Not Another Allegory: A Survivor’s Story of Breaking Free

They always start these stories with “Once upon a time,” don’t they? As if pain is easier to swallow when wrapped in a fairy tale.

But I’m done with allegories. I’m done hiding truth beneath red cloaks and wolves pretending to be grandmothers. Here’s the truth, raw and real:

My mother loved men who loved to hurt us.

She was a single mother working long hours, lonely and desperate for love. She believed every man who called her beautiful, every man who promised forever after one too many beers on a Friday night. She called them “my soulmates.” I called them Wolves.

The First Wolf came when I was six.

At first, he seemed like a hero, bringing me sugary cereal, sitting on the floor to watch cartoons, and making my mother laugh so hard she forgot to cry. He cooked, paid bills, and brought flowers. I was too young to see he was studying us, learning our weaknesses.

He turned the game of hide-and-seek into something I can’t forget. A day that started with giggles ended under covers, with me pinned down, fear shaking my small body as he whispered that it was a “special game.” That he loved me. That I was his family now.

And I was so desperate for a father that I believed him, even as pain ripped through me, even as I threw up afterward, even as he cleaned the sheets before my mother returned.

He stole my childhood under the disguise of family.

Eventually, my mother caught on. She noticed how I flinched when he touched me, how I stopped laughing, how her “soulmate” became angry and controlling. She made him leave. She swore she’d do better.

We moved in with Gran. I thought we were safe.

But loneliness is a powerful predator, and my mother was its easiest prey. She found more men. More Wolves. Some were stopped by Gran’s sharp tongue and sharper eyes. Others slipped through. Each time, I learned to become smaller, quieter, less noticeable, hoping the Wolves would pass me by.

Then came the Worst Wolf.

He smelled of cigarettes and cheap whiskey, and his smile never reached his eyes. Gran hated him immediately, but he charmed my mother until she ignored every warning. We moved into his house, and I knew we had stepped into the belly of the beast.

The Worst Wolf didn’t pretend to be a father. He didn’t hide behind cartoons or cereal bowls. When my mother left to drink away the bruises he gave her, he turned to me.

I was sixteen.

I learned to leave my body during those nights, to become nothing while he did what he wanted. I learned silence, because every scream brought a threat. “I’ll kill your mother.” “I’ll kill you.” “No one will believe you.”

And I believed him because I had seen him beat my mother until she bled, seen her lie to the neighbors about falling down the stairs, seen her crawl into bed beside him after it was over.

The night I decided to leave, I wasn’t brave. I was desperate. I waited for them to argue, for him to hit her, for her to run out of the house, crying. I grabbed a backpack, the gun he kept under the bed, and slipped into the night, running to Gran’s house with the weight of fear pressing every step.

Gran opened the door, and I collapsed into her arms. She didn’t ask questions. She just let me cry until dawn.

We went to the police. I told them everything. They nodded, wrote it all down, promised they would help. They told him to stay away while they “investigated.”

I tried to believe them.

But Wolves don’t listen.

He came to Gran’s house late one night, pounding on the door, shouting for me. Gran tried to stop him, but he pushed past her. I ran for the bedroom, grabbed the gun, locked the door, and hid in the closet, shaking.

He broke down the door.

When he ripped the closet open, our eyes met, and I saw it: that hunger, that promise of violence, that endless cycle ready to begin again.

The gun went off.

The sound shattered the world. He fell back, but tried to get up, blood blooming on his shirt. He smiled at me, that cold, hateful smile, as if he would take this power back from me.

So I shot again. And again. For every time he hurt me. For every bruise on my mother. For every child who was told to be quiet, to keep secrets, to stay small.

I emptied the gun. I screamed until my throat was raw, until I was nothing but a girl holding a gun in a room of blood, finally, finally free.

The police came. They took the gun. They took me in for questioning.

They are deciding if I am a victim or a criminal.

But I know the truth: I chose to live.

I chose to end the cycle that my mother wouldn’t. I chose to save myself when the system failed me, when the world turned away, when every fairy tale ended with the Wolf winning.

This is not another allegory. This is a warning.

Because Wolves are real. They walk into your home with flowers and promises. They wait for you to let down your guard. They tell you they love you. They steal your childhood and your peace.

And sometimes, the only way to escape is to become your own savior.

I don’t know how my story will end. But I know this:

I will never let another Wolf win.

Not ever again.

Moral of the Story:
Sometimes the only way to break the cycle of abuse is to refuse to stay silent, even if the world wants you to. You have the right to fight for your life.