by C. L. Quinn
She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. But she didn’t know how to stop this, didn’t know what her mother would do if she didn’t. Or what the man might do.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” she whispered out loud over and over until the door opened, and Mother led a man in.
Her mother’s heavily made up eyes shot to Punk.
“Take care of him. Quick.” Then her eyes burned into the old man’s. “She does you, you don’t touch her. If you do, I’ll cut the motherfucker off, you get me? You pay up front, asshole.”
Punk watched the old man nod, hand wadded up cash to her Mother as she closed the door, then he turned to face the young girl in the corner of the room.
Oh, God, this is horrible. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!
With a toothless grin, he loosened his belt and dropped his pants to pool around his ankles.
“Don’t make me wait, girlie. Your mama’s been paid and my john’s ready to play. You a cute thing, though, for all your mama tells folk. Get on over here and make me happy.”
He backed up into her bed and dropped down, fingering the thing between his legs.
Squeezing tighter into the corner, her eyelids slammed closed, she whispered to herself as if she could command magic and transport out of the room to the beach where she would be safe. No, no, no…!
Suddenly, a sharp pinch on her face pulled her back to her situation, Punk’s eyes popped open in terror, she panicked when she saw him standing in front of her, and threw her hands out.
The man flew backwards, airborne, and landed on her bed, his pants still twisted around his ankles, the horrible thing between his legs sticking up. He yelled as he flew, but now he was silent.
Pressed against the wall, Punk stared at her hands. What had she done? He would tell on her! Her mother would throw her into the streets! She could lock or unlock a door, but she shouldn’t have thrown him into the air and across the room. What was wrong with her?
She was still looking at her hands when her bedroom door swung open and her mother came in. Mother’s mean eyes took in the scene, Punk holding up her hands, the man on the bed with his pants off and his privates exposed. Lifting a lit cigarette stained with her red lipstick to her mouth, she smirked.
“Used your hand, huh? Good for you. That’s better than your mouth if they’ll let you get away with it. Did he pass out?”
Punk didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t speak, so she just nodded.
“Okay. Well, he ain’t staying here.” Mother went to the bed and kicked him hard in the thigh. He roused and sat up shakily.
“She done you good, so get out,” Mother said without removing the cigarette from between her lips.
The old man looked confused. He started to speak, stopped, glanced over at Punk, then back to the woman whose eyes bore into him.
Standing, he pulled his pants up, repeatedly blinking his eyes, which moved back to Punk. “She…she took care of me?”
“Damn right. So get the fuck out of here. Unless you wanna pay for another round.”
Shaking his head while he zipped his pants, the man staggered away from the bed. “Nah, nah, I’m good.”
Mother watched him go, turned to look around the room, then her eyes went to Punk, suddenly sharp. She stared for a good five minutes, and it scared Punk because she rarely looked directly at her unless she had to. Or unless she was going to be punished. Then Mother stepped towards her and Punk locked her eyes on her, ready in case mother kicked her like she had the old man.
“Maybe I can make some money off you. That was quick. Your young body must really turn the old men on. Yeah.”
Mother dropped the cigarette onto the floor and stepped on it as she lit another, her hand on the doorknob.
“You might be able to earn your keep now that you’re older.” Pausing, she looked out into the living room. “Keep it quiet, the others are gone. I’m taking a nap.”
Switching off the light before she left, Punk’s mother left her in the darkness. She sat there wondering what was wrong with her and she didn’t go near her bed that night.
Sunlight squeezed through the opening at the top of the plywood that Mother had some guy nail over the window in the living room. That tiny bit of light made the difference for Punk as she sat on the couch and looked over the history text book before she sent her final test in.
After last night’s nasty turn in her life, Punk was calm and ready to face her future. It was going to be all right. While she had no idea when her own birthday was, she knew that she had to be approaching her 15th year, because it was over a year since her mother had told her that she was 14. At fifteen, she would be only two years from registering and preparing for college. Then, things would change forever.
A click and a groan let her know that her mother was awake. Turning her head, she watched her overly slim mother wander out of the bedroom, a burning cigarette already in her hand, dressed in something that looked like a repurposed bedsheet. Her arms were bare, the strange tattoos she’d had as long as Punk knew looked a little shriveled. Punk had always thought that if she drank less, and didn’t take those street drugs, she’d put on some weight.
Rena ran her fingers through her hair, which was standing on end after a restless night. The other hand held the first of many cigarettes she’d smoke today.
Shit, the brat was up. Usually was, but she thought that after last night, her little bitch child would sleep in.
Drawing a shaky breath, she prepared herself in case the kid said something. Never mind she had a massive case of regret and guilt, although she’d convinced herself last night that there wasn’t anything wrong with the girl doing what she did to the old fuckface. It wasn’t sex, just a marketable skill. And the old bastard had paid a hundred and fifty bucks for her. If it had been a hand-job from Rena, she’d have been lucky if he gave her twenty bucks.
The kid was just going to have to deal with it, like Rena had with the fucking vampire that had impregnated her when she was still a young girl herself in her mid-twenties.
As she came around to the front of the couch, she looked down at Punk. Well, the little bitch looked calm enough. Huh, must not have upset her too much. Her eyes moved over Punk’s relaxed form, her legs drawn up under her, her hair pulled back neatly in a ponytail, a book on her knees.
“Mornin,’” Rena said.
The kid raised her head and smiled at Rena.
“Good morning,” she answered in a strong, clear voice.
“We got anything for breakfast?”
Rena stepped back quickly when Punk stood.
“No. You give me some of that money you made last night and I’ll go get something and cook for you.”
Pausing, Rena nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give you a ten.”
“No.”
Rena’s head swung around. “What did you say?”
“No. You got a lot more than that from the old man and I have to struggle to make ten dollars stretch enough to feed you, let alone keep enough food in this house that I don’t starve when you go away for weeks.”
Just as Rena prepared to tear into her, Punk walked up into her face and Rena stepped back, holding a hand out in front of herself in a gesture of defense.
Punk didn’t back up. “Another thing, Mother. Don’t ever send anyone into my room again. If you do, I’ll call the police and have you arrested. I’ve always taken whatever you’ve given me, but I’m done. I know you think that I’m the reason that your life sucks, and okay, but from now on, just leave me alone. I’ll keep this place clean, I’ll feed you, I’ll take care of all the things you don’t want to. But don’t you ever expect me to do what you do. I’m not going to live like you do, ever, and I won’t do that now. Do you understand?”
Holding her cigarette high, Rena watched the smoke curl and waft towards Punk.
Her eyes locked on her daughter’s, Punk responded, unwavering, gaze to gaze, will to will.
Rena dropped her eyes first, pulled a twenty dollar bill from h
er purse, balled it up, and threw it at Punk.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Following a sharp nod, Punk walked from the apartment. Rena dropped onto the couch and released a long ragged breath.
Fuck, if the thing didn’t fucking scare the shit out of her. That attitude, that aggressive warning, it reminded her too much of that spectacular man that fathered this demon child.
Rena knew that what she’d done was wrong. It was sort of a relief to have a reason to make sure she never tried that again. Mostly, though, she really was afraid of her own daughter.
Several people were coming and going this morning as Punk hurried down the sidewalk. She was still shaking, and thought that shock might even be setting in as she diverted from the sidewalk and broke into a run to reach the beach before she dropped onto the sand to watch the blue-green water roll gently onto shore. The sun had moved higher and bathed everything with a golden glow, including her.
The shaking was beginning to calm down now that she was far from the apartment and the unexpected confrontation with her mother. She’d sat on the couch trying to convince herself that if she asked Mother not to do that to her again, then mother would apologize and tell her she was sorry. In actuality, she knew that would never happen. But she hadn’t expected to stand and make threats and demands of the one person in this world that she desperately wanted approval from.
Her heartbeat had finally slowed back to normal and she could breathe easily again. Now, she could consider what had happened.
She’d stood up for herself. She’d stood up for herself!
Holy heck, she’d actually faced her mother and told her that she wouldn’t tolerate her abuse anymore.
Her head down, her eyes on her naked toes as she wiggled them free from her shoes, her lips curved slowly.
She’d faced her mother, finally, and won. At least for the moment. Even if she tried to beat her into submission later, she’d braved the storm and made herself heard. No matter what happened next, it was a true victory.
She knew, too, that there would be fall out. Nothing, though, would spoil this moment. With twenty dollars in her pocket, and sunshine on her face, she owned the world. All was right for now…tomorrow would happen tomorrow.
“Ice cream,” Punk whispered. She had only had the sweet, cold stuff twice in her life, and loved it both times, so today, there was going to be ice cream.
Later, a nice lunch prepared for herself and her mother, Punk set two plates on the table that they rarely used in the little kitchen and went to just outside of her mother’s bedroom door.
“Lunch is ready if you’re still hungry,” she announced, then immediately turned back to the kitchen. Whether her mother came out to eat or not didn’t matter. The food was fresh and Punk was hungry. Even with the limited funds, she’d managed to set a nice table and cook a delicious meal that she was proud of, and in spite of their current relationship, she hoped that her mother would enjoy it.
Tucking a fork into a spicy meatball, Punk looked up to see her mother coming from her room with a small satchel.
“Enjoy the shit yourself, Brat. I’m going to Atlanta with some friends and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Did you get enough with that twenty to get you by for a few weeks? I hope so.”
Punk’s fork stilled, then she lowered it and placed it on the plate.
So her mother was going to do what she always did, she was going to run. Not unexpected, but she’d hoped that the confrontation might have been an opening to help them begin to forge a new relationship. She’d been wrong.
“I don’t. Not for two weeks, or even longer, if you decide to stay. Can I have another twenty?”
“No. I’ll need every dollar. Things are expensive in Atlanta. I haven’t had a new dress in a long time, and I think I deserve it. You’ll make do, you always have.”
Mother headed to the door, stopped to light a cigarette for the third time today, and glanced back to Punk at the table, unmoving, her eyes downcast.
“Or you can call the cops and have them come get you. Good luck in the foster care system.”
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Yeah, don’t do me any favors.”
Mother opened the door, and closed it behind her.
Punk listened to the hollow-heeled slides click against the wood stairs, the sound disappearing into silence.
She was alone again.
FIVE
“And, done.”
Punk pushed the books away. She’d finished her last tests. Soon, she would complete all requirements and be granted her high school diploma. And not long after, she was on a bus for somewhere as far from this place as she could get.
By her closest calculation, she must be sixteen by now. Mrs. Brooks had secured her birth certificate, which was in the mail, and everything was ready to go so that she could start the process of getting her life in order.
Ducks in a row, she called it. Mother still had no clue. Not that she would give a shit if she did. But as soon as the diploma was in her hand, Punk had decided that she was gone. Eighteen or not, she would find a way to live and go to school. She would never look back.
“Little bitch, would you come here and tie this dress for me?”
Rena loved this flowered halter-top dress which showed her cleavage to maximum advantage, but she could never get it tied tight enough to push her breasts as high as she wanted them.
Moments later, as usual, Punk showed up to do exactly what she wanted her to do.
“There, that should work,” Punk said. “Do you need any other help?”
“No, I’m good,” Rena answered and watched Punk nod and walk back into the living room.
Staring after her, Rena noticed the regal carriage Punk had these days. The brat was growing up, and she was stunning. Without a drop of makeup, with clothes that had seen better days long before they’d been donated to the thrift shop where she’d bought them, with no discernible benefits in her life, that girl had blossomed.
Sighing, Rena dropped onto her bed as she slid on her shoes and secured the straps. She should be happy to see the child doing well. God knew the kid had the worst fucking mother on the planet. God only knew what the kid’s father was doing now, or who he was eating.
Did Rena have perhaps a tiny bit of pride in the fact that, through the shitty life the kid had been granted, she’d prevailed? Was it possible that in one small corner of her heart, she had a sliver of motherly connection to this girl she’d borne in spite of the monster who’d spawned her?
Shaking her head to a question she didn’t want to answer, Rena stood and took stock of her image in the mirror on the wall. It was hard to miss that the cheap, foggy mirror was wiped down, dust and streak free, the result of Punk’s ever constant desire for cleanliness and order. In spite of everything she’d ever done to her child, Rena knew that Punk was an extraordinarily thoughtful and bright young woman. In spite of Rena, not because of her, she would admit that only to herself.
Clipping on a gaudy bracelet, she picked up the fancy purse one of her dates had bought for her two weeks ago. She wondered where all of this would end. Not well for her, she imagined. It was never going to.
Eight weeks later, a letter arrived for Punk from Mrs. Brooks, who had been a godsend because she’d stayed with Punk through all of this and helped her to finish her schooling. One day soon, Punk hoped to be able to do something nice for her. Send her enough money to find a better place to live, perhaps, or at least enough to relieve the burden of financial concern that plagued everyone in the building they’d stayed in all those years ago in Michigan.
Tearing it open carefully, she paused before she unfolded the paper. Realizing she’d been holding her breath, Punk released the trapped air and looked at the letter.
As she slid off the couch, Punk walked over to the window in the living room that let a sliver of sunlight through, raised her head to the brightness and smiled. She’d done it.
She had her high school dipl
oma. Nothing was going to stop her now.
Mother was still asleep, and Punk was pretty sure that this was one of the rare times that someone had slept over. She’d heard a man’s voice in there half an hour ago.
In celebration, she wanted to go to the beach today, get an ice cream cone from the vendor next to the supermarket, and most of all, she didn’t want to be here when the man came out of her mother’s room.
Men had always watched her. Now that she was older, and had breasts that she considered way too large, they gave her much more attention than she wanted. Her best course was to stay out of their path, so she watched the door as she slid her shoes on, eased a five dollar bill from her mother’s purse, and headed to the door.
After all these years, her mother still had no idea that Punk went to the beach while she slept. If she had, Punk had always imagined that her mother would nail the door shut. It didn’t matter now, it wouldn’t be long before she was gone from here forever.
As she reached for the door handle, she heard a deep voice behind her.
“Hi, where ya going?”
Frozen in place, not sure whether she should just go, or respond, Punk finally decided to turn around.
He was dressed, pants at least, and a lot more attractive than most of her mother’s guests.
“Uh, just…out.”
“You’re the daughter, right? I’m Bruce. She said you were in the next room, but she certainly didn’t tell me how gorgeous you were. Like mother, like daughter.”
The comment shocked Punk. Like mother, like daughter? No one had ever said they looked anything alike, and her mother went particularly out of her way to tell her that there was nothing of her in Punk. In spite of kind comments once in a great while, Punk was under the impression that she was homely, that idea hit home every time her mother looked at her.
