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“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t forget her birthday, but I told you, I was working—”
“You could have left,” she decides on a slur from behind the closed curtains, “They all leave. But you always come back, don’t you, Phoenix? You can’t live out there on your own, you’re not strong enough, not-”
“I’m going to throw the laundry in the machine, Mom.” Not being able to listen to any more of her accusations, I flee the bathroom, back to the kitchen, where the tv’s playing one of her ridiculous shows. I touch my ear, only to remember I took out my buds and left them on my desk. Music is my solace, like drawing. Preferably together. Together alone, me in my room.
I busy myself tossing all the dirty clothes into the machine, then clean up Mom’s mess. Urine has a sour scent that corrupts the tiny space, but I decide against opening any windows. Just in case. Instead I mop the floor with chlorine, then check the fridge for food. I did grocery shopping yesterday —thank fuck—to make us a pasta bolognese. We usually have early dinners, because of my shitty working hours. I clean at a local school during the evening, and an office building a block from here early in the morning. Plus, the least I can do is have Mom eat something before she drinks herself back to hell.
But she does it anyway. And it’s killing me.
By the time the washing machine starts its reassuring rumble, the kitchen smells of onion and garlic. This place might be run-down, but it’s where we live. I wouldn’t call it home, not anymore, but it’s good enough for now. The apartment is small, but it used to be enough for us. Before, the old fridge used to be covered in our drawings, photos of the four of us, the calendar with all our activities plastered onto the side. Now the magnet carrying the image of London’s Tower Bridge doesn’t hold anything in place anymore, the relief of its surface now a little coarse. I’ve never been there, never been anywhere outside of the city, but Dad once found it on the streets and brought it back home. Before he lost his job and worked his frustrations out on me. With his fists. When home was stilla home.
As I hum under my breath, I shape the minced beef into small meatballs, then toss them into the heated pan. That’s when the intercom buzzes. My heart skips a beat, before it picks up in speed, faster and faster, until it practically tries to burn its way out of my chest. Turning over my shoulder, my eyes gaze at the corridor, toward the red front door. They linger there while my teeth find my bottom lip, sinking in as I run through my options.
They don’t know where you live.
“Phoenix!” Mom shouts from the bathroom.
The intercom buzzes again.
“I'll be right there!” But I stand frozen, unsure of what to do. The tiniest of breezes billows up the curtains of the kitchen window, making my head spin with a flinch. I feel surrounded by an invisible danger that is not there. It’snotthere. It’s all in my head.
I need my earbuds, need my pencils, but I stay put instead, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. In…
They don’t know where you live.
“Phoenix, clothes!”
“Coming.” I mutter. I rush toward her bedroom, that is a smother of cigarettes and dirty sheets. On the other side of the bed, where Dad used to sleep, lies a pile of undefined clothes. I stick my nose between the fabric, scrunch it instantly, then toss all of it into the hamper. That will be the next round of washing today. From Mom’s wardrobe, I retrieve some clothes, then hurry back to the bathroom.
The intercom doesn’t buzz again.
“You’re lazy and you’re weak,” Mom mumbles, her towel already around her weakened body. “Just like Adrien.” Her hair, once as curly and untamed as my own, is thinned out, and now thick, heavy grooves are carved into her forehead. Her brown eyes have that same, vacant stare as they usually have when she’s been out of drinks for too long.
“I made pasta,” I try, hating the pleading sound in my voice. “And I’ll clean up your room now, if you can wait in the kitchen?” She grabs her clothes out of my hands, and I spin around, not ready for another round of her accusations. I don’t needherto tell me how useless I am —I’m pretty solid at doing that myself.
Back in the kitchen, I take a careful peek outside, half expecting All Saint’s white van to be parked in front of the estate. Apart from the usual hustle and bustle, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Lazy and weak,” she mutters, as she trudges inside and settles at her seat at the kitchen table. She lights a cigarette, then points it toward the fridge. It’s all I need to know what she wants—her usual Old Milwaukee— and place it in front of her on the table. “Who was at the door?” She takes a drag from her cigarette.
“Uhm, no one.” I scratch my shoulder awkwardly, but she sees. She always sees. Her gaze is peering right through me as she opens the can. It makes a fizzing sound.
“Thank you for dinner, love.”
“I -'' Hate the way her praise brings a warm glow to my chest. Hate the way it disarms me with a single sentence, wrecking the fury I carry around me like an armor.
"I want you to be happy. You were so unhappy, baby. You understand that, right?"
"I do, Mom,” unsure of what she’s referring to. Instead I put the pan onto the table, then serve her a decent plate and leave it next to her drink. But before I can pull my hand away, she digs her claws into my flesh, keeping it attached to the plate. Our eyes meet, that identical toffee color, drenched in sorrow and poverty. In disappointment. Hers flick around my face, searching, not finding. I don’t know what it is she’s after, but when she clicks her tongue on a shake, I realize that I’ve been holding my breath, hoping that her inquisition would for once have brought something good. Would have brought that smile to her face that used to be so loving, so gentle.
It never does anymore.
“Lazy and weak,” she repeats on a slur, then spits out another cough as she lets go of my trembling hand. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am lazy and weak. Disappointment replaces hurt, making my eyes burn. Squeezing the spatula in my palm, I wonder why I don’t fight back. I wonder why I don’t tell her that I just signed a death warrant with two gangs in the city.I need you, Mom.
I should leave this filthy pigsty. I would never come back,never. I would never allow anyone to control me. To tell me what to do. Tohurtme.
Suddenly I need to grind my teeth to keep myself from crying. It doesn’t help. Thick, pathetic tears roll down my cheeks, and with an annoyed huff I wipe them away with the back of the sleeve of my hoodie.
