I wrote this as an exercise to see if setting a story in a different country would add a new dimension to it. I was surprised and pleased with the results, it totally changes it from the english version. Any flaws you may spot in the americanisms or suggestions to improve greatly appreciated.

White foam sprays from her lips, splattering specks onto the mirror when she yells. I feel my knees shaking against my chin when I draw them close to my chest. Curling myself into a tight ball, I hold my breath, feeling sure the thumping of my heart will be heard and she’ll find me in my secret hidey-hole. I still have the purple marks from the last time, but they stopped hurting so bad now. She’s shouting again. I try not to cry, but a sob hic-ups inside my throat, one of them that catches me by surprise. I quickly gulp it down before it escapes and gives me away.

Wriggling backwards, I feel safe wrapped in the musty old coat hanging behind me. It smells of the smoky bar where Momma hangs out when she has money. I look for her there sometimes when I get hungry, knowing she’ll be all happy and maybe give me a few dollars for a take-out from Luigi's diner. "This is Jimmy, my baby angel pie,” she gurgles to her drinking buddies, and makes a real fuss, stroking my blonde curls and pinching my bony cheeks. She gets me a soda sometimes too. I love her when she’s kind. I feel like I’m an average kid, for a while at least. Why does she have to turn into a demon?

I huddle in the comfort coat a little longer, waiting for the eye of the storm to pass. Then, when the time is right, I’ll make a break for it down to Mrs. Cleaver’s a few doors down the block.

Mrs. Cleaver is kind. It’s Thursday, she always bakes cookies on Thursdays. She lets me watch TV, then we play checkers. I feel safe there. Once, I heard her talking on the phone, I think she was talking about me. “He’s a real sweet kid when you consider who the mother is. I could give him all the love and care he needs if only he were to come live with me.” I’d like to live with Mrs. Cleaver, but mostly I wish  Momma could be like her.

I listen hard from the closet. It’s gone all quiet; she must have found her white powder.


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Momma's story

People despise me, tell me I’m evil trash. They think I gets into my crazy rages because of the drink and the drugs. If only they knew. The whole reason I takes the drink and drugs is to keep calm, keep myself from thinking, keep myself sane. They help me escape to a better place…for a little while anyways.

My Daddy always said I was a wild one. He liked me that way. He liked me to buck and bite and spit when he climbed on top of me, whispering his sugary words. Then, he’d spill his seed, which, he said, proved he loved his baby girl. Afterward, he’d roll off and look down at me with that smile of his before creeping back to Momma’s bed. I can still see that smile to this day. I want to smash it off his mouth!
 

I was but a child carrying a child. Momma called me a filthy whore, then a lying filthy whore when I told her the truth. I left and went out to work the streets. But hey! That’s what whores do, right? It was easy money; all I had to do was buck and squeal a little, some even paid the extra to be bitten.

This thing inside me grew big. I hated it. It was spawned from evil but too late to rid myself of it. I’d sit and watch the lump sometimes. It would move, mostly at night. A hand, a foot would rise under my taut skin. Once, I smacked it so hard, it never moved again for a whole day. I was disheartened but at the same time kinda relieved when it finally did move again.

Then the thing was born. Jimmy. He looked like an angel from God. His mass of golden curls sat like a halo around his perfect, tiny face, his clear baby blues shone out with such purity, such innocence. He reminded me of the dolly Momma bought me when I was seven; reminded of the times before Daddy began climbing on top of me.

I liked him fine, this little angel of God; he was mine.

Then he began to grow. He was no bother, a very calm baby. He never hollered too much, even when I left him in his crib to go out to work. He was quiet when I brought the ‘tricks’ back to our room too. It was only when he smiled, that’s when I could see my Daddy’s smile, that’s when I went into one of my white rages, that’s when I needed my fix.

Last week Jimmy hid my stash; told me he wanted me to 'stop with the powdery stuff'. Poor kid. How could he know? How could he ever know that with or without the it, I’ll never be clean as long as I live, not as long as I see that smile… that fucking smile.