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.

I swallowed hard and turned to face her. Her fair skin was flushed in anger, almost matching the fiery intensity of her dyed strawberry-blonde hair. Petite but built like an athlete, she ran four miles every morning to keep that perfect figure—smooth, flawless, and utterly unattainable. Soft blue eyes, a delicate nose, and full pink lips were set on a pale, heart-shaped face. At least, that was the picture she presented when she wasn’t seething.

When she lost control, though, her beauty twisted into something feral—lips curled back to reveal bared teeth and eyes wild with fury.

I looked at myself and saw nothing like her. I towered over her by at least a foot, with olive skin and long, straight black hair that cascaded down to my ass. If there was anything I’d inherited from her, it was my mouth—full and pink just like hers. Otherwise, no one would guess I was her daughter. She hated it when she introduced me. People would say, "She must look just like her father. I’d never have guessed!"

I knew I’d get a beating for that.

"Answer me!" she demanded.

I flinched, my mind snapping back to the present.

I knew she wouldn’t take the news well—I’d anticipated it. She never liked it when I acted on my own, when I dared to be independent. I was at my wit’s end.

"I said, I can't go to dinner," I stammered. My voice trembled as I tried to explain. I had to work.

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.

It wasn’t as if she cared for me. I was no part of her picture-perfect family. I flinched whenever she touched me, faking affection, always reminded of how much she hated me—and never let me forget it.

I was turning eighteen in a week, and she wouldn’t ever let go of her leash on me. 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!

It was a stretch, considering she worked as a nurse and actually earned decent money—but not a single penny was ever spent on me unless we had to make appearances. Even the groceries were off limits unless she gave me permission to eat her leftovers. I never wanted them, but the first time I refused, it ended in pain.

I pretty much fended for myself. 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.

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 had become numbing, yet I had painstakingly learned to lock everything away—keeping all that could hurt me outside a tiny, fortified box. 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 whipped my head around, eyes wide. She knew.

"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.

"Don't make me repeat myself. And say it with enthusiasm."

I hated it—hated how she 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 her 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'm tired of living like this, of her beating me and leaving me with nothing but fear.

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 my reflection—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.