VANITY

A SHORT STORY: GRIEF | CHILD NEGLECT | SUICIDE | COMING-OF-AGE | DOMESTIC DRAMA | PSYCHOLOGICAL REALISM |

***TRIGGER WARNING****

THEMES OF: CHILD NEGLECT, ALCOHOL ADDICTION, SUICIDE, SEXUAL HARASSMENT, MENTIONS OF DRUG USE

VANITY

— A SHORT STORY —

By: JARMAGIC

I kick the front door shut behind me, slip off my backpack, and kick off my shoes. A bit more aggressively than I'd meant to. A little louder, too.

Oh well. Nobody yells at me for it anymore.

Why? Because… SURPRISE! Nobody's home!

I ought to brand that into a sign. Big, bold, capital letters:

Then I'd nail it to the roof for the whole neighborhood to see. That, or I'd drill it smack on the front door, like a label for entry.

I'd wonder who’d notice first: The illiterate thieves who take the apostrophe as a contraction, thinking it says, “Nobody IS home.” Or the homeowner herself:

"Ms. Nobody?”

More commonly known to me as my mother. The same mother who’d actually have to be present in order to see it.

Even if she were here, she probably wouldn't notice. Not right away anyway. She’d more likely find out through word-of-mouth before her own self-awareness.

I wonder which she’d be madder at: the supposed “social humiliation” I’d caused, my audacity, or that I gave her that alias?

Not that I would ever actually do this, of course. I couldn’t. Not outside of the mind I govern. The one where I can hit “RESET” before things go wrong.

This world. Our world… this one’s not safe for that style of humor. This world stinks. Like, it literally stinks. Or… wait. No, that's just the house that smells so bad. Probably from the dishes mom left in the sink… again.

I step over a pile of laundry in the hallway, half mine, half hers, and head for the fridge. When I open it, it’s like even the light is planning an exit. Not a very “bright” light. Not quite a “Smart Light.” Maybe it’s just a plain, ordinary lightbulb, on its way out. Like I should be.

From what I can see, there's nothing more than a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and a takeout container with something ungodly inside. I close the door, grab a granola bar from the counter instead, and routinely find the sofa.

My mind is still at school, running over the History test I will probably fail tomorrow. Maybe that’s why Emily smiled at me in third period? She keeps asking me to let her come over after school, to “tutor me.” I always say, “no,” for a couple of reasons: one, because that would be flat-out embarrassing, and two, Mom would have a meltdown if she found out I had a friend over.

I’m running out of excuses. I almost think that maybe I should just say, “yes” one day. It’s not like Mom would ever find out. But I don’t. Breaking her rules still feels wrong, even if she doesn't find out about it.

None of that matters much. What matters is that Mom is usually home by now. Normally, when she's running late, she'd at least give me a heads-up. Not because she's responsible, but because she likes to make sure I know she's “out doing her thing” and not to “get any ideas” about calling her.

I wont make that mistake again. Last time I did that, she called me a “no good fuckup” and ignored me for two days straight.

⏣⏣⏣

I check my phone. No messages.

I tell myself it's fine. Maybe she's drinking? Maybe she's with some guy again? Maybe she just forgot?

I sink into the sofa, pretending not to care. It doesn't work.

My eyes fight to stay open.

My brother, Kitt, the second oldest, would tell me I should be used to this by now, that nothing Mom does should surprise me anymore. He'd lecture me about how she's always been selfish and to stop waiting for her to act like a real Mom.

He's right. I know this. But it doesn't mean I know how to.

Then there's Kip. The oldest brother. Probably high on who-knows-what, from whatever sketchy apartment he might be in across the country. He doesn't come around often, which is fine with me. He always has way too much to say.

Kai doesn't come around too often anymore either… well, Kai’s in prison, so, well, he can't, really. He probably wouldn't say much if he was here, but he'd know what to do. He always knew how to pull Mom back to shore. But he's not here.

I wish, more than anything, that he were here.

That leaves me. Maverick. 15 years old and the only one still stuck in the house, still dealing with her mood swings, her rules that don't make any sense, and her silent treatment when I do something she doesn't like.

I used to think it was normal. Like, “Yeah, Moms get mad sometimes… sometimes they drink too much and say things they don't mean,” but the older I get, the more I realize: she says exactly what she means. And right now, she's gone and hasn’t said a word, and I don't know why.

I check my phone again and still… nothing.

It's fine. I should do homework. I should shower. I should eat something that isn't a granola bar.

I don’t move.

Instead, I remain in my spot on the sofa. I try telling myself that this isn't the worst thing she’s ever done. That there's no good reason my stomach feels like it's trying to tell me something.

I try, but I just couldn't ignore it.

😑 🥱 😴

I wake up on the couch, my phone still in my hand. I immediately sit straight up, checking the time.

It's just past 10:00 p.m.

I open my messages. No texts, no missed calls, nothing. I hold my breath, listening for a moment, only to find the house just as cold and quiet as it was before I nodded off.

In the past, Mom has been known to come home late, stumbling in at 1 in the morning, throwing her purse on the counter like it cared enough about her to offer her help. She’d be mumbling about how men are useless, or how she used to be beautiful, or how we, her kids, ruined her life.

But she always came home.

Always.

I stand up, rubbing my eyes, trying to accept the fact that something feels off, but I just can’t. I refuse.

She's probably just drinking somewhere… still? If she is, then that would mean she's probably with someone, right? That she's passed out on a friend's couch? Right?

I text her, “where are you?”

No response.

I decided I’d try to distract myself and do what I'm supposed to: brush my teeth and change out of my school clothes.

It didn't help. I remain hyper-aware of her absence. Which somehow makes me feel like this home isn’t even mine.

I get into bed earlier than usual. I won't worry until the morning.

💤💤💤

Morning comes. She’s still not home.

I get a phone call from Kitt, the responsible brother who actually pays attention to me, the one I always rely on when things become too much for me to handle. Mom hates when I contact him, especially if I mention anything to him about her.

The second I answer the call, he's already speaking, “Maverick! Mom's in the hospital!”

I don't say anything.

“She,” He pauses, “Look. She took a bunch of pills last night, okay? Drank herself into a mess and called someone crying, talking about how she's old and ugly and tired. Someone found her and called an ambulance.”

I sit down.

“She's alive,” Kitt says. “They pumped her stomach.”

I don’t want to ask, but I do anyways.

“What do you mean pills? What pills? How many?”

“She's being held for psych evaluation.”

I should be asking more questions. I should react. But I can't. All I can do is think about the last time I saw her. Yesterday morning. Standing by the counter with a cigarette in one hand and her phone in the other, complaining about something stupid. She looked normal. Tired, maybe, but normal.

“She didn't say anything to me.” I finally say.

“She didn't say anything to anyone,” Kitt says. “That's kind of the problem.”

⏣⏣⏣

Mom comes home two days later. She’s acting like nothing happened. She's chipper, even. Flaunting this version of herself that I only recognize when, on the extremely rare occasion, we actually have any visitors over. She’s asking if I “need anything,” talking about how she's going to take better care of herself, how she's seeing a doctor now, and how she understands “her mistake.”

She keeps saying that, "her mistake.” She’s treating it like it was some miscalculation on a math test or something. She hasn’t fooled me, though; I can see the cracks underneath her façade.

I want to hate it, but I can’t. The truth is: I can’t hate anything. I simply don’t know how to. Really, I just want to help her. I want to wash her clean. To set her free from her own demons. But it’ll never work. She’s entirely too stubborn for that.

She doesn’t want the help. Not from me, not from my brother’s. Not from anyone. She doesn’t ask for it and she doesn’t complain about not having any. She doesn’t think she needs it. Which, I’ve heard, is a bad sign. I’ve heard that, in order to begin recovery, one must first admit that they have a problem.

To her, it's: “everything else is the problem,” or it's, “not that serious.”

To me, she creates a problem out of nothing. Like how she is right now, looking into the mirror, messing her hair just right, posing for herself. Followed by a visible resentment. She acts like aging is a curse. Like it’s an unfair punishment for the unlucky ones. The unworthy. And the way she sighs when she thinks I'm not listening, but really, I do listen. She’s just irritated because I don’t always agree with her on everything. Even the way she drinks water like it's punishing her, too. Like she'd rather have something stronger.

I don't ask questions. Not anymore. I don't tell Kitt that I don't believe her. I just keep my head down, act normal, pretend like I don't see it. It works for a while, up until it doesn't.

Weeks go by. Maybe months. I don’t know; I stop keeping track. She starts drinking again, making pitiful efforts to keep it a secret. She’s not slick, but still might actually believe that I’m clueless.

I will admit: I pretend not to notice her clumsiness, or the smell. I pretend not to see the liquor or the beer bottle labels pressing against the bottom of the trash bag when I take it out to the dumpster.

I don’t know why I do this. Maybe because confronting her will somehow turn into me attacking her. Or because I know it won’t be long before her habit picks up, making it impossible to be ignored.

⏣⏣⏣

One night I wake up to the sound of her throwing up in the kitchen. I don't get up right away, assuming she’d had too much to drink.

I close my eyes and try to remember Mom before she was like this. I squeeze my eyes tighter until I can see her face, her happy, cheerful face. Smiling. Dancing in the kitchen, reaching out for my hand. She wants me to dance with her. I take her hand. She laughs. She whispers for me to twirl her. To catch her when she falls to one side.

I can almost taste the fresh blackberry cobblers she and I used to bake together. Made with our own, homegrown wild blackberries. The music is faint, but I can hear it.

I feel a smile tickle my face, and the memory vanishes.

I roll my eyes, pushing myself to go back to sleep, but the sound of her vomiting doesn't stop. I roll over in bed and huff. But then my heartstrings were pulled as soon as I hear her crying…

She never cries. So, I get up…

I find her bent over the trash can, her hair sticking to her face, eyes red and wild. The smell is sour and sharp. She looks up at me with something real in her expression. Something I almost forgot existed inside of her. Something she's usually drowning it in: liquor or excuse.

“I made a mistake.” She whispers, “I did something so stupid.”

I step closer but I don't know what to do. I see two empty pill bottles next to her. She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I. I just stand there watching as she weeps into the trash can, wiping her mouth.

“Go back to bed,” she finally says, as if to say “nothing to see here.” Or to make it seem like I've done something wrong.

I don't. I just stand there staring at her, trying to understand, trying to feel something. All I know is, this probably won't be the last time she cries about it… whatever “it” is this time.

⏣⏣⏣

When I see her again, she tries to act normal, like nothing happened. But I see it in the way she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground, the way she tugs at the skin on her arms like she's trying to shrink herself inside.

I almost think that she doesn't notice me anymore, until one night she asked me if I want to go to the movies. It's the first time in years she's invited me to do something, just the two of us.

I say, “yes,” because I want to believe she means it, that she's trying. That she wants things to be better. For the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe it really will be.

⏣⏣⏣

I should’ve known better because she orders a drink at the restaurant the moment we get there.

Then another. Then more.

She promises it's “the last one.” Her promises turn into slurs, “it's really the last one.” She sways in her seat, making a mess of herself. Talking too loud. Laughing too loud. Not making any sense.

I was so embarrassed by the end of it. I struggled to find an appropriate reaction. She was... incapacitated. Much worse than what I was used to. Or maybe I just never noticed before.

Distracting myself didn't work. How could it? It was only the two of us at the table, and the waiter at occasional intervals. I could see his irritation growing with each visit, dropping his disapproving hints. Defending her felt wrong but so did acknowledging the snarky waiter. All I could do was stare because somehow, I felt guilty, like I was responsible for her behaviors: her nodding off, her face finding her plate.

That’s when we were asked to leave. And we did.

We weren't far from the theater. She insisted I drive even though I don't have my permit yet, but I do it anyway. By that time, she can barely walk straight and she doesn't care about the movie. She keeps moving around in her seat, passive-aggressively, commenting about how this was a bad idea or how the movie is stupid. How we should just leave.

We're not even halfway through the movie when she gets up, nudges my arm and says that she's going to go use the bathroom.

She walks away, clearly in no rush. She's always been the type to make a run for it, there and back, returning promptly to my ear, whispering, "what did I miss?" Expecting that I provide a thoroughly detailed recap.

20 minutes later, she stumbles back into the theater, grabbing my arm.

“Come on,” she says, “let's go.”

I don't want to, but I do. I have to.

I regret it the second we step outside. She doesn't want to go home. She wants to go to a bar. “Just for a minute,” she says. “Just to see a friend,” she says.

That “minute” turns into hours, as expected. And now she's drunk. More than drunk. She's cussing me out, yelling at me in front of strangers. They're laughing, huddled up and gossiping.

I feel so small.

She tells me to leave. She yells it.

I don't.

So, she starts hitting me in the middle of the bar. Fists, small but angry. She had a fire inside her. I don't have a name for whatever was burning in her eyes.

The next thing you know, her purse spills open. Cash and cards scatter across the floor. She's enraged, blaming me, saying things I don't want to repeat. I can't… Those things she said.

I leave the bar, sit on the curb, and cry.

Hours go by.

She doesn't come out. I almost think she snuck out through the back but her car is in the parking lot. Which, that alone doesn't reassure me of anything. I keep finding myself peeping through the bar window, checking to make sure she's still in there somewhere. In the bar. Not, “in her body.” I know she's not in there right now, that's not what I meant. I'll check for that later.

Just after midnight, she finally surfaces, pouring out of the bar and into the parking lot. She's got some guy with her. He doesn’t acknowledge me. I’m glad he didn’t. I take a breath, but I don't speak. I just follow behind them to the car. They hop in the back seat together, the keys hit my chest, and the car doors slam shut.

I keep my face still as a tear spills over my waterline. I bend, grab the keys from the ground, and get in the car not saying anything. I don’t turn around either. I turn on the radio and I drive us home.

As soon as I park the car, she and the guy go straight to her room, not bothering to fully shut the door behind them.

I gather mom's discarded garments from the back seat, then I lock myself in my room. I always kept my bedroom door locked. Always. It was just one of those "things" I did that everyone else understood. But when I turned the lock this time, I didn't do it out of habit. This time it felt intentional.

It was the same with the silence. It’s always there, even if I never really notice. But tonight, I do notice. It doesn’t last long, but it makes me realize something:

She’s never gonna change.

And for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to leave and never come back.

⏣⏣⏣

The next few weeks run together. I’m either sleeping too little or too much. There’s a new kind of tension between us now. The kind I was taught to address early. The kind that should feel more like a bump in the road. Sudden. Rough. Short-lived. The “pothole” that doesn't get repaired right away. The one you learn to avoid as though it no longer exists. Until you have a really bad day, your focus falters for a split second, and you have another run-in with it.

This tension isn’t a pothole.

It’s more like a dirt road. Unpredictable enough to keep your attention. Stressful, maybe. Persistent.

She doesn’t acknowledge it. She allows it. She doesn’t attempt to apologize either. She just wakes up late the next day, sunglasses on in the kitchen, sipping coffee hot enough to scald.

I keep my head down. I don’t bring it up. At school, I keep zoning out. The teachers talk, the other kids laugh. Life moves forward.

I don’t tell Kitt. I don’t tell anyone.

A week later, she’s back on the same cycle as before. Drinking, complaining, muttering about how she’s wasted her life. How she should have married someone rich. How she should have been something more. Like she wasn’t the one who chose this. Like it wasn’t her own doing. She stays in bed longer, avoiding mirrors, pouring vodka into coffee mugs before noon.

⏣⏣⏣

I wake up for school before my alarm goes off. I don't want to get up, but decided an early start couldn't hurt. I head for the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. Mom is up unusually early. A whole bottle of Vodka next to the coffee machine. She doesn't notice me. She's just standing next to the sink, staring into her mug. She looks ill.

“Morning, Ma,” I say, keeping my eyes to myself. I'd expected her usual attempt to stash her “secret bottle” before I noticed, but she didn't.

Instead, her eyes were searching mine. She held my gaze, put a hand on my shoulder, and guided our focus to the vodka.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't have to. She's alive in a way that feels like a version of how she used to be before she started drinking. She takes her mug, shrugs a “whatever", then splashes it down the drain. I feel my eyes go wide with surprise. She laughs, swiping the bottle from the counter and dropping it straight into the garbage can.

I'm speechless.

“You know, Maverick," she begins, her voice relaxed, but charmed with a familiar brilliance. "I’ve been thinking a lot about... about everything.” Her eyes twinkle, but she stands strong, “I’ve never told you what you needed to hear. What we both needed to hear."

She hands me a nutcracker, gesturing for us to sit together at the kitchen nook. We do.

“What is it, Ma?” I say softly.

She grabs a walnut from the table caddy and cracks it open, clean, on her first try. Her face lights up with pride. I smile back. There can be no mistaking it: mom was back, or so it seemed.

She handed over the walnut she'd cracked, like a peace offering or a symbol of reverence.

"I know I’ve hurt you. More times than I can count.” Her breath comes heavier. “And I want you to know how terribly sorry I am.”

She reaches out, palms up, and takes my hands.

“Ma, it’s o—”

She cuts me off, “—No, it isn't. Okay? I've been awful to you. You don't deserve that from your mother. I'm supposed to set a good example. I don't deserve your forgiveness.”

I don't know what to say.

“I’m getting sober.” She declared. “One day at a time.”

Her eyes don't falter.

“That's great news, Ma,” she squeezes my hands.

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” She holds up a little Silver Chip, “I’ve spent years running from the messes I’ve caused, Maverick.” She stands up, “I can't fix it. I can't undo the damage I've caused, but damn it, I’m trying.”

I nodded my head. I wasn’t looking at her with pity anymore, because somehow, I believed her every word.

That night, after school, mom was back in the kitchen, stirring pots that didn’t need stirring, setting the table like we were going to have company. Maybe it was to keep herself occupied. Maybe she wanted to prove to herself that she was still functional. Still capable.

She smiled when I walked in. "Dinner in a few, Maverick. You’re gonna like it. I’m on a roll." Her eyes jump to the counter, then the fridge, then back to stirring.

I didn’t say much. I just watched her. Keeping her sobriety meant a good deal of change was headed our way. Not just for her, but for the both of us.

I couldn’t pretend it didn’t feel good seeing her like this, but neither was I confident that she could honor her own commitment. I’d seen her lose so many times before, fighting this same battle.

The least I could do is be supportive. Encouraging. To have hope.

"That’s great, Ma," I said quietly, sitting down at the table.

The silence revealed the truth: we hadn’t spoken like this in a long time. Especially without some kind of diversion or distraction. I was so used to the drinks, to having our walls up around each other, but right now, it was just us. I didn’t know how to talk to her, what to say. I feared I'd accidentally trigger her, and be blamed for her relapse.

She set a plate in front of me.

I look up, "I’m proud of you. Mom," I said. It wasn’t a lie. I had no reason to lie.

She glides to the stove, as if walking on air, to retrieve her plate.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She announced eagerly, “I made something special!”

She opens the fridge, insisting I cover my eyes. I do. After a moment, she tells me to open them. I blink in the big reveal. She cheers.

“Suicide Caesar,” we say at the same time.

Mom's signature salad dressing. So special, in fact, that she refuses to share any more of the recipe other than that garlic is the main ingredient.

“It’s been too long,” she chirps, drizzling the dressing over a big bowl of Chicken Caesar Salad. Her manners are overly precise. “Oh, gosh, smells delicious, doesn't it?”

“Yes ma'am.” I say.

It did smell delicious, but that's not what was holding my attention. It was mom's sheer extravagance, it was unnatural. Her energy was undeniably powerful. I've never seen Mom happier than she is right now.

“Let's eat.” She suggested, and so we do. She asked me about school and talked about a new job she had her heart set on. Some position in logistics not too far from home.

“Want me to clean up?” I asked, already moving into action.

“No, no, sweetheart,” she immediately responded, “I'll do it. I want to do it.”

She rises, my plate already in her hand.

“You sure, ma? I don't mind helping out.”

She doesn't respond. She just turns to gather the dishes from the table.

I pause. Not knowing what else I could say. I know how Mom can be when it comes to her decisions. Once they're made, they're made. End of story. But I really did want to help.

“Yes ma'am,” I finally say, passing by her, towards the exit, “thanks for dinner. It was delicious.”

“It’s not been easy.” she says under her breath.

I stop.

“It never will be.” She continues, “But I’m doing it. And I want you to know, I’m not going anywhere this time.” She scrubs the dishes harder. Faster. “You and me. We’ve been through too much for me to walk away now. You understand me?”

It was then when I realized just how much I’d been waiting for her to say that. How much I’d been hoping for it, wishing for it.

I held it together. I had to. For us.

“I know, ma,” I said, “I know how bad you want this.” I pause again. “It’s just… you think it’s really gonna take this time, right?”

I saw guilt surge in her eyes, or maybe it was shame. She nodded her head, but didn't say anything else.

She didn’t need to.

⏣⏣⏣

It's been a week and mom hasn't given up. She's kept up with her Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. She even got a sponsor, and started attending therapy. There was certainly measurable progress. Well, at least on the surface there was.

She's been consistent in other ways too. Like how every day this week upon arriving home, as I'd step off the bus, there would be mom, standing in the open front doorway. A big smile with one arm waving high. It's clear that she's spent quality time mastering this particular wave.

She wouldn't be alone, though, no. Tucked neatly under her other arm, garnished in a Barbie-pink, bedazzled sweatshirt, was her golden Naomi. Her precious Apple-Head Chihuahua.

I was embarrassed at first, but something about her efforts and consistency made it okay. Enough so that for the rest of the week, I'd found myself looking forward to coming home and being welcomed by her royal greeting.

I think I could get used to this.

Then came the job. She’d just received news that she was hired. She was so excited, saying how she was capable of holding down a position like this. One she knew she could do without overexertion.

Her first week on the job was a bit shaky. I could see the dread in her eyes after the long hours, the way she dragged herself through the door at night, too tired to be genuine.

I guess I had gotten used to the nights without her. But even now with her here, it's almost like her presence is equated to her absence, because she was still gone in a lot of ways too.

The problem wasn’t her exhaustion. It was the fluctuations in her mood. And her arrogant boss with his perpetual smirk who started showing up unannounced. He'd been asking her to work later or to do things outside her role. Little things at first that kept becoming more demanding.

I sensed something was wrong, but any time I'd ask, she'd insist it was just the result of adjusting to a new schedule. When she would tell it, her shoulders stayed tensed, like she was holding onto a secret. She'd smile and dismiss the conversation, but it never felt like an authentic conclusion because as the days passed, I'd hear her crying into her pillow. She'd try to hide it, of course. Denying them if I tried to ask, telling me I was just worrying over nothing.

But I wasn’t stupid.

I could see the continued downward spiral inside her even before she'd speak. She'd walk in with her eyes glossed over, and a reluctance to her movements. She wouldnt look at me right away. She’d go to the fridge, guzzle a bottle of water, then sink into the dining chair, not saying a word.

Tonight I decided to press her for more. I couldn't stand seeing her this way.

"Hey, Ma?" I asked cautiously, “What’s going on?”

She didn’t answer for a while, but I didn't budge.

She finally looked up at me, “Maverick… he’s been coming on to me. My boss.” She let’s out a whimper. Drinks more water. “Every night this week, he’s been pushing me, telling me how I’ve ‘earned it,’ like I owe him something for giving me this job.” She rests her face in her hands.

I felt a fire ignite inside me, “What are you talking about?” I demanded.

She sighs, “It's nothing,” she retorted, “It’s not a big deal, really. I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to lose this job, but I can’t—” she stops, trying to find the words, but nothing more comes out.

“He can't do that! That's not right!” I exclaim, “we need to report him, Ma.”

“No,” Mom says, rising from her chair, “forget what I said.” She sounded clear, but I heard fear in her tone.

Before I can say more, she shuts herself in her room. I tapped on her door a moment later, speaking through it, “I love you. Mom.”

She didn't respond.

⏣⏣⏣

The following day, Mom comes home from work early. She bursts through the door bawling her eyes out, “It happened!” She shouted, like a wounded animal, “He forced himself onto me. I tried telling him no, but he wouldn't listen. He didn’t care.” she was restlessly trying to catch her breath.

I put my arms around her, and she fell into me. Weeping on my shoulder.

"It’s okay ma,” I comforted, patting my hand on her back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She looks up and into my eyes. Her cheeks ran black with mascara. Her eyes held the same pain I'd seen in her when she was lost in her addiction.

“I’m done,” she whispered, “I quit.”

The smell of alcohol smacks me in the face.

I feel helpless. All I want is to help, but I can’t get through. She doesn't let me in.

“Let's go out, let's go do something together,” Mom says, sounding unsure at first, “you and me. Let's get outta here.”

I raise my eyebrows and look away. My mind immediately remembering our movie night. I don't say it, but it's like she can read my mind.

“No drinks this time." She assures me, “I promise.” she smiles, then begs “Please.”

I give it some thought. “Okay,” I finally say, “fine! But no drinking.”

Mom shouts with excitement.

I hop in the car, “Hey, Ma, where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise!” She giggles.

And we’re off.

⏣⏣⏣

When we get home, we notice a light on in the back yard. We both look at eachother, confused. Neither of us left it on. I tell mom I'll go turn it off and hop out of the car. She parks in the garage, leaving the garage door open.

As soon as I turn the corner to the back of the house, I stop dead in my tracks. The glass panes on the backdoor have been smashed through. Blood ran bright red down the white of the doorframe.

“Mom!” I shouted, unable to pick up my feet, “Mom, don't go inside! Come back here! Quick!”

“What is it, honey?” She asks, already halfway to me. I stood in horror as she turned the corner.

Our house had clearly been broken into. But the true nightmare had not yet been revealed. We didn't know it yet, but this was far more tragic than just a simple break in. It was a personal violation that crossed several lines.

Mom doesn’t say anything, she just storms past me, straight through the busted door, flicking on the light inside. I try to stop her, but she's unstoppable. She reaches for the phone and leans on the counter, head in hands. I’ve never seen her lean like that.

I follow in behind her.

“Mom, call the police.” I say.

She glares at me, phone still in her hand. “Yeah, you think?” She begins, dialing 9-1-1.

I take a quick glance down the hallway. All the doors are wide open, but hers is shut, like it’s holding something back.

5 minutes later, the police arrive. Their routines and questions followed. Notepad, neutral faces, radio chatter.

I watch one of them eyeing the blood on the doorframe. He looks at it like it's just another stain to catalog.

We don’t know what’s been taken yet. We keep expecting chaos, furniture flipped, valuables gone, but when the officers give us a safety clear, we see the electronics are untouched. TV’s there, accessories still plugged in. The stereo, even the jewelry in the guest bathroom is still there.

“Check the bedrooms,” one of the officers says.

We head down the hall, following the trail of blood leading into mom's room. She reaches for the knob without looking at me, opens it and steps inside.

I try to follow, but she cries out, “oh my god!” Then slams her door shut, “don't come in here!”

I turn and head for my room. It’s a mess. Drawers pulled out and emptied in piles, the mattress half way off the bed, some decor tossed around.

Then I notice my laptop’s gone. But that’s it. No other damage. Nothing else missing. Not even the cash I kept under my desk. Just the laptop. Just enough to say they took something.

I hear mom's voice again, loud, from the hallway. I run out to find her standing outside her door, her hand still on the knob.

“What is it, ma?” I beg.

She slouched her shoulders, dragging her feet as she walked away, “You don’t need to go in there,” she says so quietly, I don't process it right away.

But I do. I go in, and I wish I hadn’t.

A wave of chemicals hit me in the face. Cleaners, bleach, whatever else they used to stain and soak every inch of her space. Her comforter’s drenched with detergent, her pillows reek of vinegar and piss. The carpet is covered in blackened holes from cigarettes. Her makeup is smeared across the walls in wide, dramatic swipes, like finger paint. Lipstick, eyeliner, foundation, whole palettes wasted.

I’m in utter disbelief.

None of her undergarments are in her dresser. None in the laundry basket. They'd all been taken.

Her closet is ramsacked. Hangers sticking out in all directions. Her shoes are soaked and discolored, pooled with bleach. The clothes that do still hang are dripping in bleach. Not a single item spared.

I close the door and stand in the hallway, not sure where to let my eyes land.

Naomi hasn’t barked once. She doesn't seem alerted in the least bit. Whoever it was, Naomi wasn't afraid of. Whoever it was clearly had spent a good deal of time here. They weren’t here to steal. They came to traumatize. To humiliate. To plunder in ways far worse than theft.

And it worked.

I here Mom's voice. She tells the officers a name. Quietly. Embarrassed. And I know, just from the way she says it, that she’s not surprised. Hurt, yes. But not surprised.

It was her boss's name.

They ask her more questions. She answers them robotically. Distant.

Mom lights a cigarette, the last one from the pack they left behind. There’s no rage in her face, just an empty, tired blankness, like she’s trying to figure out if this is her reality. Like she’s trying not to cry because she knows it wouldn’t help.

After the officers leave. I sit with mom on the bench outside, “I knew he was mad,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “But this?”

And I don’t ask. Because she doesn’t need me to.

⏣⏣⏣

It’s a Saturday. We’re both home. Mom’s drinking again, but this time she doesn’t try to hide it. No water bottles or coffee mugs to mask the secret.

She pours a glass, adds some ice, and something brown. She calls it “celebratory.” Then she's cranking up music that she competes to sing louder than.

Then come the stories. She retells them almost as loud as her singing. And of course, the exaggerated laughter, sometimes at nothing at all.

It’s not been bad. She hasn't been bad. Not like before.

She takes my hand and dances with me for a minute in the kitchen, swinging around, bumping into walls, spilling her drink without a worry in the world.

Other than the drink, It’s like I’m eight again. That is, before her buzz turns into dizziness and she waves me away, falling into the love-seat.

By early evening, her bottle’s nearly empty. She holds it up to the light, shaking it around, like she's double-checking if its contents are truly so nearly gone. Then she throws the rest back without any chaser.

“I'll be right back.” She announces, struggling to stand up straight, “I’m going to get more,” she grabs her purse, opens it in search of her keys.

“What Ma? No, don’t,” I tell her. Sounding more like a question than a statement. “Just stay.”

She stares at me, blinking. Her eyes lag as she tries to refocus.

“I said,” she repeats, standing up straighter, “I’m going.”

I stand up and grab her keys off the coffee table. “Not like this, you're not.” I croak, my voice sounding hoarse.

“You watch it, boy,” she begins, “give me my keys. Now.”

I don't. I just stand in front of the door to the garage and grip her keys as tight as I can.

She pulls back, her face going red with fury. Then she rakes her fingernails down my arm and digs them into my hand.

“Let go, damn it!” She screams. Her fingernails a new shade of red.

Something flies from her hand and slams into the wall right next to my head. She swings a punch directly into my chest, then another. The next one goes straight into my jaw. Her rings slice into my skin and tears back out with a tug. Then her elbow stikes my collarbone.

I don’t react. I just let it happen.

She screams again, “I hate you!” then disappears into her room, slamming the door shut.

I take a second to catch my breath, grab a napkin to stop the bleeding, and pick up the phone.

I call Kitt.

“You busy?” I ask, panting.

“No. Why? What’s up?”

“It's mom.” I explain, “Look, I just really need you here,” I say like a plea, “Now. Please.”

He shows up fifteen minutes later. I meet him at the door and pull him inside.

“She’s, she's…. I don’t know.” I turn over my arm and point to my jaw, “She hit me. Scratched me up real bad. I'm sorry, can you stay with her? Please?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just shakes his head.

“You sure?” I ask, feeling guilty for wanting to leave.

“I got her,” he says.

I walk out, across the yard to our neighbor’s house. I don’t explain, I just asked if I could come in for a bit. He says yes, and offers me something to eat.

“No, thank you.” I say softly.

“What happened here?” he points to my arm, “and here?”

I look away, and try to cover the worst parts.

He sighs, “Let me get you something to clean this up,” he says, already down the hallway.

Before he returns, I pass out on his couch.

When I wake up, it’s almost midnight. I sit up fast, breathing like I'm winded. The room’s dark except for the TV playing on mute. My neighbor glances over from his chair across the room.

“Oh, hey there. You alright?” he asks.

“Uhh, thanks for letting me crash. I have to go.”

He tries to say more, but I’m already out the door walking through the yard. Mom’s car turns in right before me, pulling into the garage. Lights off.

I duck toward the side of the house and wait, listening. But I hear nothing. No voices. No sign of anyone but her.

I slip inside, keeping the lights off, and head straight to my room, locking the door. I jump into bed still wearing the same clothes I left in. I lie there, unsure if she saw me come in or not.

I hear her come in, then a few minutes later, a soft knock on my door.

“Where’s Naomi?” she asks, sounding muffled.

“I have her.” I answer quietly.

She pauses, then walks away.

⏣⏣⏣

I wake up late the next day. The clock says noon. I get up quickly but quietly. Mom’s not up yet. Her car's in the garage.

I don’t waste any time getting starting on my chores. I keep waiting for her door to creak open, to hear her ask about coffee or complain about the noise I'm making.

But she doesn’t. Hours pass.

I bang the dishes a little louder, vacuum the hallway outside her room more than needed.

Still, nothing.

After a while, I decide to knock on her door.

She doesn't answer.

I call Kitt.

“She was rough,” he says right away. “Told me she’d walk if I didn’t give her the keys. So I walked with her.”

I step outside.

“She was awful, man. Mean. Loud. Had everyone staring. I figured she’d worn herself out, cuz by the time we got back, she was out.”

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“No. When we got back, she slammed her door. I waited a bit. Figured she’d fallen asleep. So, I left around ten, ten-thirty.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

I skip telling him the part where she ended up driving herself somewhere after all. She made it back in one piece. No point in saying anything, so we hang up.

I knock again. A little louder this time.

“Ma,” I call out.

Nothing.

I try the knob. It’s locked.

I wait a few more hours until the sun sets. The sky turns a soft orange. I stand by the window watching the sun set, until the sky bruises into blue, then blackens with the moon.

I go next door. My neighbor answers before I knock.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to just bail.”

He waves it off and gestures me in.

We sit on his patio. He hands me a cigarette. I don’t really smoke, but I take it.

“She hit me,” I say. “Scratched me. Threw stuff. I didn’t do anything back. I just stood there.”

He listens.

“That was the first time I stopped her from drinking. First time I took her keys.”

We sit a while longer. When the cigarette burns down, I stand.

“Thanks again,” I say.

He just smiles and waves a goodbye. I walk back home and check the house for anything out of place, but all I find is silence.

Her door is still locked.

I need to get to bed soon. I’ve got school tomorrow.

I call Kitt again.

“She still hasn’t come out,” I say. “All day.”

He sounds tired. “I’m at work ‘til midnight. But I’ll swing by afterwards to check on her.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “Thanks. For real.”

I leave the key under the mat and fall asleep before he gets there.

Sometime past one-thirty, maybe two, I hear tapping on my window. I sit up. It’s Kitt.

I slip out of bed and let him in. He doesn’t say much, just that he couldn't find the key. He walks straight to her door. He brought a skeleton key.

I lie back down, but I hear him struggling with the lock. Metal scraping. The knob rattling. I get up and step into the hallway. He doesn’t see me behind him.

Just before I speak, the lock gives way. The door swings open.

I catch a glimpse of her before Kitt rises and blocks my view. Her body is motionless beneath the nightlight. A pile of what her body rejected next to her face.

Kitt spins around. Fast. His whole body crashes into mine. He turns me around, pushing me back.

“Go to your room,” he says, nearly choking. “Now. Go.”

I don’t speak. I just listen and do as I’m told. I don’t argue either. I don’t ask what happened. I don’t want to hear it.

I walk away, my legs moving while my mind blanks. Emotions overload, then nothing. Like the system inside me shorted out from trying to feel too much at once.

I sit back down in my room, in the dark. I can’t bring myself to check the time.

What difference would it make?

She’s gone.

Time's up!

Except, it’s not…

I’m still here, trying to piece together what this is supposed to mean.

She told me she wasn't going anywhere this time, that it was me and her. She said we'd been through “too much” together and I’d taken her word for it.

I trusted her.

But even more than that, I trusted that she actually believed it, too. I guess that's my fault, though, for being so susceptible to her words.

The way I see it is: it's not that we'd just been through “so much" together, we'd been through everything together.

Everything!

And now, even after all of it, how could she think this was okay? How could she expect me to do this, too?

Without her here.

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