Page 37 of Whispers From The Dark

I have never and will never hate anyone as much as the woman who birthed me.

“No one asked you to have us. Neither of us asked to be born.”

Jack’s bedroom door creaks open, but I don’t want him to hear this. “Go back to your room, Jack. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” he says. He’s been crying.

“You won’t,” Mom says, and then she’s got her hand on my shoulder, nails digging in as she pushes me toward the door. Az stirs within me, wanting to break free and beat my mom’s ass. I’m almost inclined to let him. Instead, I let her lead me out the door. Jack doesn’t need to hear this. I’m about to grab her hand and yank her out with me, when Mom steps out on her own. She shuts the door before shoving me against it. Quick, with reflexes that shouldn’t belong to someone who drinks a case of beer a day, she slams her hand against the door, mere inches from my face. I can’t help it when I flinch.

Spittle flies from her mouth, words slurring with her anger, and I want to headbutt her as hard as I can.

“I’ve let you live under my roof for far too long. You’ve gotten too big for your britches, and it’s time for you to grow up. You could have been paying for things this whole time, contributing, but you’ve been weaseling⁠—”

“Contributing?” I scoff, and something snaps in me. “What the fuck do you mean I could have been contributing? How do you think the bills got paid, Mom? How do you think Jack gets to school? How do you think he even gets to eat half the time? You think that’s from your tiny ass paycheck? You think that pays for more than rent and your fucking addiction?”

“Do you want applause for doing the same thing countless other adults your age do?” She steps back, grabbing onto the bannister to steady herself.

“Tell me, Mom. What is your definition of contribution? Raising my little brother because you’re too much of a raging alcoholic to do it sure feels like it falls under the scope of the word.”

“You can’t blame me for what you chose to do,” she says, voice calm, eyes going out of focus a bit. They look almost blurry in the dark stairwell, but she blinks it away. “Always martyring yourself, Petra. You must have gotten this victim complex from your father, because you certainly didn’t get it from me.”

“You chose to be a mother! You chose it. Not me, not Jack. You!”

The tears pour out of me, this helpless frustration breaking the dam. I hate letting her see me cry. I hate feeling like this, hate that despite everything she’s done to us, that little girl inside of me still wants a mother who wants her. I never had an adult love me unconditionally, and I never will.

But Jack does. He has me.

I take a deep breath and wipe away my tears. I need to make this right so I can stay.

I need to let her win, or else my brother loses.

It’s like he knows I’m thinking of him because he comes to the door, opening it a crack. “Petra, stop. Leave Mom alone,” he says, desperate for this to end. For everything to go back to what he knows. But this is what he knows, isn’t it? Dysfunction and strife and nothing close to normalcy.

I turn, about to tell him it’s all fine, just to get him out of there, but I spot a strange, red spot under his eye.

I stop breathing.

I push the door open a crack and I see it. A perfect handprint on his little face. Four red fingertips reach diagonally across his cheekbone, pointing toward his ear. The skin beneath his eye is a little puffy, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s been crying or if the skin is swollen from the slap.

Her slap.

I shut the door.

“You evil, fucking bitch.”

Mom pauses for a moment, and then there’s a glimmer of that abusive cunt I’ve always known, who I’ve tried to save Jack from his entire life.

Who I’ve failed at saving Jack from.

She reaches up to slap me too, like she’s always done. Like I’ve let her do these past few years to protect Jack.

I refuse to allow it this time. I grab her by the wrist, stopping the motion.

But she wobbles on her feet. The hand she raised was the hand she’d been using to steady her. Mom is teetering at the top of the stairs, and I could end all of this. I could end her abuse, I could finally live a real life with Jack, unburdened by this monster who has done nothing but try to ruin my life.

Before I can let go, before I can decide if I want to carry the burden of murder, of matricide, of brutality, Asmodeus takes control of my body.

I see my hand open and fling her arm away.