The years blurred together after that. Same cycle. Same routine.
By the time I was ten, I was brimming with internal cynicism and outward submission.
I knew by then that people cared more about their own motives, happiness, and success than anyone else's suffering. Whether they empathized or not didn't matter. They weren't going to risk their cushioned little lives to make a difference in mine.
So I learned to work with that. To lessen my struggle, I tried to appeal to people's needs before they took their frustrations out on me.
Take Ellie, for example. She liked being complimented. Loved talking about herself and her "achievements." So every morning, I found something to compliment.
New clothes. New shoes. A hairstyle. How beautiful her skin looked. As long as she could talk about herself, I avoided pain. At least physical pain.
"My mom only buys me the best products for my skin," Ellie bragged once, flipping her blonde hair. "Lotions, perfumes, hundreds if not thousands of dollars. Obviously someone like you can't relate."
Even at ten, thousands of dollars on lotion sounded like bullshit. Pretty sure that's not a thing, is it?
But I nodded, hung on every word, and praised her.
"Wow, that's amazing, Ellie. So cool. Yeah, I can't really… we can't afford that. It's so cool that you can."
See? Bootlicker. Submission. Appeasement. Those people-pleaser tendencies saved me more times than I can count.
But not with everyone. Some people were hell-bent on making my life harder no matter what. That was Nicole.
Her insults never stopped.
She pushed me.
Stolen my food.
Set me up to get in trouble.
The number of times my mom got called about my hair, my smell—all thanks to Nicole's little games—was staggering.
And after a while, Mom stopped beating me as much. Maybe it exhausted her. At most, I'd get a hard yank by the hair or something worse: an insult crafted just for me.
And that hurt worse.
Being insulted is one thing. But insults made for you? Those specific ones? That's another kind of wound.
Instead of a harsh, tired yell like, "You stupid bitch," or, "You ugly whore," paired with a barrage of hits…
I got a weary, bitter sigh. Her hands in her hair as she sounds on the verge of tears.
"You frizzy, freckled-face burden. I wish you'd just died. Maybe… Maybe it would've been easier. He should've shot me or if you'd died during delivery."
I'd take the hits any day over that.
Whoever said sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me—fucking lied.
Words hurt worse. The bruises healed. The soreness faded. But the words? They left wounds wide open, festering, eating away at what little sense of worth I had.
And then came Nicole's performance that broke the camel's back.
She let out a high-pitched scream, toppling out of her chair and scrambling back like she'd seen a monster. Her face twisted in horror and disgust.
"Oh my God! Oh my God! Mr. Stevenson! Rhea has bugs in her hair! One flew onto my desk!"
The class erupted in screams. Kids pulled away like I had the plague. Gagging sounds filled the room.
Hushed words of disgust thrown at me from every direction.
"Ew, that's nasty."
"I heard she doesn't bathe."
"She has fleas."
"I think it's lice."
I looked around for help. For anyone to believe me. Pleaded as I tried to tell them my hair was clean, my body was clean. I scrubbed myself raw and red, night after fucking night.
But Mr. Stevenson just looked at me with an almost pitiful sigh. Shook his head. And gave a nod toward the door.
"Gotta call your mom," he murmured.
My mom was not pleased. Even though she'd grown tired of beating me, there was one thing that always sent her into a rage:
When one of us made the family look bad.
Especially me.
By the time she reached the school, she was stiff. Trying to stay collected, trying to put that mask in place, but it cracked with every step toward me.
I know, I know. I've said I'd rather take the barrage of hits than the sharp, specific insults. But that didn't make this less terrifying. I froze up, eyes on the floor, as the nurse and Mr. Stevenson greeted her.
Mr. Stevenson was… what's the word?
Pathetic.
I thought I was bad, but he was worse. He saw things happening, saw me flinch, saw the bullying, saw everything—but apparently intervention or stopping it was too much trouble for him. Too much of a pain.
A truly insecure and passive wimp of a man.
"Yeah, uh…" he mumbled, arms swinging lazy. His eyes shifting everywhere but my mom's face. "Kids say they saw bugs in her hair."
The nurse, at least, tried to soften it. She was late sixties, maybe seventy. That sweet spot on the cusp of retirement. English wasn't her first language—I think she was Polish. She smiled at my mom, patting my head with a gloved hand.
"I didn't saw nothing. Maybe early case of lice. We catch it quick. Go pharmacy, buy kit, yes?"
My mother's lips curved into a slow heavy smile. That smile was telling.
I was screwed. And screwed was me.
"Understood. I'll take care of it."
She turned and snatched my arm, her grip digging into me.
"Come on," she hissed.
Mr. Stevenson turned away, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn't just watched it. The nurse looked at him for confirmation, like You saw that, right? But he avoided her eyes too and walked back to class.
Pussy.
"Look forward now," my mom muttered, tugging me through the halls, flashing tight smiles at anyone who passed.
Once in the car, she started the engine and didn't bother with the mask anymore.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Bugs? In your hair?" Her eyes darted between me and the road, hunched over the wheel, gripping it like a lifeline.
"I've been lenient. But it's like you want me to beat you. That's what you want, isn't it?"
I shook my head fast and whispered, "N-no, it's not."
Over.
And over.
But she nodded anyway, Her eyes wide and unblinking.
"No. It is. It has to be. Or else I wouldn't keep. Getting. These. Fucking. Calls!"
Each word punctuated by a slap to the dashboard.
"Embarrassing me in front of those teachers, those kids! Word's gonna spread. This whole town knows everybody, and now I'll have to sit there and—"
She cut herself off with a deep, shaking breath. I definitely almost pissed myself. My heart pounded in my throat, every shallow breath sinking into my stomach, bloating me with fear until my head felt fuzzy.
When we pulled into the driveway, she snapped her seatbelt free.
"Get out. Now."
Inside, she shoved me onto the couch and stormed into the bathroom. I heard the drawer slam.
"I should've done this years ago," she muttered.
She came back with a pair of large gray scissors in her hand.
My first thought? This is it. She's gonna kill me.
My first thought? This is it. She's gonna kill me.
A bit over the top, sure—but I was ten.
A bit over the top, sure—but I was ten.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please Mommy!" I cried, waving my hands in front of me.
She slapped me, pinning me into the couch, straddling me. One hand gripped both of mine, forcing me still. The other started snipping.
Thick, dry clumps of my hair fell to the floor.
When she was finished, she dropped the scissors, wiped her face, and walked away. On her way to her bedroom, she told my oldest brother, "Even her out."
He didn't even hesitate. Just pointed to the chair, blank as ever. No empathy, no pity. Just started up the clippers and shaved off what was left, leaving me bald.
When he was done, he pointed at the mess.
"Clean it up. It's your hair."
Pulling his flip phone from his pocket and he disappeared into his room.
So I sat there, sweeping my own hair into a pile. Uneven strands from my mom. The shaved clumps from my brother. All of it gone.
And you know what? I was… relieved. At least now nobody could call me doggy. Or mop head. Or bird's nest.
I rubbed my bare scalp. I Felt lighter and free, at least from my hair.
And do you know what the craziest part of all this was?
My mom's a hairstylist.