Come on, Staten. He’s just trying to absolve his own guilt and avoid a costly lawsuit. It’s the least he could do, don’t you think? He shouldn’t get brownie points for playing hero. He wouldn’t evenbeplaying hero if it wasn’t for his fuckup in the first place.
Maybe he actually feels bad, though.
Or maybe he wants to keep you quiet.
Not everyone is out to get you.
Not everyone is a friend.
It’s been me and my mom since the very beginning. When she got pregnant with me after high school, my dad didn’t want to be in the picture, so she kicked him to the curb. She was determined to raise me all by herself, even though she knew how hard being the sole provider would be. My mom never had the opportunity to go to college, and finding well-paid jobs without a degree was implausible. I don’t blame her for not going; she had a newborn to take care of. But I’d be lying if I said we haven’t been wading in poverty ever since.
I don’t…trust…easily. I’ve learned to only rely on myself to get things done. My mom is juggling two jobs right now. She doesn’t need to worry about me, and I don’t want to give her a reason to. I feel responsible for bearing some of that weight—to make both of our lives easier by handling my grades and my tutoring job. Getting bulldozed by an egregious Lamborghini wasn’t on the itinerary, and now the very delicate balance of things is irreversibly off-kilter. Like, continental shift off-kilter.
Oh, this ass munch is so lucky I’m bedridden. Otherwise, I’d put him in hisowngoddamn hospital bed.
“I’m not some charity case.”
Nobody knows I’m a scholarship kid, and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t belong at Minnesota University. I don’t have the newest iPhone or Prada’s Spring line or anything that screams extravagant. I’ve been insecure about my financial assets—or lack thereof—for as long as I can remember. Never being able to pitch in for classroom parties, or afford tickets to go to the movies with friends, or invite strangers over to my quaint little home in fear of judgement.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re treating me like one.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing.”
My homicidal tendencies are on a rampage today, a bottomless chasm of irritation yawning inside of my belly, housing a leviathan that’s as equally beautiful as it is venomous. A warning to those who tread dangerous waters.
Bloodthirsty, I lance my words at him like a well-thrown javelin. “Maybe you’re used to girls kissing your feet for your oh-so-generous humanitarian acts, but I’m not one of those girls. And I’d suggest that you get as far away from me as possible before I call security.”
I’m expecting more resistance on his end, but surprise buffs down my sharp edges when he acquiesces with a hang of his head, finally using that one brain cell of his to read the hospital room.
This time, his voice splinters, buckling from the weight of ever-growing guilt. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”
There’s a finality to his words that shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. He slips out the door a moment later with the speed of a flight risk, leaving how we first met: a namelessspecter in a graveyard of unfriendly faces. I’m left with a half-agape mouth and inexplicable regret following his soundless departure.
I hope I never see him again. I just want to rewind this entire day.
With a prolonged groan, I contemplate suffocating myself with my pillow to silence the unwarranted voice inside of my head. I’m overstimulated, I’m hungry, and someone is playing with my heartstrings like they’re puppeteering a marionette.
I don’t even have a moment to myself before my mother rushes into the room, her purse swinging wildly from the rent in her arm, fear affixed to her paling features. Her concern is tangible in the space between us.
“Oh my God, Staten. I came as soon as I heard. Oh, Buttercup. Are you okay? Where does it hurt? What do you need me to do?” she cries, practically teleporting to my bedside and brushing my bangs out of my face like she did when I was a fever-afflicted five-year-old in our tiny one-bedroom apartment.
I don’t like to worry her. She has so much on her plate already. I would’ve tried to sweep this whole thing under the rug if it wasn’t for my doctor insisting on calling my emergency contact.
She pulls me into a mama bear embrace, making sure not to squeeze me too hard. “I knew those bike circles on campus were too dangerous. There are literally no traffic regulations. I should’ve made you take my car. I would’ve taken the bus in a heartbeat.”
I try to mollify her with a pat on the back. “It’s okay, Mom. You know the bus schedule doesn’t coincide with your work hours. You would’ve been late.”
My mom works two jobs: she’s a front desk clerk at the Eternal Springs Resort, and she runs her own cleaningcompany—Marjorie’s Mess-Free Maid Services. Between my school and her busy schedule, I barely see her.
I don’t have the money to afford campus housing right now, so I live at home with her. We used to have family dinners together before she decided to pick up night shifts to help pay for our rent. My scholarship to Minnesota University is dependent on my tutoring job.
When she relinquishes me, moisture varnishes my mother’s eyes, tears waiting to anoint the ridges of her cheekbones. “Nothing is more important than you. You get that, right? You’re all I have.”
I didn’t expect to hitch a ride on the crying caboose, but my sinuses begin to burn something mean. “I just…I never want to be a burden,” I whisper shakily, my breaths punching in my diaphragm and giving me an unimpeded hiccup.
“Hey, don’t say that. You could never be a burden.Ever.”
