She imagined the things she would tell her. How she couldn't believe that she had forgotten her, how she had never called her, not once. How much she had missed her and still waited for her calls, knowing they'd never come.
Never did she imagine she'd find her mother, covered in her own vomit, lying on the couch, pale as a corpse. A literal corpse. She shook her mother, praying to a God that she didn't believe in that it was all some sort of sick joke. But it wasn't. No one had noticed that her mother was missing. Not the neighbors who never saw her anyways, not all of her boyfriends and ex-husbands.
There was no proper funeral. It was just her, watching her mother get buried. She hadn't even bothered to wear black. It wasn't worth getting ready for. After that, she walked away and tried to never think of her mother again.
From there on, he understood her pain better than even his own. He listened with empathy and told her about all he could remember before becoming a ward of the state. He was only four-years-old when he last saw his parents. He'd grown up in a loving home until then. One night, when he was just about to fall asleep, he heard yelling from downstairs. His parents fought sometimes, but it never sounded like this. Then he heard a sharp, loud noise. He froze in fear, hearing footsteps going up the stairs. The door to his room opened, and he saw his dad.
“Hey son,” he spoke, almost to a murmur. He had a shiny black object in his hand that couldn't be made out in the dark.
The last thing he remembered was two more of the sharp, loud noises, before he woke up in the hospital. He was a miracle, they said. If the bullet had gone one more inch to the right, a vital artery would have bled out. His dad had killed himself only a few seconds after trying to kill his son.
But no one wanted to take care of an unlucky child. What if he attracted murder and misfortune? So the state threw him from house to house, hoping someone would love him enough to keep him.
After their first date, they became inseparable. He would call her every morning to make sure she took her antipsychotics, and she would visit him at work. For three months, they were nothing but passionate and in love. But on Christmas Eve, things began to change. She stopped taking her pills, lying in the mornings when he'd call.
“You're cheating,” she accused him in a low voice.
“I don't even talk to anyone but you,” he told her, exasperated. “How could you ever think that?"
“I know you are.”
“What's wrong with you? Are you fucking craz -” he stopped short, knowing that he'd made a mistake.
“Yeah, I fucking am. I'm a basket case. Haven't you heard? I'm a psycho,” she spoke, her voice steadily rising.
He pleaded, “Don't do this. Please. Not now. I messed up, I'm sorry,” but her voice rose, and she began to scream.
Afraid, he tried to hold her, but the louder she yelled, the stronger she became. She struggled out of his grip and tried to throw a lamp at him, missing and shattering it against the wall instead. Getting his cell phone out, he locked himself in his bedroom and called the police.
Never did she imagine she'd find her mother, covered in her own vomit, lying on the couch, pale as a corpse. A literal corpse. She shook her mother, praying to a God that she didn't believe in that it was all some sort of sick joke. But it wasn't. No one had noticed that her mother was missing. Not the neighbors who never saw her anyways, not all of her boyfriends and ex-husbands.
There was no proper funeral. It was just her, watching her mother get buried. She hadn't even bothered to wear black. It wasn't worth getting ready for. After that, she walked away and tried to never think of her mother again.
From there on, he understood her pain better than even his own. He listened with empathy and told her about all he could remember before becoming a ward of the state. He was only four-years-old when he last saw his parents. He'd grown up in a loving home until then. One night, when he was just about to fall asleep, he heard yelling from downstairs. His parents fought sometimes, but it never sounded like this. Then he heard a sharp, loud noise. He froze in fear, hearing footsteps going up the stairs. The door to his room opened, and he saw his dad.
“Hey son,” he spoke, almost to a murmur. He had a shiny black object in his hand that couldn't be made out in the dark.
The last thing he remembered was two more of the sharp, loud noises, before he woke up in the hospital. He was a miracle, they said. If the bullet had gone one more inch to the right, a vital artery would have bled out. His dad had killed himself only a few seconds after trying to kill his son.
But no one wanted to take care of an unlucky child. What if he attracted murder and misfortune? So the state threw him from house to house, hoping someone would love him enough to keep him.
After their first date, they became inseparable. He would call her every morning to make sure she took her antipsychotics, and she would visit him at work. For three months, they were nothing but passionate and in love. But on Christmas Eve, things began to change. She stopped taking her pills, lying in the mornings when he'd call.
“You're cheating,” she accused him in a low voice.
“I don't even talk to anyone but you,” he told her, exasperated. “How could you ever think that?"
“I know you are.”
“What's wrong with you? Are you fucking craz -” he stopped short, knowing that he'd made a mistake.
“Yeah, I fucking am. I'm a basket case. Haven't you heard? I'm a psycho,” she spoke, her voice steadily rising.
He pleaded, “Don't do this. Please. Not now. I messed up, I'm sorry,” but her voice rose, and she began to scream.
Afraid, he tried to hold her, but the louder she yelled, the stronger she became. She struggled out of his grip and tried to throw a lamp at him, missing and shattering it against the wall instead. Getting his cell phone out, he locked himself in his bedroom and called the police.
