Dave Pelzer

I’m late. I’ve got to finish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since I didn’t have dinner last night, I have to make sure I get something to eat.

I act timid, nodding to her threats. “Please,” I say to myself, “just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to have food.”

Mother can beat me all she wants, but I haven’t let her take away my will to somehow survive.

Mother enjoys using food as her weapon. She knows better than to throw leftovers in the garbage can. She knows I’ll dig it out later. Mother knows most of my tricks.

I always break down in the end and confess, even though I feel I should protect my mother.

My long-sleeve shirt has more holes than Swiss cheese. It’s the same shirt I’ve worn for about two years. Mother has me wear it every day as her way to humiliate me.

The nurse must have seen the concern in my eyes. She puts the clipboard down and hugs me.

“She is so warm.” I don’t want to let go. I want to stay in her arms forever. I hold my eyes tightly shut, and for a few moments nothing else exists.

I’m afraid to look into his eyes, which is mostly a habit from trying to deal with my mother.

Usually I’m a very good student, but for the past few months I gave up on everything in my life, including escaping my misery through my schoolwork.