Before I was even born, Mother had always been a bit on the demented side. She had a bewildered look stinging her fierce brown eyes and many scars, from the nights that she would go outside and howl with the wind, damaging her beautiful, milky skin. The neighbors described her as “psychotic” or a “lunatic”. I knew they probably hadn’t meant hurt us as much as they did, but I think they’re part of the reason Mother turned insane. It’s like she was a bomb and they’d just lit the fuse, tampering with the bomb until it finally exploded. They sent her over the top with their merciless gossip and their foul glares as they rode by our run-down house in their posh 1950s Ford convertibles. The bullying only got worse after I was born. 
“You’re not a fit mother. You can’t even keep friends for more than a month before they scurry away in disgust. What do you think a baby will do? Bet that baby’ll take one look at you and bawl because of it’s horrible misfortune.” The neighbors would growl at Mother. Mother would huff away, partially disgusted with the dreadful neighbors comments and partially disgusted with herself for not coming up with a better comeback. 

But the neighbors were right. Mother could not keep a friend. Even my father left us a month after I was born. Mother refused to ever talk of him, terrified that if she did, I would leave just as he did. When I assured her that I would never leave her, she hugged me and told me that that was what Papa had said.

When I was four, Mother set me to work. When I asked Mother why I had to work, she had the same answer.
“ You’re no use to me if you don’t work. It’s not fair if I’m out there for twelve hours–twelve hours!–each day begging for a job, and you’re cooped up in the house doing nothing!” Mother had always told me. She taught me how to sew without pricking my finger, which, at four, was not an easy feat.
“I deserve better than a girl who does nothing.” Mother would say if I didn’t work hard.

We were kicked out of our house due to unpaid rental fees by the time I was six. We lived on the freezing, dull streets for three months until we were taken under the wing of an elderly priest who lived in a little house next to a derelict church. The priest raised me while Mother searched day and night for a job. The priest taught me the instructions for the Mass and gave me Bible study every Saturday night. I thought that my life had finally turned from worse to better. Father paid for me to go to school, for me to get an education. I thought maybe, just maybe, my life would be normal from now on. 

I was wrong. My life would never be normal.

I was almost 11 when the priest, who I had just begun to call Father, told us that we needed to leave. He refused to tell me why, but melancholy and tears filled his brown eyes as he gazed at Mother. Mother, tight-lipped and furious, turned on her heels and stormed upstairs. Father whispered to me that I could not trust everyone. Then he left for that morning’s mass, without bidding his usual goodbye.

Mother and I lived at the priest’s house for three more days, the last day being the glorious day of my birthday. I could not go to school because I had to pack both Mother and my bag for our departure. After that was done all I could do was await for Mother to return from yet another fruitless job interview. I remember on the day of my eleventh birthday, Mother shifted uncomfortably into the house. Her dusky face was anxious and perplexed, and she kept glancing at the door in a neurotic way.
“ What’s wrong, Mother?” I’d asked her. I expected a “happy birthday”, like the energetic one that Father greeted me with when I had gone to Mass that morning.
“ Nothing, love.” Mother had responded, not bothering to look at me. Not bothering to wish her only child a “happy birthday”.

Father brought home a birthday cake for me, my name spelled out in pink icing across the chocolate background. After we ate, Father left for a meeting in a distant county, wishing me the best for the future. Then he left. No sooner had he closed the door, Mother sent me upstairs to bathe and get ready for bed. It was still too light outside to be time for bed, but I knew better than to disobey Mother.

Everything in the house was so silent that night, I found it hard to sleep. Was it because tomorrow Mother and I would be on the streets again? Was it because tomorrow we would leave the only place I’d called home? I let millions of questions float through my mind, keeping me awake. But right before midnight, I drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.

At about three o’clock in the morning, I was awaken to Mother screaming. I dashed downstairs to find the police grabbing Mother’s wrists. As Mother screamed, I stood on the steps. My legs wouldn’t move. I couldn’t understand what was going on.
“ Help me, girl!” Mother cried for me, for her only child. She thrashed around, biting and kicking at the policemen.
The policemen released Mother, who scrambled towards me. She wrapped her scarred arms around me. I stared at her, watching the deranged look that gleamed in her eyes.
“ What’s going on?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“ Your mother’s being arrested. She’s attempted murder on three people in the last month.” A plump policemen growled. He kept wringing his pudgy hands like he already feel Mother’s neck between his grimy fingers. 
“ Don’t you dare go telling my child that!” Mother lashed, her voice as sharp as a knife.
My breath had ceased. I felt my legs wobble, and I wondered how on earth I was still standing.
“Who? Who did she try to kill?” I managed.
“ Don’t tell her! Don’t tell her!” Mother screamed.
“ A farmer, a tailor, and a butcher.” The plump policemen replied, touching his pistol.

I choked back a sob.
“How...how do you know?” I scoffed, unable to believe my mother, the woman who raised me, to be capable of something so evil.
“We have witnesses.” The corpulent policemen snarled. My head felt dizzy, as I turned to face my mother. But she was gone, and, in her place, a mad woman stood. I stepped back from her, my back hitting a wall.
“Is this true?” I whispered.
Mother’s eyes widened, and she reached a scarred hand out to touch me. I barreled away before she could even touch me. 

It was true. I knew it was. It was all true. Mother was a psychopath. How could she? I dashed upstairs to my room, slammed the door, and locked it. Even with my door closed and my heart pounding, I could hear Mother screaming at the policemen, curse words spilling from her lips. I ignored her. I heard her cry and plead as they dragged her out of the house. I did not defend her. Why should I? She was no mother of mine.