When they tore me away from my mother’s arms as she begged them not to, I cried, screaming that I didn’t want to leave. A deep ache developed behind my breastbone. It lodged there and wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I rubbed and massaged it. The way her watery gaze dug into my own and her thin arms reached for me haunted me for nights on end. Without me to care for her, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d be standing in this very spot.

The sun’s scorching heat beats down upon my back, though I couldn’t care less about the burning rays singeing my skin. Nor does the sweat trickling down my neck bother me. All I can focus on is that my mother died alone, with no one to hold her hand, no one to brush the hair from her forehead, and it was because of people like these. The ones who pretended to care, when all they wanted was the stupid blood money.

A seed was planted the day I left her. It took root. Those roots spread deep. It didn’t take much. No nourishment. Not even any attention. Just day-to-day living. That tiny seed festered and from it grew hate. Hate for the vile man who called himself my foster father.

The preacher says some dumb crap, things he probably feels obligated to say. It doesn’t matter. The only people at Mom’s funeral are the foster family and me. He drones on about Mom like he knew her. My mother was a hooker, a stripper, and a drug addict. She never stepped foot in any church that I am aware of. But she was my mother and did the best she could. She showed me love and cared for me the only way she knew how. I had a place to sleep, clothes to wear, food to eat, and even though none of it was great, it was a helluva lot better than what I have now. I may not have shown up for school every day, but life with her was a fucking bowl of cherries compared to this shit hole I’m currently living in.

When the preacher finishes speaking, my foster dad steers me out of the graveyard. I want to linger, to run my hands over Mom’s casket one more time. This goodbye is so final, so absolute, I don’t want it to be over this quickly. The vise around my heart clamps down so I turn to run back to her, to at least let her know how much I’ll always love her, that she was my number one. But that bastard clasps the back of my arm in a bruising pinch, leaving me with no choice but to stumble forward.

The hate flourishes. At night, when I’m alone, I lie in bed and devise all kinds of horrific deaths for him—a mutilating car accident, death by some terrible illness, or getting pulverized by an eighteen-wheeler. But sadly, none of those happen. He’s still here, alive and breathing, unlike Mom. I’d poison the fucker if I could get away with it. But life in prison doesn’t fire me up much. Nor does going to juvie, which he threatens me with all the time. I’m only biding my time. Four more years of hell—one thousand three hundred and thirty-nine days—until my eighteenth birthday. Freedom. That’s what it means to me.

We get in the car and drive home.

“Nothing more than she deserved,” the fucker snarls. “You do drugs, you die. Simple as that. Just remember, Velvet, if I ever catch you with any of that crap, you’ll regret it. Got that, miss?” I stare at the back of his greasy brown hair and want to smash his head in.

“Yes, sir.” There’s not a chance in this hell I’d do drugs. I’m sure he’d whip me within an inch of my life if he ever caught me, but that’s not the reason. I never want to end up like Mom.

Rusty, the son, sits next to me and sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye. He hates his own father as much as I do. He’s forced to watch as I receive routine beatings, meant to be warnings so he’ll stay in line. That’s what the sadistic creep says anyway. I think he just likes to see me in pain. Rusty constantly mouths “I’m sorry” to me. But it’s not his fault. Foster Mom should do something other than pour liquor down her throat. But I guess she’s too afraid. She so scrawny, that asshole would probably beat her right along with me if she tried to intervene.

On my fifteenth birthday, I get a chocolate cake. The first cake ever. Seriously? It’s so fucking stupid I almost laugh. He beats the shit out of me to the point where I can hardly stand up straight because my ribs are probably fractured, and then turns around and gives me a fucking cake. I want to grind his face in it.

Rusty offers a pitiful smile as his mom cuts us all slices. When she hands me mine, I walk it straight to the trash, knowing it’ll earn me another beating.

But I’m wrong. It earns me something even worse. That night, Foster Dad slips into my room where he binds and gags me. That’s when shit turns real.

After he leaves, I throw up in the wastebasket. Good thing I didn’t bother with the stupid cake. Foster Mom doesn’t make me go to school the next day nor does she question the blood on my sheets. I stay huddled in my room all day. When I emerge the next morning for school, the pervert’s eyes roam my body and I just about puke again. Only I can’t because I haven’t eaten for a day. The light is slowly dying inside of me.

Rusty looks at me with questions in his eyes. I can’t answer him. He probably has an idea of what happened. The muffled screams coming from the room next to his weren’t the usual ones he’s used to.

My sixteenth birthday is less than stellar. They left out the cake this year. Rusty gives me a card though. Poor guy. It must be beyond disgusting knowing what a sick fuck your dad is. He has difficulty looking me in the eye anymore. This place is the house of fucking horrors. It’s been a year since FD, my name for Foster Daddy—only it’s really Fucking Daddy, in the literal sense too—started his nighttime visits. Every day I pray he’ll die, have a heart attack ... something. He doesn’t. The guy is strong as hell too.

One night, dear old FD takes me shopping, supposedly, only we end up at the house of one of his friends. Turns out to be a real treat for me. I’m forced to give his friend oral while FD does the nasty to me. My hatred festers as I think of more gruesome ways for him to die. Only I’m not a killer. I wish I were.

On the way home, he says, “You’ve been a good girl to me lately. I should get you something special.” Then he pulls off the road. His large hand clamps down on my thigh, just above the knee, and squeezes until I whimper. His fevered glare nails me as he says in a deadly tone, “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll kill you, Velvet, I swear I will. You understand me?”

I have no reason to doubt him. And I never so much as utter a word to anyone.

Right after I turn seventeen, I talk with Rusty at school one day.

“I can’t take it anymore. We need to run away, get out of there,” I whisper.

“How?” he asks, his body already trembling. “He’ll kill us if he catches us.”

“Then let’s not get caught. Besides, being dead is better than living like this.”

“Where would we go?”

“I don’t know. We could hide. I’ll figure something out.” The burn of tears threatens, but I push it back. “I can’t continue like this ... being constantly raped.” I grab Rusty’s arm and squeeze.

He flinches and tries to pull away, only I don’t let him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough, Rusty. Your dad is a criminal.” My harsh words stun him. He knows what’s been happening, but there’s always been this silent ignorance about him.

“Then let’s go to the police,” he says.

“Oh, and do what? Get put into another foster home? No thanks. Once is enough for me.”

I walk away, leaving Rusty alone. At least now I know there’ll be no help from him. I should’ve done what he suggested and gone to the police then. It might’ve gone a lot better for me.

Five months before I turn eighteen, before I gain my coveted freedom, I realize my period’s late. It’s never late. My world stops. If I’m pregnant, he’ll kill me if he finds out. There’s no doubt he will. He’d never want that getting out. And it’s definitely his. He’s the only one who’s ever touched me. Yeah, he’s made me suck off his friends, but never have they done anything else. Only him. He’s kept that part of me all to himself. And boyfriends? Yeah, like I ever had an opportunity for that.

I have to escape. He takes us to school every morning, and Foster Mom picks us up every afternoon. We’re never allowed to have any friends over or go anywhere after school. He basically cuts us off from everything. My only option is when he drops us off at school. I’ll go inside, hang out, and then slip out another door, before they’re locked down for the day. I’ll lie and tell him I have to be at school early because I’m on some dumbass committee. Rusty won’t know, but he won’t say anything either. This has to work. I’ll stuff some clothes and other things I’ll need in my backpack, along with all the money I’ve squirreled away, which isn’t much.

Then I’ll find somewhere to hide. I’ve overheard kids at school talking about a place where homeless people live. Maybe I’ll make it there and get lost in the crowd. If I can manage it until I turn eighteen, I’ll be free then. After that, he can’t touch me.

It takes me about a week to build up the courage, but I go for it. I can’t wait any longer than that because he keeps track of my periods and I’ve lied about it. Turns out, it’s easier to break away than I thought. When I get to school, I hang out in the stairwell, and wait. Then, when kids are streaming in, I hit the street. FD is long gone, at work I imagine, and I am in the wind. My first stop is a Walmart close to school, where I buy hair bleach, a pregnancy test, and a baseball cap. Then I hit the restroom at a city park and do my worst.

When I walk out, I have short blond hair and know for sure I’m pregnant. Next, I find the closest Goodwill. I beg them to exchange all my clothes for some different ones.

“We’re not supposed to do that,” the young man says.

“Please. I, uh, I really need to. Badly.” I blink a few times, then add, “Besides, I’ll pick out cheaper-looking ones.”

“Okay, but don’t tell anyone I let you.”

“No worries on that.”

I scrounge through the store until I find something that looks completely unlike me. I also trade in my backpack for a different color one. Then I’m off and running again.

Four months. That’s all I need are four months. One hundred and twenty days. But now I need a job. After checking out a couple of cheap motels, I get up the courage to go in and apply to one. I’ve heard FD complain about how they hire illegals, so maybe they’ll hire me, seeing as I don’t have any ID.

When I go in, I ask to fill out an application.

“Here you go. What position are you interested in?”

Not knowing what else to say, I quickly blurt out, “Um, maid service?”

“Okay.”

I sit and do my best lying, making up the name Millie Drake. I pulled that one out of my ass.

When I hand in my application, a man comes out and calls me back.

“Do you have any ID?”

“No, sir.” I look him square in the eye.

“Hmm.”

Then I quickly add, “I don’t drive.”

He frowns. “What about a Social Security number?”

Fuck me.

“No, my mom died and never told me if I had one of those.”

“Were you born here?”

“Oh, yes, sir. In Phoenix.”

“Hmm.” He eyes me for a second. “Would you take cash for payment?”

Hell, yeah. “Uh, I guess.”

“We can only pay minimum wage.”

“That’s fine.”

This is way too easy. He starts rambling on about not being late and working hard, blah, blah, blah. If he had any idea of the situation I’ve been living in—hard work will be a breeze in comparison.

“I’m not afraid of hard work, sir. I’ll be here bright and early. Will I need to get a uniform or something?”

“No, we’ll give you one in the morning.”

This may be perfect. Maybe I can even shower in one of the rooms I’ll be cleaning.

That night, I find a truck stop off the interstate—I’ll spend the night in the bathroom. I’m lucky until about four in the morning when I get kicked out by an employee.

“Please. I’m not looking for drugs and I’m not a hooker or anything. I just need a place to sleep.”

She narrows her eyes and says, “Get out. We don’t allow loitering or bums here.”

“I only want to stay a couple of hours or until it gets light.”

“Look, if you don’t get out, I’ll call the cops.”

That gets me sprinting for the door with my heart about to beat me to it. The last thing I need are the cops checking into my identity.

I sneak into the woods behind the place and hide until the sun comes up. Then I walk to work. The incident scared me something terrible, and hiding in the woods was just as bad, but I didn’t know where else to go.

The next night, I sleep in the motel. I end up staying there every night. I find an empty room each day, and pretend I’m leaving work. I have a master key, so once I’ve gotten some food, I come back after dark, and slip inside. That works great until one night while I’m there, someone checks in. It freaks the hell out of me and I beg them not to go to the front desk, but they do anyway.

In the morning, I have a ton of explaining to do. My boss turns out to be a nice guy though. Instead of firing me, he tells me of a place nearby where I can stay. A lot of the employees at the hotel live there.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asks.

“I was afraid to,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry. This place is safe. A friend of mine runs it.”

It’s a big shelter with two rooms, one for men, and one for women. They are filled with cots for sleeping and then there is a dining area where they supply meals. There are separate showers for the men and women, and I’m told I can stay there indefinitely, as long as I pay the weekly fee.

The best thing of all is it’s supervised to prevent crime.

“Thank you. This is great.” I smile for the first time in I can’t remember how long. My face aches from it.

The man and woman, who check me in, take me to my cot, and at the end of it is a small locker with a lock on it. They give me a key.

“You can keep your things in here if you’d like. We don’t put up with any drugs or alcohol, so if you feel the need, we’ll ask you not to stay.”

“Oh, I don’t do drugs. My mom, she died from that stuff so I’ll never do them.”

The woman offers me a kind smile and pats my shoulder.

“Honey, you need to eat. Why, you’re nothing but skin and bones.”

I shrug. “It’s been a little tight, you know.” The truth is, food hasn’t been at the top of my list.

But her eyes glance down. “Well, you’re not just eating for you now, are you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.” My cheeks heat because she’s the first person who’s noticed I’m pregnant.

“Come with me.” I follow her to the kitchen where she makes me a turkey sandwich and gives me a glass of ice-cold milk. “Now, I want you to eat every bite of this.” She puts a hand on her hip, giving me the idea it’s not up for discussion.

“Thank you.” I wolf the sandwich and milk down. Then she gives me three Oreos.

“May I have some more milk, please?”

“I think you may.” She grins as she refills my glass. “Nothing like Oreos and milk, is there?”

“No, ma’am. My mom used to give me these. I haven’t had any since she passed.”

The taste, the texture, and the fact that I’m sitting at a table with a woman my mom’s age makes me happy for the first time since that horrible day they stole me away from her.

“So, when’s your little one due?”

My happy moment is gone. “I’m not really sure.”

“Haven’t you seen a doctor?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You have to.”

I lower my eyes. “I ... I can’t. Not yet.” I’m not eighteen yet. Until I turn legal age, they would send me back to Hell, and he would kill me and the baby. Less than three weeks is all I have. Surely, I can make it until then.

“Does your father know?”

I wipe my mouth and say, “I don’t have a father, ma’am.”

“I see. And the baby’s father?”

“Uh, he doesn’t know. He wouldn’t want it anyway.”

“How old are you, honey?”

I stiffen. “I’m eighteen.”

“Okay. Well, if you want me to go to the doctor with you, just let me know.” She pats my back again.

“I will. And thank you.”

I need to get out of here. She’s only trying to help, but I can’t have her snooping into my business. What if she finds out I’m not eighteen yet and tries to find the father of my baby?

I spend one night, fill my belly with as much food as I can, and leave money for them under my pillow in the morning when I go to work. I won’t take any chances and come back here.

Parking lots turn out to be my friends. I discover that sleeping under cars is especially useful. No one sees you, and they’re great shelter from rain, which Phoenix rarely gets. But even dew can be bothersome. They also protect you from chilly breezes. It’s not summer, so the temperature drops at night.

On my eighteenth birthday, I buy myself a cupcake. It’s the first time I’ve eaten cake since Mom left this earth. It’s a sad day because it brings back all those memories, but it’s a cause for celebration too. FD is no longer a threat to me.

I waltz into work, with a smile for the first time ever. My boss notices it and asks what the occasion is.

“Today is my birthday.”

“Happy birthday, Millie.”

“Thank you.”

“How old?”

“I’m eighteen.”

His jaw drops.

“I’m sorry. I only did it to protect myself.”

He stares at my pregnant belly and asks, “Does it have anything to do with that?”

“It has everything to do with this.”

He scratches his chin. “Well, I have to say you’re one of the best workers we’ve ever had. You’ll get no complaints from me.”

“Thanks.”

My boss tells me about a cheap place where I can live. It’s a room with a kitchenette, but it’s safe. I also go to the doctor. Since I don’t have insurance, I have to file for Medicaid. It takes a little while, but I eventually get it. Since my boss is essentially paying me under the table, I have no income to claim, which helps.

My boss figures out there’s more to my story than meets the eye, but he doesn’t pressure me for details. I work at the motel until I go into labor. It happens while I’m at work. One of the other employees drives me to the hospital. I walk in holding my belly because I never imagined it would hurt so bad.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be better when we give you an epidural,” the nurse explains.

“I hope so because this is awful.” I’ve taken a lot of beatings in my day, but this is pretty bad. What’s worse is I’m alone and scared to death. Turns out, the delivery is full of complications, or that’s what they tell me. But what happens afterward is even more horrible. My baby is born with a critical congenital heart defect, specifically pulmonary atresia. He has to have surgery immediately.

As I’m lying there after the delivery, I hear the doctor ask, “What are the Apgars?” There’s a sudden scrambling. A few minutes pass and then they tell me the bad news.

The doctor pats my arm. “I’m sorry, but we really need to get him to surgery. Fast.”

I barely have time to hold my tiny boy, to love him, before they carry him off.

All the feelings of being torn away from my mom slam back into me. My chest explodes with searing pain. All the beatings I endured, the abuse, the molestation I endured, don’t compare to the emotions I’m experiencing. And I have no one to talk to about it. I never cultivated any friendships in school. Rusty left home from what I saw on Facebook and joined the Navy. I’ve kept to myself at work, not getting involved with any of the others to keep my identity a secret, so there isn’t a soul or a shoulder to lean on. I’m lying on that stupid bed, my legs still in the stirrups, without a clue of what to do.

Except for one thing. I talk to Mom. I don’t know if she hears me, but I talk anyway. I tell her everything—how I hate that she used drugs and couldn’t give them up. How my life turned rotten on account of it. How all I want is for her to be here right now and tell me what to do and how to handle this. I imagine her sitting next to me, giving me advice.

“Honey, I’m sorry, so sorry for the way things turned out. I was weak and never deserved a beautiful daughter like you. But right now, you have to have faith in something. It’s out of your hands now. You must believe that your baby boy is going to be fine.”

I latch onto those words with everything I have and when they tell me he made it through, tears course down my cheeks like an overflowing creek.

They finally let me see him and I weep for him all night. He’s so tiny with so many tubes and wires attached to him, I don’t know where they end and he begins. I touch his itty-bitty finger and stroke it with my much larger one, letting him know I’m here with him. I don’t want to leave, but they make me, telling me I need to rest.

For a week, it’s touch and go, but he ends up pulling through. Only the doctors say it won’t last. My baby will soon require a heart transplant. How in the world will I ever be able to afford the bills for that? I can scarcely keep food on the table and a roof over my head as is.

Two months later, desperate for money, I see an ad about auditions for a film. It doesn’t give much more information other than that. I need a job, because my funds are gone. I’m eking by on saltines and water. My breast milk is long gone so my baby’s on formula now, which is pricey. I’ll be skin and bones before long.

I answer the call for the audition. They shuffle me from one room to the next until I land in the director’s office.

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?” At first, I’m sure I misunderstand him. And then I wonder what the hell kind of place this is.

“If you’re going to do this, you’ll have to strip, you know.”

Suspicion crests in my brain. “What kind of films are these?” At this point, I am so stupidly naïve, I have no idea what’s going on.

“They didn’t tell you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Welcome to porn, baby.” He chuckles.

“Porn? Oh, I can’t possibly do that.”

“You’re desperate for money, right?”

I stare at the man. He doesn’t look like someone I’d imagine would make porn movies. He looks like a grandfather.

“You can’t make money close to this anywhere else for such little work.”

“How little?”

“One or two days a week, at most. We’re really not that sleazy either.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand a week. To start.”

Holy moly, that’s a lot of money. I think about baby Jack and his need for a new heart. Not to mention I wouldn’t have to search for daycare because I wouldn’t be working that much.

“I know you need the money, right? Just take off your clothes so we don’t waste any more of each other’s time.”

I make a quick decision and strip. The only man who’s ever seen me naked was my foster dad. Even his sleazy friends never saw me completely naked.

“Turn around.”

I do.

“Bend down and spread your legs. And don’t balk at this. We do lots of close-ups.”

I do. I despise every second of it for how dirty it makes me feel, but all I focus on is getting baby Jack a new heart and that maybe he’ll survive as a result of this.

“Okay, you can stand up and dress. You’ll have to wax. We require our actresses to have bare pussies. No hair at all. Have you ever acted before?”

No hair? “Never.”

“Not a problem. Our actors aren’t exactly known for their stellar acting ability.” He says it so matter-of-factly, I’m getting past my shock factor.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“You can be a huge hit, you know, with that ass. And your tits are magnificent. Can we die your hair black?”

“Black is my natural color. I would prefer to keep it blond. Recognition purposes, you know.”

“I’m okay with that. You’re in if you want to look over the contract. You get a percentage of your sales too, so if your movies hit, you’ll make more money. A lot more money.”

I don’t know if I should be happy or not. I take the contract and start to leave.

“Can you let me know by tomorrow?”

“I’m letting you know now. I’m signing. When do you want me back?”

He eyes me for a long moment and announces, “Welcome to the triple-X family, Lusty Rhoades.”

Six months into my porn career—which turns out to be very lucrative—my beautiful baby Jack dies in my arms, struggling to take his final breath. The heart I had waited and prayed for never came. Jack never thrived, and my hope against all the odds, hope that things would turn around with his new heart, never happened. My sweet little guy never got his chance at life. For weeks, I could barely take a single breath of my own. It was like my soul had been stolen right out of me. And in many ways, it had been. When Jack’s light was extinguished, everything around me felt lifeless and dimmed.

I bury him next to my mom. Baby Jack Summers. I figure they can keep each other company because they both struggled and fought their own battles, fights neither of them could win.

My purpose for living is gone. Everything I did, I did for baby Jack. I try everything I can, but nothing works. Things never seem to go my way after he’s gone. Leaving Phoenix is my last option. I dye my hair back to its natural color, have my nose altered, get rid of the contacts, change my name to Midnight Drake, and move to LA. This is my clean break, my new beginning. But is it really?

I go through the motions, working as a waitress, until one day I answer a call for an actress in a B-rated movie. It’s about a girl who loses a child to a congenital illness. I get the role, probably because I don’t have to act one tiny bit.

My second acting career is born, only this time it’s not in a dim warehouse, and I’m fully clothed. I’m not mainstream yet, but I’m going to work my ass off to get there. I’ll do it for my baby Jack because I want to make him proud of his mother, the mother who never got to see him grow to become a man.