Beneath the Filters

Prologue

I'm seven years old and I understand that my mother hates me. Not in the "she doesn't love me" sense, or "she's tired." No.

She hates me. I can see it in her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking. Like I'm a stain on her life that won't come out.

Today she's drunk. Again. A bottle of cheap wine sits on the table, her lips are purple.

Mia is crying in the corner — she's four, she hasn't learned to stay quiet yet. I have. “Shut her up,” Mom says, without looking up.

Her voice is flat, mechanical. I go over to Mia, take her hand. I whisper: “Shh.”

She'll hear it. But Mia can't stop. She's hungry.

So am I. The last time we ate was yesterday morning — cereal I found in the cupboard. No milk.

Mom stands up. She sways. She's coming toward us.

I know what's next. It's always the same. First the yelling, then the hit.

But today she doesn't yell. She just grabs Mia by the hair and drags her across the room. Mia screams.

Mom throws her onto the couch, and her head hits the armrest. Silence. Then — crying again, but quieter.

Mia is scared. So am I, but I don't cry. I look at Mom and think: “One day you'll die, and I won't care.” “What are you staring at?”

Mom turns to me. Red eyes, swollen face. “You think you're better than me?”

“You think I don't see you?” She steps closer. I don't move.

“You're the spitting image of your bastard father. Same eyes. You look at everyone like we're garbage.”

A hit to the face. I go down. My cheek burns, my ears ring.

But I don't cry. Never. It makes her even angrier.

“Cry, you little brat!” She hits me again.

With her foot, in the stomach. The air goes out of my lungs, I curl up. “Cry like a normal kid!”

But I don't cry. I stay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks. Thirteen.

I counted them yesterday, the day before, a week ago. Always thirteen. Mom spits on me and goes to her room.

The door slams. I stay on the floor another minute, then I get up. Mia is sobbing on the couch, but quieter now.

I go over, check her head — a bump, but no blood. Good. Blood means trouble.

Questions at school, calls from social services. Mom doesn't like questions. “It's okay,” I tell Mia.

Calm voice, steady. “Go to sleep.”

She curls up with her dirty teddy bear. She falls asleep. I go to the bathroom, look at my reflection in the mirror.

My cheek is red, tomorrow it'll be a bruise. Doesn't matter. I'll say I fell on the playground.

No one will ask. No one cares. I look myself in the eyes and think: “One day I'll leave this place.

“And no one will ever lay a hand on me again. No one.” It's not a promise. It's a fact.

I'm seven years old and I already know the one thing that matters: the world splits into people who hit and people who get hit. I will never be one of those again. Never.

Chapter 1

I'm sitting in front of the ring light, it's hitting me straight in the face. Perfect angle — thirty degrees above, so the cheekbones look sharper, the eyes bigger. I know my own face better than any plastic surgeon does.

Every millimeter. Every point that scores. On the phone screen — 47,000 viewers.