My name is Rico Vonte Kovacs, born December 12, 2000. Growing up, I never knew what happiness

was. Not love, not simple affection—hell, I’d never even been hugged. Life was never kind to me. I was

born from the mistake of a whore mother who blamed me for my pops not pulling out. She never let me

forget she should’ve had that abortion.

The abuse was there every single day. Mostly verbal, but she’d get physical on special occasions.

Usually, it happened when she sent me to the store for “groceries”—which really meant liquor from the

corner store and maybe some food from Walmart.

Every time I came back, she’d find a reason to insult me. I asked her for a list a few times, but she just

thought I was getting “smart by the mouth.” She’d pop me in the face hard enough to make my lips bleed.

After a while, I stopped questioning it. I just accepted that she needed an excuse to hit me.

But sleeping… God, did I ever actually sleep? The walls were always banging at night. I know now

she was fucking random dudes for money, but eight-year-old me just thought someone was hurting her.

She was groaning so loud I had to see if she was okay. I opened the door and saw my mom getting railed

by some middle-aged white dude.

Now, most kids would be traumatized. Me? I was pissed.

“GET THE HELL OFF MY MAMA!”

Boy, when I tell you I fucked him up… I gave that man a beating. I was like a cat—I grabbed onto his

head and started punching, biting, and scratching. I made that boy look like he’d been jumped by a

chimpanzee. I might as well have been one, the way I used my fingers like fish hooks to rip his cheeks

open.

My mom finally managed to tear me off him. He ran out of the house—straight out the door, didn’t

grab his pants or nothing. He just ran. I looked at my mom with the biggest smile I’d ever had. I thought,

Is this it? Is she finally gonna praise me for saving her?

Nope. Not at all. She beat the absolute shit out of me. And I don’t mean she grabbed a belt or an

extension cord—she was literally punching an eight-year-old boy with her bare fists.

“You fucking mistake! Now nobody’s gonna want me! I should’ve gotten that abortion when

everyone told me to!”

She’d said stuff like that before, but that was the only time it actually hurt. It felt way worse than any

punch she threw.

After the ass-whooping, she threw me in my room and locked the door. I stayed in there for fourteen

days. No food, no water.

I was too little to understand it then, but she was actively trying to kill me. She was starving me out.

Every time I begged to go to the bathroom, she’d beat me until I was unconscious and throw me back

inside.

And the saddest part of all? I never had the heart to hate her. I never had it in me. Even when I got

into fights at school with boys making fun of her, I’d get angry and defend her. I knew damn well she

wouldn’t do the same for me, but maybe, deep down, I just wanted to be loved. I wanted one day where I

didn’t get beat or shit on for a minor mistake. Maybe if she’d done just one kind thing, it would’ve been

enough for me to think she loved me back.

But she didn’t. She never did.

On the night of the fifteenth day, I broke. I built up every bit of strength left in my body, punched out

the bedroom window, and ran. I was bleeding bad, too. I’d sliced an artery in my hand on the glass and

didn’t even notice until I passed out three blocks away.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital with needles in my arms and doctors everywhere. Next thing I

knew, my mom was locked up and I was in foster care.

For the most part, things were finally looking up.