My mother, Adriana, was breathtakingly beautiful, but everyone in the forgotten town of Hickory Creek hated her. Every night, a different man slipped into her bed, and every morning, he would shuffle out looking perfectly satisfied. They called her a tramp, a slut, saying only a simpleton like my father, Roy Tucker, would keep her. Dad would even buy her pretty dresses and cheap jewelry, dressing her up like a princess for the viewing. But I knew the truth. Every time, those men would hand Dad a wad of bills and tell him she was worth the price. I hated her. I kept my distance, never seeking comfort. I only felt a cold, hard disgust for the woman who let filth touch her. It wasn't until a truly repulsive beggar—a man who looked like dirt and smelled of rot—shuffled out of her room and handed Dad a single, crumpled bill that a calculated thought hardened in my mind: If she was going to sell herself, why not help Dad sell her for a fortune? … 1 The forced, triumphant smile vanished from Dad’s face the moment the beggar was out of sight. He stormed into the room and the sound of the slap was dull, sickening. “You worthless bitch! That’s all you pulled in? And you still have the nerve to just lie there!” He kicked the mattress. “Today is Christmas Eve. Get up and go make me a holiday dinner.” Mom lay on the stained sheet, her legs still splayed. She was naked, her pale skin a roadmap of bruises and purple welts. Her breasts were covered in fresh, bloody bite marks. She just stared at the ceiling, not crying, not moving—her eyes empty, wide, and entirely blank. As he stomped out, Dad spat over his shoulder. “Goddamn slut. You get less valuable every time.” I watched her rise, the silence in her movements more disturbing than any scream. She went to the sink, ran the cold water, and washed the evidence of the last man off her body before pulling on a clean, threadbare shirt. Then she walked, stiff-backed, to the kitchen. I didn't follow. Instead, I went out to the cluster of rusted trailers we called a village. The men in Hickory Creek always smirked when they saw me. “Hey, Dusty,” they’d call me—a name that meant ‘the neglected one’ here. “Is your mama busy tonight? God, her legs are something else.” “Hey, why don’t you drop your pants and let old Butch see if you’re as pale as your mom.” In response, I’d grab a fistful of sharp gravel and hurl it at them, earning their loud, delighted laughter. The women here loathed my mother, gathering daily to trash-talk the beautiful, broken woman. But the men were worse. Their eyes, when they spoke of her, were like a pair of greedy, oily snakes. They all knew one thing, though: I hated my mother, and the subject of her made me snap. That evening, a couple of Dad’s regular card buddies—men with yellow teeth and cheap beer breath—arrived. They settled down, dealing cards and letting their eyes roam the trailer. “Hey, Roy,” one of them asked, looking towards the kitchen. “Where’s Adriana?” Dad took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes squinting against the smoke. “She’s cooking. When we’re done dealing, we can eat.” A man named Mitch gave a leering grin and a thumbs-up. “Man, Roy, you got it made. A wife as beautiful as a movie star, who’s good for a man and brings in the cash.” Another added, “And Dusty, too. Most girls are close to their moms, but you and your old man are tight. She’ll be a good little thing when she grows up.” The praise made Dad puff out his chest. His porcine face wobbled with mirth. “Damn right. You take a look at the women in this house, and they’re both nothing without me.” He slammed his hand on the table. “I tell them east, they don’t go west. They’re more obedient than old man Floyd’s mutt.” They roared with laughter. Floyd’s dog was a filthy, abused animal. The smell of food wafted in, and I went to the kitchen to help carry the dishes. The rule in our trailer—an unspoken law in this whole village—was that women did not sit at the table. They ate in the kitchen, hidden away. In our house, it was worse: Mom and I had to squat with our bowls at Dad’s feet, ready to serve him. I set plate after plate on the table. The last pot was heavy, and as I set it down, I accidentally knocked the small charcoal brazier underneath. The tablecloth immediately caught fire. Mom ran over, grabbing a damp towel and smothering the small flame. It was out in seconds. But Dad, who had just finished his hand, saw her. He lunged, grabbing a handful of her hair. He slammed her head down onto the table with a sickening thud. A grotesque lump immediately swelled on her pristine forehead. “Who the hell said you could stand at the damn table? You trying to jinx my luck on Christmas Eve, you curse!” 2 One hand still twisted in her hair, Dad used his other hand to furiously strike her face. Her cheeks quickly swelled, and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Mom never fought back. She never cried. She was a beautiful, compliant mannequin, silently enduring every horror. She’d be subjected to unspeakable things all night, but every morning, she’d meticulously clean herself up and dress as if nothing had happened. That's why the women of Hickory Creek called her a natural whore, saying she was the one who craved the men, that she'd cheat on Dad even if he didn’t sell her out. I knew that wasn’t true. Once, she had tried to run. Years ago. She managed to knock out the man in her bed, scoop up my tiny body, and tear through the village in the dark. The wind had whipped her hair around her face—a desperate, tangible vision of hope. The mud of the path was treacherous, and she trembled with effort. I could hear the frantic drumming of her heart. She made it almost to the highway before two men blocked the path. Their voices were wet with lust as they appraised her. “Look at that, the prettiest thing in a ten-mile radius. Even running away, she’s a sight.” It turned out Dad slept soundly and traveled without worry because he’d already made a deal with the village: Anyone who found her trying to escape would be rewarded with a free pass. In the filthy dirt patch behind a rusted-out shed, the two men descended on her like wolves. Mom let out a high, tortured scream, beating the air with her arms. It was the only time she ever actively fought them, but her frantic struggle was only to keep them from letting me see. But no one cares about a toy’s feelings. The moment she tried to leave, her hope became a sick source of entertainment for her captors. That night was the moment I started to hate her, or perhaps, the moment I felt compelled to act like I did. Now, Mitch and Butch were trying to intervene. “Come on, Roy, easy, man. She didn’t mean it.” “It’s Christmas Eve, let’s eat.” Dad finally released her, a few strands of her chestnut hair still wrapped around his fist. He thrust his foot out and shoved her to the ground. “You’re gonna kneel right there and serve us. My hand was bad tonight, and it’s all your fault, you rotten slut.” Without a word, Mom dropped to her knees. She ladled soup, served the pot roast, and listened to their crude, slurred jokes. “Look at that, Roy. You really trained her. I’d wake up laughing if I had a woman like that.” Dad reveled in the compliments. He’d always been that way, never bothering to pretend to be a decent person. Since I could remember, he did nothing but drink and gamble. I’d heard he was a nobody in this village until he married Mom, and then, suddenly, men started seeking his company—all for the chance to take advantage of her. He didn’t care why they praised him; he just loved the feeling of being respected, of being chased. When the men finished the food, they weren't ready to leave. I knew what that meant. This night of family cheer was about to become Mom’s night of hell. 3 Sure enough, Dad dragged Mom into the back bedroom—the one we all called "The Room"—and one of the men, Butch, followed her inside immediately. Before long, Mom's screams, sharp and frantic, tore through the winter air. I’d heard them a hundred times, but they still made my body seize up with a cold, terrifying shake. Outside, the men were laughing. Her pain was their pleasure. “Damn, Butch is an animal! Listen to her, Roy, she must be loving it in there!” “You’re a lucky bastard, Roy.” They snickered, their eyes trying to bore holes through the thin curtain over the window. I wanted to leave. I knew she didn't want me to hear this. “Dad, I’m going to bed.” He hit me hard across the ear. “Go to sleep? I’m not sleeping, you little brat. You wait right here until they’re all gone.” I pressed my throbbing ear and sat down on the stoop of the porch. Eventually, Butch emerged, adjusting his pants. “Whew. That was damn good, Roy.” Dad impatiently demanded the money. Butch pulled out a wad of bills and handed them over, his tone laced with mockery. “Easy, Roy. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” Then, the next man, Mitch, stumbled eagerly inside. They continued the rotation, one leaving, one entering, stretching the night out into a seemingly endless expanse of suffering. Mom’s cries shifted from frantic screams to hoarse, exhausted gasps, and finally, to nothing but muffled whimpers. Each man who left handed Dad the required amount, their faces satisfied and slick with sweat. The last one emerged, looking regretful that it was over. “Roy, you lost a lot of cash at the table tonight, right?” Dad was busy counting the money, not looking up. “Don’t worry, I won’t owe you.” The man gave a sleazy grin. “That’s not what I mean, Roy. One time wasn’t enough for me.” He looked at the remaining men. “How about we do a group deal? We all go in together, and we call your debt to us settled.” Dad looked up, his eyes lighting up with greed. He looked at the others. They immediately agreed, their eyes glowing like famished wolves. Together, the three remaining men stormed into The Room. This time, Mom did not make a single sound. The sky was beginning to lighten when the wolf pack emerged, looking red-faced and utterly satisfied. They finally left. Dad yawned, ready for bed. He muttered as he walked past me, “Worthless hag. You’re getting less valuable by the month.” He looked at me, his eyes unfocused. “Dusty, go check on your mother.” My head throbbed from the night-long vigil. I opened the door. The stench hit me first—a thick, nauseating smell that made me gag. Mom was unconscious on the floor, covered in a sickening mix of fluids. Blood was everywhere, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I grabbed a basin of ice-cold water and a rag, wiping her body clean, piece by piece. She was covered in fresh red marks, hideous welts, and angry, open wounds. There wasn’t a single clean spot on her body. Though she was passed out, her brow furrowed in a painful, agonizing spasm every time I touched her. I knew, with cold certainty, that if this continued, she wasn’t going to last much longer. 4 The next day, Mom woke up and tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. She stood in front of the broken mirror, trying to fix her hair. But her swollen face and the brutal purple bags under her eyes meant no amount of effort could hide the damage. We were eating when a man—a scruffy neighbor named Mikey—burst in, looking desperate. “Roy, now’s the time! My old lady went to her mother’s. I gotta go back before she gets home.” Mom could be called upon at any moment. These men always had wives, and they couldn’t risk being seen near our trailer. Dad accepted the cash and, grinning, yanked Mom off the floor. Mikey followed her eagerly into The Room and the door slammed shut. Dad beckoned me over to finish waiting on him. He seemed to be in a great mood. He even tossed a chunk of meat into my bowl on the ground. Normally, meat was for him alone. He’d occasionally ‘reward’ me with a piece, but Mom never got anything. This time, however, Mikey came flying out of the room just moments later, his face contorted in rage. “Roy Tucker, you damn well cheated me! That whore is stinking! You rotten liar, Roy. Her pussy reeks—she’s got some kind of disease! Give me my money back!” Dad slammed his fist on the table. “Bullshit! She was fine yesterday!” They argued until they finally threw the door open and looked inside. Sure enough, a horrifying yellow discharge was visible on Mom’s legs. Dad was forced to return the money. Mikey stormed out, cursing the whole way. As soon as the door shut, Dad grabbed a heavy switch from the yard and began whipping Mom. He had a powerful arm. The thin branch whistled as it struck her already mangled body, raising fresh red tracks over old purple bruises. “You worthless slut! When did you get this disease?” he roared, the fear of contamination turning into fury. “Look how filthy you are! You’re disgusting! No decent man would touch you now! You eat my food, you live in my house—and now you can’t even make me money! What good are you to me?” Mom was a ragdoll. She screamed in agony, thrashing and writhing on the bed. I curled up in the corner. Tears welled in my eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. He kept hitting her until she passed out, only to be jolted back awake by the next blow. Dad vented his rage until his own arm was tired and shaking. He threw the switch down, his eyes murderous. “You piece of trash! How am I supposed to gamble now?” He turned to leave, but his eyes fell on me, huddled in the corner. Beneath the layers of dirt and fear, my features—small, thin, and currently wet with tears—were undeniably similar to my mother’s. A faint, almost-womanly curve was beginning to show on my frame. Suddenly, he smiled. “Dusty,” he said slowly, his voice changing entirely. “Damn, I never noticed. You’re actually pretty.” He had always insisted I stay dirty, wear the ugliest clothes, and keep my face grubby. I had often resented it, wondering why she got to be a princess while I was a scruffy peasant. Now, I understood. Dad walked over, stroked my hair, and chuckled. “Well, I guess raising you wasn’t a total waste after all.” The next few days passed without any strangers coming to the trailer. Dad grew more and more volatile, returning home daily to give Mom a brutal beating. I knew his money was running out. Mom couldn’t get out of bed, so I was left to do all the work. Today, I was serving Dad his cheap whiskey and cigarettes. He was ranting, calling Mom a worthless cripple who couldn't earn her keep. I lit his cigarette and handed it to him. I leaned in, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Dad, I think you’re losing money.” He grunted, drinking deep. “Mom is so beautiful. Since you have to sell her,” I said, trying not to choke on the word, “why are you selling her cheap?”
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