𝚂 𝙼 𝙸 𝙻 𝙴

P r o l o g u e

There's a moment in childhood where a mother looks at her child of creation and ponders on the great events--the great future her child will have--and then the following moment is the dread, the despair when she realizes the possibility it could be for nothing. A mother will always question the impossible, and will always pose the unbearable. When the odds are immeasurable, when the outcome could have been easier, but no one likes easy, do they?

There is no "clout", no ego-boosting result in going easy. There's no glory in it. A mother will remember the easy parts of her child's life and think she is the reason why it was so easy, but the mother will always remember the hard, the bone-breaking moments her child must conquer. She will remember the blood, the bones, and the fight to be at the top.

A daughter will remember the fight to be at the top just as her mother did. She will expect the unexpected. She is the creator of her future; a future built upon the life laid out before her. But what if, by a slim chance, the future prepared is one no one expected? What if it is beyond the predicted, one you could never fathom to live?

My mother left everything like a puzzle.

I am the final piece to this grand puzzle, but it is difficult to dance to a song of such elegance when you're not the designated performer. My mother is the pianist, and I am the piano keys--each note she presses is another moment she creates, another memory blossoming--while I simply produce the melody. But the melody is one you could dance to for hours, but it just isn't beautiful enough to be played at a recital. You can play the keys, but you cannot expect to become Beetthoven or Yann Tiersen--a lesson my mother should have learned from the mistakes she made but didn't.

So now we are left with a massive puzzle without a clue of how to solve it as an angry grape-lady screams in our ear hideous words I dare not repeat. And suddenly the melody becomes quiet, and all you can hear are the provokable sounds from a twisted piano. The peace is disrupted and it all crashes as your mind becomes aware of your surroundings. You come down from the high you were experiencing to find a woman seething through her rotten teeth from the corner of the room-- the you is me. A tragic tale, is it not?

Suddenly, my mother became the retired and I became both the melody and the pianist, yet it still seemed futile to play on the keys when the keys would not make the sound I desired. When my fingers are placed upon the ivory, it plays a string of nonsensical tones--no one expected this outcome.

I am left with nothing but a grand piano and an unsolvable puzzle to complete.

I suppose my brain has become immune to this cycle of disassociation. It detects when the agony starts and when it is about to end; cool, huh? To a degree.

The old woman-- her name is always like a word search--is the angry grape-lady mentioned before. Her role in this tragedy is one of remarkable notice. She plays the role of the wicked Mother-wannabe. We were separated, but even when the nice people told me I was safe, we both knew, deep down, I wasn't. Maybe for the meantime, maybe for a few days I was safe, but the wicked woman would always hunt me down. Even now, her voice reverberates around my head, twisting and slithering into my ears and around my heart, squeezing it until it bursts open all of the agonizing memories of her--the things she did.

"C'mon, get up." she would say, her voice raspy and fearful. She wasn't the villain; I was. Our tango was coming to a close, but she wasn't at her final part yet. "Get up!"

My eyes woozy, and my head nauseous, I couldn't move. She persisted nonetheless, lifting me up by the shirt but not having the strength to maintain it so she decided to throw my weak body into the corner. "I know you can do better, get up!"

Her voice was an unwanted echo that bounced from wall to wall like a ricochet.

I couldn't get up.

"Stand up before your legs are broken like the twigs they ought to be."

I can't, but I'll try just for you.

The moment I stood up, I came crashing down just as quickly. Everything became blurry from what I could only assume were tears rolling down my red-painted cheek. I could not feel the pain, but my brain knew it was there, it was just so tremendous, it was numbed.

There was a loud whack noise, followed by Mother angrily sighing, as she stroked my cheek. "Alina, you're so weak and fragile. It makes momma so angry to see no progress. You understand, don't you?"

Who could possibly be understanding towards that? Did I do something wrong, was I too weak and pitiful so this has become my punishment? Are you expecting an apology? Ha.

She promised to do better, but she was not even given the chance. All I remember is waking up in the arms of a young woman carrying my weakened body into what looked and smelled like an ambulance--I envision them smelling like hydrogen peroxide and medical alcohol. Mother watching with tears in her eyes as her one and only baby girl was being treated because of her own hostility. My eyes naturally wondered downwards to see the seeping blood poking through my clothes, the bruises and scrapes littering my tiny body like the freckles that lined my cheeks. The scars spreading from my shoulders to my ankles--and my feet were too bloody and bruised for me to possibly walk.

The woman inserted a needle into my arm and placed a mask over my face--I later learned it was to help me breathe--as mother begged to see me. "Ma'am, we're not even sorry for this. You did this to her, didn't you? We checked with neighboring houses and your husband has not been around for years; we dug through your record before arrival. You're all this girl has, and you dared to do something this awful?"

"No--I--Just let me hold her hand."

I reached out my hand, but it fell back down. The woman looked across from her at a young man, who then dug through the secured cabinet behind him and pulled out a needle along with something else.

"Ma'am, your daughter might die tonight. We have to go."

My vision became hazy and I looked at the woman. It was at that moment my chest began to hurt and I felt heavy. It hurt. "Help... me... it hurts."

She held my hand as the man placed something else over my mouth and nose and pumped a balloon looking thing as the ambulance made its way to the hospital where my injuries were treated with care and ensurement of survival. They took care of me, and after I woke up, the doctor promised me I wouldn't ever return to that house under the roof of Mother--and for the first time, I smiled.

It soon became clear that what followed was the result of the mental damage that they hadn't been prepared for. Most importantly, that wicked woman will be the one who turned me into a killer with no empathy or sympathy.

This is only the beginning.