Take your Daughter to Work Day

There’s many a story with this theme. But none with a parent like mine.

An AP-500 story

She controlled me in ways that I now know were vile and evil. I had no ability to fight against her. She was horrible in ways that should have brought me to the attention of social services within days. I was fed – but I ate nothing that was enjoyable. I went to school – but only because it was a form of baby-sitting.

Evenings were spent either on homework or just sitting staring into space. If she was in, we didn’t talk, converse or discuss. Nothing.

I even found myself inventing homework so I had something to do.

Eventually I found that I had a target in life – to get away. That was the big one – and it took a bolt from the blue to realize that change could happen. Even to the likes of me.

My mother was clever enough not to bruise me – but the abuse was far worse than hidden physical. She abused me emotionally, mentally, socially, financially and dragged me down into the pit of no-respect along with herself.

I was a fairly normal boy – but she didn’t like that. She hated men. She didn’t like women. No, let’s be fair. She was so damaged. Came from such a dysfunctional family that she had gone beyond love. She hated everything. Anything she could do to prove her hatred for the world, the people, the place, the day of the week. She would find some way to spit on the world.

So instead of letting me be a boy. She slowly made me into a copy of herself.

She dressed me up in the most dreadful costume and left me on the street – “I’m a prostitute, so you are too. Earn enough money to get a taxi home – or just stay on the streets.“

I had long blondeish hair in a sort of tired bouffant. I wore (not very) high heels, red; torn fishnet stockings; a short leather skirt; panties, open-front, hers and used and crusty; a bra visible through my thin white blouse. I looked like a tart, young and once fresh but already well-used. I felt dirty.

And everything she did to me was ugly and intentional. And I was so downtrodden and abused that I did as I was told.

A car slowed. I knew not to talk but there was a local sign-language which covered the options and the prices. I was going to have to give a blow-job and earn twenty pounds. I felt worse. But I’d done it before.

Each time I almost hoped that the client would be a police nark. Or sometimes even someone nasty but (I hoped) not quite as vile as my mother.

Gradually I earned the money. I had to guess at what would be enough.

And sometimes it was enough – and the abuse lessened for a while. Other times – not. And I couldn’t run. I didn’t know running was possible. Not then.

It took years.

An AP 500 word (basic text) story for anyone to take onward and rewrite as they see fit.