Beyond Screwed

Penelope

Every family has their secrets. And up until about twenty minutes ago, I believed ours was that my mother locked me in her closet whenever I’d pissed her off.

I’ve always known it wasn’t exactly a normal form of punishment, but the punishments I used to get were far worse and a lot more noticeable, so I accepted it. Most of the time it’s only for a couple hours or so. That’s because I’m well trained now.

You see, I learned early that my emotions only made things worse, so I learned how to erase them before someone else could. I became better at all sorts of things, actually. Better at keeping my mouth shut. Better at keeping secrets of my own. Better at accepting love in my household was conditional, always earned and consistently withdrawn as punishment.

Locking me in a closet has been my mother's favorite form of punishment for a while. It started when I was eight, when I used her lipstick without asking.

She caught me sitting on the bathroom counter, applying the bright red shade much too heavily and even more unevenly. Eight-year-olds really suck at staying inside the lines. I was no exception. When she let out a horrified shriek, she grabbed my arm and yanked me off the counter so fast the lipstick skidded across my cheek before snapping off and landing in my lap as I hit the floor.

“Ugh, God. Now look what you’ve done!” she roared, her eyes burning into mine.

I hated it when she looked at me that way. Like she wished I’d never been born. Like she wanted me to wish the same.

“I–I–I,” my tiny eight-year-old voice stuttered. The back of my head throbbed where it had slammed into the cabinet. “Sorry,” I managed, because I knew that was the most important word to say in that moment.

She grabbed my arms and hauled me upright, bending down so we were face to face.

“Sorry?” she repeated in a mocking tone. “That lipstick was twenty-seven dollars. Do you have twenty-seven dollars?”

I shook my head, eyes wide as tears threatened to spill. This was usually the point where she hit me, but my eight-year-old brain remembered something important and somewhat comforting: Daddy told her she couldn’t do that anymore. Not after my teacher asked questions about the bruises.

He was running for mayor. We didn’t need that kind of attention if he was going to win. She understood that, and she’d promised she wouldn't hurt me again.

Still, I couldn’t believe her. Not fully. The look in her eyes told me she couldn’t keep that promise even if she wanted to. My knees buckled. My eyes burned. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Crying only made her angrier. It always did.

Her hands tightened on my shoulders and she let out a frustrated shout. She remembered her promise even though she didn't want to. I silently thanked my father, a tiny sigh of relief slipping out before I could stop it and I instantly knew I'd made a mistake.

Her green eyes darkened. She scooped me up, swung me over her shoulder so fast a sharp pain shot through my neck, and carried me into her bedroom. She set me down roughly, yanked open her closet door, and shoved me inside.

I fell to my knees and looked back just in time to see a satisfied smirk pull at her lips before the door slammed shut. I watched the lock turn as she shouted, “You’ll stay in there until you learn some respect.”

I don’t know how long I stayed in the closet that day, but I missed both lunch and dinner, so it had to have been hours.

I thought Daddy would be furious when he found me there that night, like he usually was when I was hurt. Instead, he thanked my mother for coming up with a creative punishment. One that would be effective. One that wouldn’t hurt his career.

After that, it became her go-to solution for everything.

Anything less than an A? Closet.

Caught in a lie? Closet.

Talk back? Closet.

Gain a pound at the weekly weigh-in she started when I turned thirteen? Closet.

Late for curfew? Sleep in the closet.

Send your boyfriend a sexy picture only to have it shared with the entire town and cast shame upon my entire family? Closet.

Which brings me to now.

This is the first time I’ve ever fought back when she locked me in there. Ironically, it only made things worse. If I’d known that pounding my fists against her closet door would send our family’s real secret tumbling down from the shelves and straight into my hands, I never would have done it.

Because now I know something else.

Being locked in a closet is nothing compared to what my brother Nathan has been through.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And I have no idea how to tell him.

Or if I even should.

Or if I ever will.