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I was born in the orphanage.
My mother was a girl like me, used by men for sexual pleasure. She became pregnant with Clara from one of them, and then the same man a year later.
Ethel had told us. That's why all of us were there.
We were cruel mistakes made from filth.
One of the girls had asked one night about our parents, and after Ethel explained, the same girl asked what happened to the little boys. Ethel didn't know.
I cried that night. Exhausted and animate from the fight and pain. That's where I learned how cruel men were, how untrusting, how evil and uncaring, how heartless they were. To put aside another's feelings and do what they pleased.
I learned to fear them, and I learned to hate myself.
I began throwing myself on the floor or against the wall, thankful when Sara hurt me or when the men grew frustrated and kicked me. Let them hurt me. I was a mistake. I was filthy, unclean, infested. Transferring my hatred to them, grateful for each bruise and wound I received. I deserved it. I was nothing but deserving of it.
I was nothing but a doll to play with and tear.
That was until Ethel stopped me.
I had stolen a knife from the kitchen.
I wanted to hurt myself. I wanted to bleed. The knife mere inches from my veins, coursing with red liquid.
Ethel took the knife and hugged me.
I sat there, anger fuming. I wanted to scream, but I stayed quiet.
Then I cried, finally realizing the magnitude of what I was doing.
She tucked the hair behind my ears and kissed my forehead. "My child, please don't hurt yourself. You deserve none of this." I looked at her, seeing the motherly love in her eyes, and I knew.
I never hurt myself again.