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Eight Months Ago

The moment I enter the kitchen, the smell of ground beef browning in the pot on the stove makes my stomach turn. My father refuses to allow me to be a vegetarian while living in his house. It has nothing to do with my principles or humanitarianism. It’s just the smell of meat that makes me sick. Plain and simple. But that’s not a valid reason for my father. He doesn’t want me to be some “pansy liberal” who can’t defend herself.

Such a stupid copout. There’s no doubt I can defend myself. I can do more than that. After twelve years of intense training in hand-to-hand combat, I’m practically a weapon of mass destruction by now.

My mother stands over the stove with her wooden spoon in hand as she stirs the meat in the pot. I have evil fantasies about my mother sometimes. I’ve thought of locking her in her bedroom more times than I count, just to see how she likes it. I’ve imagined her wasting away in her room because all I give her to eat are slabs of raw meat.

I shake my head to clear away these sick thoughts. The biggest mistake my parents made was allowing me to watch television. They allowed me a window to the outside world. That window helps me know that these thoughts of torturing my mother are not normal. And I know that their keeping me in a basement and training me to be a killing machine is also not the way most children are raised.

And I’m not a child anymore.

“Mom?”

Her unnaturally red hair is pinned up in a bun on the back of her head. She glances over her shoulder then turns back to her pot.

“What?”

I draw in a deep breath and try not to let my emotions get the best of me. “I’m moving out.”

Her hand stops stirring and her body freezes. “What?”

“I’m leaving. Tonight.”

She lets out a puff of laughter and continues stirring. “Yeah, right. Set the table, Alex.”

“No.”

She pauses for a moment before she turns around to face me. “Set the table, Alex.”

“No. I’m leaving.”

“You’re not going anywhere looking like that.” She looks me up and down, a wide smile forming at the sight of the blotchy skin on my arms and face.

“I’m leaving tonight. I’m not going to pay to live in a basement.”

She rolls her blue eyes and turns back to the stove as the smell of burned meat begins to billow behind her. “Fine. You’ll begin paying next year.”

“No!” I shout. “I’m leaving tonight!”

She spins around and I duck as she hurls the wooden spoon at my head. “You’re not going anywhere!”

“I can kill you right now!”

“Go ahead and try! You think your father will allow it?” Her eyes widen with delight as she beckons me with both hands. “No one knows you exist! No one will miss you when you’re gone.”

I glance at the wooden spoon on the floor behind me and imagine driving the handle into her chest. She’s lucky I have no desire to make things even more difficult for myself.

I turn on my heel and march toward the living room. My father is sitting on the sofa. The TV screen goes black as he turns it off.

He glares at me from the corner of the sofa. He heard.

“Sit down,” he says, nodding at the other end of the sofa.

I grit my teeth and take a seat. “I’m not changing my mind.”

He stares straight ahead at the wall in front of us. The wall covered in pictures of my mother and father when they were teenagers. When they got married. When they went to Jamaica, Mexico, and Europe without me. Not a single picture of me anywhere.

“I know you can take care of yourself, princess,” my father begins. “I’m not worried about that.” I cross my arms over my chest as he turns to me and looks into my eyes. “But no one will ever accept you. Not like that.” He looks me up and down the way my mother just did. “The world is cruel, princess. But if you want to leave, know that we’ll always be here whenever you want to come back.”

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