“Of course not. I think you scared them away the other day.”
“Good,” she says assertively, and I smile to myself.
Let’s just say our nosy neighbors got a front-row seat to Mom chasing away Andrew, the sperm donor of yours truly, and his buff goons with a sizzling-hot iron.
As entertaining as that scene was, she won’t get out of it unscathed a second time.
Dad might tolerate her threats once or twice, but he’s not a patient man.
“If they bother you at school or at your games, you’ll let me know, right?”
“Of course.”Not.
I love my mother, but her methods of starting a fight with my father don’t work.
If anything, he might finally decide that she’s more trouble than convenience and get rid of her.
A scenario that won’t happen on my watch.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say when I hear someone talking to her at the other end.
“Don’t party too hard.”
“Aye, captain.”
She laughs, but she reminds me to eat properly and to be safe before hanging up.
It’s the same mantra she’s recited for years.
Being a single mother is tough in general, but it’s particularly hard in our part of town. I’ve tried my best to stay out of trouble, but as I was growing up, people kept…testingme.
So I punched them, made them bleed and beg for mercy that would never come.
And Mom had to be called out to talk some sense into me. After the first few times, though, I started to learn how to indulge in my destructive habits without her finding out.
In alleys. In hidden nooks. Places only delinquents like me frequented.
Though, for me, it was never really about the anger issues most of those delinquents suffered from. I don’t have those, and I’m in full control of my emotions.
But I love the sound of crunching bones, the feel of flesh against flesh, the sight of blood.
The sensation of taking someone down and watching them flounder at my nonexistent mercy.
It’s power and control that I crave, not violence for violence’s sake.
Mom thinks the fighting, the hitting, and the urge to hurt were just a phase that straightened itself out once I picked up hockey.
Fine. Let’s say it did.
The last thing I want is to worry her or add weight to her shoulders. She’s given me everything since the day I was born, and I refuse to be an ungrateful piece of shit.
Not to her.
I took part-time jobs as soon as I was old enough, just so I could help cover the cost of my favorite purge method—hockey.
I wanted to quit in middle school after seeing how buying all the expensive gear was putting a toll on Mom’s finances, but she flat-out refused to let me do that.
“This is the first thing you’ve actually asked of me, and I’ll never allow you to quit because of stupid money. You do what you love and let your mom take care of it, okay?”
