing it at me before slamming my door shut. I didn’t attempt to move the cover from its awkward balance; I just sat feeling as disheartened as I believed I could feel. I listened intently as my mother spoke to herself as she did whatever she was doing. She always did that to vent her anger, but even more so to make sure I heard her.

“Stupid piece of shit,” she sneered. “Pretends he has eating problems just for attention! Eating problems? Yeah he eats too much, waste of space. Biggest pain in our lives, always thinking about himself well he needs to learn we – don’t – give – a - f-“

“Shut up!” I yelled from my room, willing her not to continue. She knew just what to say to hurt me as she’d seen me react badly to them before. I had grown to hide it, to not rise to the bait but inside it crushed me to hear her talk about me like that, to hear her talk to me like that.

“Why? Fatty not like realising his parents wish they’d aborted him or drowned him at birth?” she smirked casually, goading me for a reaction.

“You think you’re so smart,” I grinned from where I sat. “Look at you! You’re not exactly the greatest person in the world yourself. I mean you think smacking your kid one is okay and-“

“You drive me to it,” she interrupted, the smirk draining from her fact.

“Ah,” I smiled “And you don’t think on plenty of occasions you could have driven me to batter you? The difference is I can be the bigger person. You think the name-calling hurts me? On the contrary, it makes me realise how pathetic you are that you need to resort to such immature levels…”

“Immature?” she snapped. She hated when I used fancier language to talk down to her, hating it even more if I responded rationally to her attempts to gauge a reaction. “Name calling? I’m not calling you names, I’m stating a fact.”

“Fact?” I laughed, much to her anger. “You want some facts? You and dad think battering your kid to boost your ego is okay, fact. You have a DRINK problem, fact-“

“That is not a fact,” she frowned. “Don’t start this again.”

“Ah,” I smirked. “So the countless times I’ve come home and you’ve been like ‘I’ve only had a bottle’ didn’t exist? Or the fact you used to drag me to pubs and bars with you when I was a kid when no one could look after me didn’t happen.”

“Well if it’s that bad here, why don’t you go live with a friend?” she smiled. “Oh wait! You don’t have any. They can all see you for the fat, worthless piece of-“

“Sticks and stones mother,” I forced a smile. “At least I don’t need to find the bottom of a bottle to have a good time.”

“You know what Frank? Do what you want, throw your life away-“

“End up like you,” I smiled sweetly.

She stared at me blankly before slamming the door behind me, continuing to slag me off. I pulled my cover back over me, snuggling into it to find some comfort. Every word she uttered from outside my room tore away at me, and I found myself trying desperately not to just walk out there and smack her one. I’d never do that – I’d never resort to violence. They could do whatever they wanted to me but all I’d ever do is defend myself, they just didn’t see I could be different than them.

They just couldn’t see what was going on in my life, they couldn’t understand my point of view. All they needed to know was what others thought of them as parents, and the moment that took a bashing was the moment I turned a disappointment. I didn’t really care what they thought of me in all honesty. What I did care about was how they made me feel, how they could turn any good mood foul with just a few harsh words strung together in a sentence.

My stomach rumbled, telling me I should get something to eat, even if it’s just little. I had been trying to sort it, little steps and all that.

“Fat?” I muttered to myself as I turned over, pulling the cover over my head and ignoring my cue to go get food. “I’ll show that bitch fat.”