My Bruised Heart

*WARNING DEPICTIONS OF ABUSE*

MILES

Slap!

The sharp sting of my mother's hand exploded against my cheek, a searing burn that faded into a dull ache almost immediately.

"What did you say?" Her voice was so low it seemed to echo from the depths of hell itself.

My younger sister, Audrey sat in my mother's favorite chair, just eating this up, her eyes lighting up at the sting on my cheek.

I swallowed hard and righted myself, my face void of emotion as I face her.

The woman who birthed me. The woman who controlled almost every aspect of my life.

Soft blue eyes, a delicate nose, and full pink lips were set on a pale, heart-shaped face. Petite body–very fit since exercise was her favorite hobby and beautiful, creamy fair skin, which was now flushed in anger, almost matching the fiery intensity of her dyed strawberry-blonde hair.

"Answer me!" she demanded.

I flinched, my mind snapping back to the present.

"I said, I can't go to dinner," I murmured. My voice trembled, betraying the lack of emotion I was trying to give.

That morning, she’d mentioned having dinner with her new fiancé the next night.

Fiancé. As in, she was marrying someone. I was so shocked I could only nod. Not that I could speak my true thoughts. With my mother, it was her way or no way, and her fiancé was supposed to meet the daughter of the love of his life.

Gag.

How he couldn’t see past my mother’s vile nature was beyond me. Either way, I wasn’t going to that dinner.

Against my better judgment, I got a job. I wasn't supposed to. I had my mother and sister thinking it was some type of community service that kept me out. They were far too busy with their own perfect lives to pay attention to detail.

Except of course, when situations like having a shift at the same time your demon mother wants to put on a show for her new fuck boy at dinner happens.

"You're such an idiot, Miles," chimed my sister Audrey. "You'll make us look bad if you don’t show."

Like I cared. For three months now, I’d been working at a diner across the tracks, saving up to live on my own. I couldn’t tell her about the job because she’d force me to quit one way or another. So I took as many shifts as I could, when I could.

I was turning eighteen in a week, and I had a shift tonight, so no, I wouldn’t make her stupid dinner.

My mother raised her hand, curling it into a fist, and swung it toward me. Before it could connect with my face, I crouched down, curling into a ball as she pounded on my back—the only defense I had learned when she went on a rampage.

"You little bitch!" Smack!

"Do you think you can just do whatever you want because I've been busy? You don't have that freedom! I'm the one who provides for you!"

I squeezed my eyes shut against the sound of fists pounding my back. 'I guess new bruises will join the old ones,' I thought.

The beatings always hurt, yet I had painstakingly learned to lock everything away—keeping all that could hurt me outside a tiny, fortified box. I know it sounded crazy but, it's what worked.

Even though my mother screamed, her voice became a muffled drone, and every blow was a reminder that I was trapped—my mind imagining her pounding outside my box, trying desperately to get in. It was a cruel trick, my brain numbing the pain as if to say, "She can't reach you. Not yet."

She continued like a crazed gorilla for minutes, throwing kicks at my ribs before finally stopping. Leaning back to catch her breath, she looked almost satisfied—as if the violence had relieved some pent-up stress. It made me sick.

"Now," she began, straightening her shirt and smoothing out her pants, "tell me again—but keep that little shitty job of yours in mind."

I froze.

"What? You thought I didn't know?" My heart pounded, fear clawing up my spine. I was sure she could see it on my face; her eyes lit up in cruel amusement.

Audrey leaned forward. "That waiter of yours sure is cute. I think he likes you."

My mother tilted her head. "Is that right?"

I couldn't hide my fear now. Even though it was the only emotion I felt, I thought I had gotten better at putting it just my box.

"Miles...what am I going to do with you?" She circled me, tapping her chin with her finger.

I started to shake. Kenny. Momma Jay.

What if I put them in danger? No. I had to think about myself. I want to escape. I couldnt afford to think of others.

But....

"I would love...dinner.." The words left my lips before my brain could stop them.

"What was that now?" my mother sang. "And say it with enthusiasm."

My sister chuckled, her smile stretched wide.

I hated it—hated how they manipulated me like a puppet, yanking my strings while looking down at me with that merciless gleam. I often wondered how much more I could take, but fear always pulled me back, forcing me to bend to their will.

"I—I would love to have dinner."

I felt like I was going to throw up. Self-loathing hit me like a ton of bricks. I wanted to stand up and tell her she could go fuck herself, but the words got stuck in my throat.

"You will be at dinner and act accordingly." She squatted down, resting her forearms on her knees. With the tips of her fingers, she lifted my chin and looked at me with mock tenderness. "Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded slowly.

"Now get the fuck out. I don't want to see your face."

I rose, turning toward the door. As I opened it, I felt a hard kick on my back. I stumbled forward, falling onto the concrete porch on my hands and knees.

"Don't forget, Miles," I heard her sneer from behind, "you're nothing."

I flinched as she slammed the door. I stayed on my hands and knees, taking deep breaths, ignoring the sting behind my eyes. I would not cry. Tears wouldn’t change anything.

It wasn’t just the physical pain or her cruel words. It was my own weakness. I couldn’t find the strength to stand up to her, or even run away. She was like a chain around my neck, tightening every time I thought I had a sliver of control.

She was right. I was nothing.

My mother, Candice Valentine, was the one person I feared above all else. I didn’t know how to defy her. Sometimes, I didn’t even want to think about it. But I had to—I was tired of living like this, of her beating me and leaving me with nothing but fear. Of my sister watching like it was her favorite show.

I took a final, shuddering breath before rising to dust off my clothes. The late-night summer air hit my face, and I breathed it in, jealous of how freely it flowed—untamed, unburdened. I wanted that. I wanted to feel free.

A buzzing vibrated in my back pocket. I pulled out my phone. It was already past ten in the evening.

Kenzie: let's drink up bitch! address in the link. wear something sexy 😉

Looking down at myself—jean shorts, a tank top, and a flannel with sleeves rolled up to my elbows—I sighed. This was as sexy as it was going to get for me. I needed a drink, maybe a few, to dull the ache. I looked back at the house. She wouldn’t let me back inside for a few hours. I might as well try to have some fun. I texted my best friend Kenzie back.

Miles: omw

There was nothing better to do on a Friday night in our small town anyway.