ONE MINUTE SHE WAS THERE, AND THE NEXT SHE WAS GONE.
I was 13 when my mother died, though it may be harsh to say my life didn't change. She never really cared for me anyway.
That was never always the case. She did care, once.
My father, whom she met in college got my mother pregnant. She was ecstatic and told him immediately, she thought they were really in love. She dropped out of college to care for me as he stayed doing his degree. He graduated, got a decent paying job and was working up of the company hierarchy. Life was great.
That all changed when my father left her for another woman, claiming he no longer wanted to care for a kid and the 'spark' was no longer there.
She became depressed, getting more and more plastic surgery so she could be 'as beautiful as he wanted her to be'. All she cared about were her looks, instead of her 5 years old daughter whose stomach didn't stop crying in hunger. There was probably more plastic than her than there was in the ocean. She blamed me, claiming the evidence of my birth that ran across her stomach was the cause of my father loving another.
I forced myself to learn how to do things on my own, surviving on stale bread and water until I started a part-time job so I could earn some money as she goes on her daily trip around my father's office in an attempt to win him back with her new appearance. It never worked, of course.
I had no other family. My grandparents on my mother's side didn't know of my existence as she ran away when they found out she was pregnant. My father, however, does know of my existence but chooses to ignore it.
I remembered as I stood next to my mother's lifeless body. I found her in her bedroom when I got home from work, her limp body hanging with a chair tipped over. I felt numb. I couldn't bring myself to cry and for that, I felt horrible. Actually... I felt relieved. I no longer have to feel as if I was a burden and her punching bag, as evident with the scars around my body.
My father was forced to take me in as my guardian. He was not happy, neither was his wife. They treated me like a maid, forcing me to do the dirtiest, most laborious chores. I was never allowed to never speak, or smile, for if I did, the punishments for it were way worst than I could explain. I was forced to become a new person. Someone who didn't speak unless allowed to and devoid of any emotion. I watched my soulless eyes stare back at me in the mirror, ones that used to be bright and lively. My mother used to tell me to see the good in every situation.
When I was 18, my father's wife told him she had enough. She claimed I took away his attention and that I was trying to ruin their relationship. Being the loving husband he was, he catered to her demands, which was to have me gone.
I thought he would've just kicked me out, but no.
He sold me.
"My friend owns a maid business, you'll be going there." Any ounce of pity was not apparent in his eyes, I knew there was no way I could escape this fate. I nodded robotically.
That night, for the first time in a few years, I cried.