All I Have to Give

Chapter 3

"You're nothing but a filthy whore!" Rachel's mother shouted as she burst through her bedroom door with a stack of papers in her hand.

Rachel jumped at the sound of her door being flung open and quickly removed her headphones from her ears. Resting them on her shoulders, she could still hear the faint sound of Backstreet Boys playing over her portable CD player. Her brow furrowed as stared at her mother in confusion, both offended and annoyed that she invaded her privacy by not knocking.

"Are you fucking this guy?" her mother spat out as she moved closer to the bed.

Rachel frowned as she observed her mother stumbling towards her bed. She straightened her back, remaining in her Indian style position as she placed her notebook beside her. Rachel collected herself before speaking. Swallowing back her sarcasm, her eyes met her mother's as she spoke. "Who are you talking about?"

"This guy you've been talking to!" her mother shouted a little louder.

"I haven't been --"

"Don't you fucking lie to me, young lady! I know what you've been up to!" she stated as she dropped the stack of papers on Rachel's lap. "Did you really think I wouldn't find these?"

Rachel stared down at the stack of papers. Her eyes widened as she realized they were handwritten love letters that she had stashed away in a box. Anger boiled inside of her belly as she gripped the papers and slid them under her pillows.

"You went through my stuff?!"

"You didn't answer my question. Are you fucking this boy, huh?"

"Mom, I haven't--"

"Shut up, you fucking whore!" her mother stated, raising her hand and quickly slapping her across the face with brute force.

Rachel gasped at the impact of her mother's hand against her cheek. Her breath staggered as she tried to control the tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes. She looked back over at her mother and opened her mouth to speak but no words would come out. Her mother angrily reached down and grabbed Rachel by the ponytail and dragged her off the bed. Rachel screamed, kicking and thrashing her legs as she continued to drag her across the carpet.

"Let go of me! Mom! Stop! Please!"

"I did not raise you to be a slut!" her mother stated in a booming voice, pausing between each word with another strike to Rachel's face.

Rachel sobbed at every impact of her mother's hand. Struggling to get out from underneath her mom's grip, she shrieked loudly. "Stop it! Stop it! You're hurting me --"

Rachel let out a loud gasp as she quickly sat up, catching her breath. She looked around the dark room for a moment, confused as to where she was. Running a hand over her face, she sighed as she realized she had woken up from a nightmare. Her heart raced against her chest as she lowered herself back down onto her pillow. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she settled back under blankets, feeling frustrated that the recurring dream of that unpleasant memory had followed her to Florida. It was the same dream she had been having for the past two years. It was a memory she wished she could forget but her subconscious failed to let go. Staring up at the ceiling, she frowned as she wiped the tears off her cheeks and sniffled quietly. The air conditioner kicked on with a soft whir as Rachel rolled over onto her left side, gripping her pillow to adjust angle against her neck. The chilly air seeped into her room and she tugged on her blankets and wrapped them tightly around herself. Bringing her knees to her torso, she let out a soft breath of air as she grabbed her stuffed teddy bear and curled her arms around it. Resting her chin against the bear's soft, plush head, she relaxed her body, in hopes of going back to sleep. Her eyes slowly began to close as she focused on her breathing. Burying her cheek into the teddy bear's head, she laid quietly in the dark, listening to the air conditioner softly humming. Even though she wasn't falling asleep, she was relieved to feel relaxed beneath the comfort of her blankets. Tracing her fingers through her teddy bear's fur in a circular motion, she began to softly count to herself. It was an old coping mechanism from early childhood.