I know I should have tossed it out after he tossedmeout, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And now, as if fate itself has intervened, it is shattered and in pieces.
Maybe now I can throw it into the garbage.
Maybe now I can move on.
Yes. Once I get rid of this glass and ceramic, and all the memories that constantly plague me in the shape of his beautiful body, I will move on.
Finally.
Cameron
13
FAST FOOD WRAPPERS ANDempty beer cans lie discarded all around the living room; somewhere in the corner, a half-eaten burger is smashed into the carpet.
Mom had another one of her parties last night—one I barely slept through, waking every hour—and now it’s up to me to clean. If I don’t, the food will mold, and the wallpaper will eventually reek of booze and cigarette smoke.
I can hear her in the shower now, loudly singing some old country song as she lazily goes through her morning routine. All the while, I’m out here, picking uphermess.
But in the end, silently cleaning up after her is far better than her slapping me into submission, where I’d be doing it anyway.
This has become a decision that isveryeasy for me to make.
As I throw more empty cans into the trash bag I’m lugging around, the door to the bathroom opens, and Mom walks out wrapped in a towel with her hair loose and dripping over her shoulders.
“Cameron,” she calls, entering the living room.
“Morning, Mom. I’m just cleaning up.”
It seems that ducking my head, taking care of anything she might consider an inconvenience, and giving her cash as frequently as I can is the safest route to go. In fact, she hasn’t hit me in days.
“Good,” she says, picking up a discarded shirt and sniffing it, only to scrunch her nose in distaste. “How much cash do you have on you?”
So, I’ve created a system.
Each paycheck, I take out about two hundred dollars in twenties from the bank and stash them in my room. It’s enough that every time she asks for a handout, I can give her a bill or two and carry on without a fuss.
It truthfully only leaves me with just enough money to pay bills and buy groceries—sometimes a shirt or two—but at least she’s appeased.
“I have forty bucks in my room. Want me to grab it?” I ask.
Mom makes a hum of affirmation, eyeing me impatiently. I drop the trash bag and rush to my bedroom, shutting the door as I rummage through my sock drawer for the spare bills.
By the time I return to her, placing the twenties in her outstretched palm, she’s dressed.
“This is good enough for now,” she says haughtily, shoving the cash into her back pocket. “I’m off. Finish cleaning, will you?”
And with that, she slams the front door shut behind herself.
I’m alone. I’m safe.
But this morning was an easy morning. No drunk anger, noJames, no hiding. Just me lowering myself for her needs and slaving away, just as I always have.
Finishing the remainder of the cleaning, I pack my bologna sandwich and head to work, the roar of my Mustang burning hot and prideful in my gut.
I did this.Ifixed it.
If only I could fix everything else. My life, my relationship with my mother…. Atticus.
