Page 54 of 1 Last Shot

I take a deep breath. “She wasn’t physically abusive. Her fucked up parenting had more to do with manipulation and neglect, like I think a lot of addicts tend to fall into. She was always more worried about her next buzz than anything else. It didn’t take me long to figure out she doesn’t love the way a parent should love their child.”

I’m silent for a moment, suddenly lost in the thoughts that always revolve around memories of my mom. Thedoes she or doesn’t shequestion that has been filling my head for as long as I can remember—when I’m trying to figure out whether she actually loved me, or if she was just using me to get to her next buzz. The memories of how any positive, motherly act was always followed by massive heartache when I realized she had only done it because she was either drunk, or because she wanted something from me.

My trips to the park weren’t the same happy memories that most kids had; for me, those days are tainted with the knowledge that she had to be shitfaced in order to do something for her kid. Or if she offered to do my laundry for me when I was older, it was only so she could dig through my room and steal the stash of money I’d made mowing the neighbors’ lawns.

Motherly acts from her weren’t done because she loved me. They were just a way to manipulatemeinto lovingher.

“I would’ve been fine if it was just my mom’s bullshit,” I continue thoughtfully. “Probably still a little fucked up, but plenty of people grow up under an absent parent and turn out fine. I could’ve survived just that.”

I take a deep breath to admit the part that people always guess anyway. "But her boyfriends liked to use me as a punching bag. I can't even remember when it started, or why. I don't think I can remember a time when Iwasn'tgetting beaten or thrown around by her scumbag boyfriends.”

"I learned to toughen up pretty quick, and to keep my mouth shut so I didn't make it worse for myself. Most would get bored of me if I did that. But then they would dump my mom, and she'd find a new guy, and then it would start all over again."

I canfeelIsabella stiffen beside me, but I refuse to look at her. I just keep my attention forward.

"I was fifteen the first time I stood up for myself. I had looked up a few self-defense videos on YouTube, and thought I could take on Mom's newest asshole boyfriend the next time he hit me." My chuckle is flat and humorless. "He beat me so badly, I had to stay home from school for a month." I don't add that I had to ice and bandage myself because I was too scared to go to the nurse and get my mom in trouble. By the time I went back to school, I was so far behind that I ended up dropping out a few months later.

Isabella puts it together as quickly as I expected her to. "Those are the flashbacks you get, aren't they? That's the reason you started training MMA."

I nod. "Fighting helped me take control of them. Made me feel like I was actually doing something to fight back, even years later."

She's silent for a moment. I don't know if I expected her to yell or cry or run away, but she doesn't do any of that. Even out of the corner of my eye, I can see her expression is shut down. That she's taking in everything I'm telling her and deciding how to respond.

"How long did you live in her house?" she eventually asks, her voice quiet. A quick glance at her shows me her hands are squeezed into fists, but I can't tell if she's trying to control anger or discomfort.

"I was sixteen when I ran away," I answer.

She stiffens. "Did you have to go into foster care?"

I'm already shaking my head. "No, I managed to lie my way through the next two years. I already looked older with my facial hair grown out, so I just got whatever jobs were available to me." I don't tell her that those jobs were usually fast food restaurants so I'd have something to eat.

"So then where did you live?" she asks.

I clench my jaw, hating having to admit this next part to Isabella. Not because I know she can't possibly understand it, but because despite knowingly being an asshole, I never wanted her to see me as dishonest or a thief. Unfortunately, at sixteen, with no money and no one to help me, there were just things I had to do to survive.

"When I first left, I slept in parks and public places. But eventually, I had to hotwire a car, just so I'd have someplace safe to sleep." I’m not quite ready to admit the details of the next few years, so I glaze over them and say vaguely, “Eventually I saved up enough money to talk my way into renting a shitty apartment. I was there for a little bit but ended up moving around for a few years. I lived where I could, worked where I could. I was basically a nomad until I moved up to Philly three years ago.”

Isabella doesn't ask any more questions. She seems to sense that I'm not quite ready to bring this conversation into the present. It's enough that she managed to pull me out of the fucked up headspace that I always fall into after conversations with my mother.

I exhale a heavy breath, one that I've probably been holding in since the last time I vomited all this shit. I feel lighter, definitely less stressed, but I also have no idea where to go from here. The last thing I need is for Isabella to play therapist right now. So, I dig my hands into my pockets and risk a glance over at her to see what she's going to do.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't try to convince me it'll be okay, doesn't say my mom didn't mean it. She just continues to offer silent support by walking beside me and justbeingthere, her hand sometimes brushing against mine.

Slowly, so fucking slowly, the remaining tension ebbs from my muscles. Everything that bottled up inside me after the phone call last night, and everything that exploded out of me during training today… all of it is gone.

Because of one girl.

Because of Isabella.

I start to turn toward her, determined to say something,anything, but before I get the chance, I notice that she's looking around, clearly in search of something.

"I know it's here somewhere," she murmurs to herself. She must spot what she’s looking for, though, because she lets out a victorious whoop. Turning to me, she explains, "There are a few hammocks over the water that apparently no one knows about. I have no idea why they built them so far from the park, but you get an amazing view of the river and city, so I like to come here when I need a break. It helps that it's always quiet since it's so hidden away."

I quirk an eyebrow and look over the dock to the hammock below. "Are you sure that thing can hold us?"

"Are you calling me fat?"

My lip twitches with amusement. I don't think anyone has ever made me laugh as much as Isabella does.

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