Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
But it doesn’t matter. Because Mom finally saved me.
I wrap my arms tighter around her, burrowing my nose in her chest as she crushes me closer.
Mom smells of wine and her delicate Jasmine perfume. She smells of safety and love.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m okay, Ma. Stop crying, please?”
That only makes her cry harder, her sobs echoing in the air.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but eventually, she carries me out of my room, locks it with a key, and takes me to her room.
But she doesn’t stop crying as she takes me to the shower and washes me or as she tucks me in bed and kisses my forehead.
She wipes her eyes, but a new wave of tears appears and she breaks down again.
I wipe her eyes. “Pleure pas, Ma. Je t’aime (Don’t cry, Mom. I love you).”
“Je t’aime plus fort, mon petit trésor (I love you more, my little treasure). Mom knows the problem now. Go to sleep. Mommy will take care of it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Can you sing me a lullaby?”
“‘Fais dodo’?”
I nod excitedly. “Yes!”
She hugs me close to her quaking chest, her fingers stroking my damp hair. Her voice fills the room and my ears like my favorite memories. “Fais dodo, mon petit trésor (Sleep now, my little treasure)…”
That was the last time I saw my mother.
Alive, at least.
The following day, I woke up to find Dad by my bedside.
He also hugged me while wearing that guilty expression. Similar to the one Mom had.
I didn’t like it.
Mom and Dad never hugged me that much. Especially Dad.
Then I realized he did that because Mom died in an accident.
It wasn’t an accident—she killed herself by swallowing a bottle of pills.
The note I later found only read, “I’m sorry, Preston. Really sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me one day.”
Dad didn’t give me that note, Grandma did, years later when I started acting out—because she hates me for being a failure.
As she handed me that note, she said, “You already killed your mother. Don’t even think about ruining your father’s life as well.”
Dad still thinks I believe Mom died of alcohol poisoning, which is the story he promoted. He probably doesn’t want me to blame myself for her death.
Or maybe he cares about the family’s image.
Doesn’t matter, though. Because whether it was alcohol poisoning or suicide, I knew I was the reason.
She said she’d take care of it, and her method to do so was taking herself out.
Because she couldn’t help me.
No one can.
Not Mom, not Dad.
Not the doctors.
Not the pills.
Well, the pills can make me drown.
For a while.
My grip loosens from around the bottle of alcohol and it falls by the passenger seat, spilling on the floor.
I know I should reach for it, but my body’s floating, outside, like those free stars on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
Floating and floating and…
Gone.
Like my mom.
Maybe I should go talk to her.
Hey, Mom. Why did you leave me?
You said Dad left me but that you’d never do the same, so why…?
Am I that disgusting?
Am I that…unsightly?
If I drive down this cliff, maybe I’ll find her at the bottom, then maybe she’ll tell me why she was that terrified when she saw me.
If I could go back, I’d lock the door so she wouldn’t see and decide to leave me.
I would be quiet—I’d be so quiet—even if it hurt. Even if I couldn’t breathe.
I would…save her from seeing me like that.
My phone lights up, and I grab it with lethargic movements and a shaky hand.
Jude?
Maybe he needs to come find me or I’ll really drive this car over the cliff.
Instead of Jude, I see another name flashing on the screen. The one I so theatrically named The Fucker Who Blocked Me.
I should decline, but I swipe to accept, putting the phone on speaker because I can’t be bothered to lift it to my ear.
“You bought me a bike instead of talking to me?” he asks as soon as I pick up.
“Hmm.”
“Would it kill you to actually have a conversation instead of throwing money at me?”
“That’s all I have. Money.”
“You sound like my father.”
“Hello, daddy issues. Let’s start a support group.”
He pauses, and I think he’ll hang up and block me again. That’s what he’s been doing over the past two weeks.
Just getting on my fucking nerves.
He made me get used to the fuckery he started, then pulled the rug from beneath my feet.
I know I shouldn’t care. I’m the one who always pushed him away. I should be celebrating that he finally left me alone.
But over the past two weeks, I’ve been feeling so hollow, not even Lenin’s beating sessions have been able to fill the emptiness.
All because this prick erased me as if I never existed.
It fucked me up in ways I don’t fully understand. Yes, I know it’s my pathological attachment issues, but I shouldn’t have them for Marcus.