If either of us are strong enough to break free, it’s her.She’s stronger than I will ever be and I envy her for it.At twenty-one, I’m ready to stop existing.Stop being a weight and a burden on the family who fought so damn hard to have me, only to deal with shit they never wanted in a child.But Mom, she inspires me to fight the tide.If she can handle forty years of bullshit, then I can handle a few more—if only.
Stalking over to her, my arm curls around her lower back as we attempt one of those awkward side hugs—we’re trying.Boldly, I give her belly a playful pat, not sure what to do.Therefore, I make social interactions unbearable.
“Getting fat, Mom.”
“I’m not opposed to cutting your hand off.Do it again.”She’s at my temple, a few centimeters between her mouth and my silky hair.She scares me in the way moms should.I don’t feel intimidated by her where I fear for my life, but my skin tingles from adrenaline at the prospect of punishment.
I’m fucked up.Don’t ask.
Grabbing my hand, she presses it to a different spot on her belly, forcing me to feel the alien squirm of baby Kaleb underneath.Nausea hits when he slides across my palm.It’s nasty as hell to touch a human beneath the skin of another.I never want to experience this, my guts rearranged because of a parasite, or so out of control of what’s happening within me that it moves on its own.
Yanking my hand away, I panic-shuffle to a safer distance.Mom grins, pleased with herself and spoon feeding me a taste of my own medicine—spoiler, it’s disgustingly bitter.
I hate them, all of them.Mom, Dad, the baby.Everyone who’s moved on while my head’s still stuck in the cabin, wallowing in blood and cutting men from ear to ear.Drowning in a lake by hands too strong for me to resist.Choking another with the plastic tubing of my IV, as it pumped relief into my veins.Fighting, clawing, and gnawing my way through insanity only for the chains to shorten.
It’s not fair, they’re healing and adding to our family while I wear a mask and hope for the best.
Dad’s all about finding us the help we need, but there’s not a whole lot a doctor can do for me.At some point they’ll have to give up or give in.Let the demons win and release me, or stop trying so fucking hard to feed our relationship.
Right now, we’re licking buttercream-covered glass.It’s dangerous, delicious, but we’re cautious at the edges, afraid to bleed all over each other.
Pain suddenly fills her silver eyes when she recognizes my retreat for what it is: fear and hurt.I can’t help it, feeling like they had no problem letting go of the torment we went through.
How does someone do that?Ignore their past, their trauma, and keep living as if nothing happened at all?I don’t understand.I have days where I forget about what transpired, but unfortunately, those days are drug induced.When the dose wears off, I hide in the corner of my closet, curled up as small as I can possibly get and choke through the motions of yet another meltdown.
“I’m glad you’re home.Need to make sure your kitchen’s stocked before we head to Michigan.I don’t want you going without,” she says, trying to ease the tension that’s now crushing us with its weight.
“I don’t need anything, Mom, really,” I protest, wishing to ease her worries.
There was a time she went without.She’s scared I will too—not with her and my over-the-top dad, that’s for sure.If he catches me looking at something, it ends up in my possession.My therapist thinks he’s buying my love, but if there’s anyone on this planet who would burn mountains of money just for the chance to be my parent, it’s him.
“You have food, your medication, and all your school stuff?”
Rolling my eyes, I turn my back to the counter and press on its marble top, hoisting myself up.It’s cold under my legs, seeping through the fabric to chill my skin.Thankfully it’s dry, but the moment I jump down she will be wiping it off again—clean freak.
“Yes,Mom.”
“Okay, good.You know what to do if things change.We won’t be gone too long; we plan on being back before your graduation.”
“That’s, like, two weeks away.How long are you going to be gone?”
“A week and a few days.”
Oh.
“Alright.Where’s Dad?”
“Where he’s always at.”She huffs, then her eyes roll—that’s where I get it from.
“Oh, hell yeah.I’ll be out there with him.”
Without giving her time to respond, I slide off the counter.As predicted, she grabs a wet washcloth and wipes it down.When she’s done, she folds it precisely and places it back where it once rested, then she’s headed to the den.
She has her laptop set up on the coffee table with print-offs, notes, stickies, and an array of pens and markers.It’s her current project: hours upon hours of research into this case all over the TV.It’s interesting stuff, truly; she talks about it when I come over for dinner.Dad ends up attacking his fork to lessen his scowl as she gives me all of the gruesome details like some sort of true crime podcaster.
The tabloids call him theInvestigator—some creep popping up on social media.Hearing about him gives me chills, and when more details come out, my demons rage.Journalists have described him as a serial kidnapper-slash-killer who abducts victims of all ages and genders.There’s literally no correlation between any of them, which makes it difficult to find his pattern.By the time a new body is found, the previous case has gone cold.It’s his method of killing and presenting the victims that connects them
When I tell you this guy is weird as fuck, I mean it.He processes people, PEOPLE, like wild meat.He breaks their bodies down before strategically placing them into a fabricated crime scene.It’s for show, to gain shock value and stroke his vile ego.
