Pretty words are not always true, and true words are not always pretty. My mother always said something on the lines on that.
She told me I would be safe. That reality wouldn't get to me. The reality I went through was not normal. But some consider it theirs. It may not have been Hell, but I surely wasn't going through Heaven. I may not be the most religious person ever, but I know what I'm saying. My experiences were monstrous, lethal, and unpredictable.
Now, you listen, I know that I'm almost 83 years old, and that this happened when I was 13, but I remember it well enough to recall to traumatizing feelings I felt.
Don't get me wrong, my mother was a nice lady, but she held the truth away from me like you would hide your precious collections from a baby.
She might have looked all innocent with her rosy cheeks and cutesy short red hair, but that woman could hide a secret. I remember when my father burst through the door one year in our house in Oklahoma and shouted "By golly, that store lady sure is acting like she has the worst life ever lately, what does she have to complain!". My mother and I knew that poor old Mrs. Rutherhood had recently been widowed because of a horrific bison stampede. But the sly fox kept it in with a straight face, not even a small curve at the corners of her mouth.
It's not like I want to relive my memories, but I'll tell you. Truthfully.