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She usually only slipped up and mentioned him when she was drunk or had too much Pino. She’d go on about how much I looked like him. How much I reminded her of him. And then, she’d saunter off into a dreamless sleep and forget all about it. Only difference, this time it was the hospital's drugs that have loosened her lips.
“I know,” I said instead, clasping my hand in hers.
“I know things are broken right now, but he's coming back. You have to believe that, sweetie.” She smiles at me, the action so full of blind hope that it takes everything in me not to recoil. I learned long ago that no one was coming for us. I knew that like I knew the sky was blue. Dad was not coming back.
We were alone. I was alone. My prince charming must be stuck in traffic at the freaking rate he’s coming to save me.
My smile didn’t quite reach my eyes as I looked into her drowsy eyes,
“I bought some new paint,” I changed the subject. Dad might have left us, but he sure as hell seemed content leaving his mess behind for us to clean up. And I was tired of thinking about the puddle he left us to drown in.
“Oh really?” Her eyes lit up. If there was one thing that connected me and my mother it was art. It always seemed to pull her out of whatever fog she's under. If only for a little while.
“Yup.” I nodded. At this rate, the piece would be done...oh never, but she didn't need to know that.
“You know he’s going to want it soon.” The words were barely a whisper, as if my mom was afraid to speak them. To speak of anything regarding him. The man that continued to make our lives a living hell.
It was one of the rounds in our twisted game. To gift him my art. My art was payment. For what I was paying for I didn't really know. He liked to be extra cryptic and said it was for the sins of the past. With him, I was kept in the dark so much it was a miracle I could still see anything at all. Giving him my art had become the only real way I ever saw a sliver of light anymore. The only chance I got to try and make sense of it all. To stay in the game.
To stay alive.
So, I painted. And I let him steal pieces of my gift away. After all, it was only temporary. It had to be temporary.
Thoughts of a crumpled-up flier tucked under my mattress flooded my head. The scholarship flashing across my mind like a golden ticket. Art school was my chance to escape and I’d be damned if I let anyone take that away from me.
“I know. It’ll be ready, don't worry,” I assured her, kissing the top of my mom's head. I smoothed back the strands, watching as her eyes close before she slowly drifted off to sleep. She was always like this, drifting in and out of consciousness like the tide. Sighing, I pulled my hand away and replaced the dead daisies next to her bed.
I’d be back next week to replace them after they die. After all, nothing lasts for long. Certainly not in this snow globe of a city. It was always being shaken.
Breaking.
I just didn't think it would break quite so soon.
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He was waiting for me when I got home.
My lock was busted open and I knew. I knew he was there.
Waiting patiently for me.
And yet still, I denied it. Blame the shivers on my shitty apartment's constant draft and prayed my art-stuffed mind was playing tricks on me. I told myself it was too soon and I needed more time.
Every word I told myself was a lie. I knew that. But that didn’t stop me from lying my ass off anyways, even in my own head.
Swallowing my fear, I took a tentative step inside. Immediately, dark hair filled my vision, and I cursed myself for the split second I think of another, much younger, devil smirk wearing boy.
Now is not the time to be thinking about him.
I mentally scolded myself before plastering on a fake smile as I turned the corner towards the living room.
Uncle John's suit-clad form filled up the space. His presence a dark cloud amidst my trashy apartment. His meaty limbs taking up all the space on my second-hand leather couch.
“Rosie, it's so nice of you to show up.” I suppressed a grimace. He was the only one who called me that. Said he had to because that's who I was to him as a child. A little girl whose cheeks were always flushed a rosy red.
My rosy little Rose. He’d say every time he saw me.
If you asked me, I found the whole “nickname” thing to be quite patronizing. But Uncle John wasn’t much of a listener when it came to others’ opinions.
