𝐋𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐚..

"Mom, are you alright? Did you find out anything about Father and Nathan? Did he-did he reach out to you?" I asked, edging closer, my heart pounding like a war drum. But before I could process anything, she erupted.

Her hand met my cheek with a sharp crack that echoed like thunder, leaving a crimson imprint of her fury on my cheeks.

"This is all because of you," she spat, venom dripping from her words. "You are the root of this chaos. I wish you had never been born." Her voice roared through the house, a storm of rage potent enough to dismantle the very walls around us. I had never seen her like this-wild and unhinged, a tempest unleashed.

"Your father, that bastard, is dead. He took my son with him and left you here. You'll bear the brunt of every hardship my son is facing right now!" Her words were daggers, sharp and relentless. Her hands tightened around my throat, while she slapped my cheeks continually with both her hands with so much fury, relentlessly striking until the fire in her fury fizzles out, leaving me in the ash of my own fear. I started to feel dizzy.

I jerk awake from the depths of my nightmare, soaked in sweat and gasping as my heart thuds like trapped animal in my ribcage. The darkness in my soul clings to me, a heavy, suffocating shroud and my breathing is ragged, as if I had just run a marathon. I grapple with the remnants of a terror that visits too frequently. My mother's wrath haunts my nights and my days as well. She told me that day that Dad is dead, but how can she say it with such confidence? Does she know something I don't? She also mentioned that Nathan is suffering because of Dad, and curiosity is consuming me, yet I lack the courage to ask her. Maybe she just said it in a fit of anger. I brush the thought aside.

Taking a few deep breathes I finally stand up and peel off my t-shirt, that's drenched and clinging to my skin, and face the mirror. My gaze settles on the scar marring my left shoulder, a cruel love note from my mother-a smoking reminder as she crushed her cigarette against me in a blind rage, a burn that has long since fused with my skin, and with my memories.

Ignoring the tears that carve paths down my cheeks, I reach for my phone to check the time. 5:57 AM. My shift at the Café begins at 7:30 AM, granting me the fragile gift of a few quiet moments. I take one final moment to indulge in my sorrow, pulling on a dry t-shirt on and fishing a pack of cigarettes from my bag. I light one, inhaling deeply, letting the acrid smoke fill my lungs, each puff an escape, each exhale a quiet exorcism of grief. I let my tears spill freely, an offering to the universe steeped in my sorrow.

With the cigarette's last tendril of smoke curling away, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Instead of discarding the spent cigarette, I roll up my sleeve and grind the ember into my forearm, feeling the familiar bite of burn-a pain that has become an odd comfort. The heat pulses against my skin, a surge of clarity amidst the chaos I've grown so accustomed to.

I dispose of the remnants in the toilet, a small ritual to keep my mother's sharp gaze from discovering my secret. I don't want to give her any reason to judge me, and I've never shared this with anyone for fear of criticism. Even my best friends, Chloe and Lisa, don't know about my smoking habit. I know smoking isn't good for my health, and I've always been against it all my life until I started smoking, but I get an odd thrill from it. Ever since I started, no matter how hard I try, I just can't muster the courage to quit. Cigarettes have become my companions during my moments of solitude, and I also believe in the fact that smoking will ruin and destroy my lungs, not my character.

I shuffle out from my thoughts to brush my teeth. I step under the rhythm of the shower, washing away the night. The hot water scalds my fresh burnt skin, each droplet a cruel lover, but it is solace wrapped in suffering, coursing over my battered spirit.

Emerging from the steam, I raid my closet for the day's outfit-a maroon long-sleeve top as it is cold outside and a high-rise black skinny jeans paired with sneakers that allow me to run if needed. A low ponytail tames my hair, practical and simple, just like me.

Time flits by, and I check my phone again: 7:03 AM. I slip out of my room, each step a quiet negotiation with the creaking floorboards, inching towards my mother's door. I push it open carefully, and there she lies, sprawled on her bed like a forgotten doll, void of life and spirit. An empty vodka bottle rests beside her. If I don't find another in the kitchen, I'll need to pick some up on the way home.

With a heavy sigh, I shut her door gently and turn toward the kitchen. I sift through the refrigerators contents to find breakfast for my mother. Food! A small victory-the knowledge that she won't call me at work complaining about the barren shelves while I'm too busy at work. Since I'll have my breakfast at the café it will be luxurious for me alongside Mrs. Larson's pastries.

Shit! The pastries-Mrs. Larson! I completely forgot about them. She wanted my review! A frantic search unearths an empty pastry box in the trash, hinting at my mother's voracious appetite. Since she hasn't complained, I suppose her silence signals satisfaction.

Before slipping out, I check the alcohol stash. Only one bottle left. Of course, I'll need to grab a couple more on my way home.

I ensure the front door closes softly, inhaling deeply in the winter air and stealing one last glance at the bright blue sky, an ironic contrast to the storm brewing inside. I head on my way towards the café.

Here we go again. Another day waiting to be conquered.

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Published on 18th October 2024.