Chapter 2 #2
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 nameless specter 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 cleaning company—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.”
It’s like her words fall on deaf ears. Why can’t I believe her?
Suddenly, her soft, caring demeanor mutates into something born from fire-forged anger. A mother’s anger. “What happened?”
“It was an accident,” I insist, sitting up a little too quickly and being reminded of how “accidental” the pain in my muscles is.
I must look more banged up than I thought, because my mom immediately grabs my hand, turning my arm over to unveil a mosaic of crepuscular-colored rosettes on my skin.
The giant bandage on my head probably doesn’t help either.
“You were hit by a car,” she snaps.
“I don’t want to make a big deal about this.”
“Staten, this is a big deal. You could’ve died. Don’t you get that?”
I flail my arm like one of those inflatable tube men. “But I’m fine! Look! I’ll be back to normal in a few days.”
Forfeiting a sigh, my mother scrubs a hand down her face. “Getting the call from the hospital was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me, Buttercup. I thought…” She chokes up, her watery gaze charting over the aftermath of my rather eventful afternoon. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Mom...”
“Who did this to you? Did they have insurance? How are we going to pay for this?”
I should tell her the truth, right? We don’t keep secrets from each other.
But I know that if I’m honest with her, she’ll blow this thing out of proportion (more than she already has).
I don’t need her worrying about my “assailant” walking around unscathed.
My mom may be a forgiving woman, but she never forgets.
This is my mess. She has too much to worry about on top of making ends meet.
I’m doing her a favor. I’m doing the right thing.
Then why does it feel so wrong?
Still caught halfway in anxiety’s gullet, I clear my hoarse throat, wading in waist-high guilt at the hellscape that’s seemed to follow me out of the borderlands of exhaustion. “I didn’t see the car. I…the doctor came in and told me my hospital bill was paid anonymously.”
“What?” she exclaims.
“I don’t know. Maybe the driver did it out of guilt?”
My mother clenches her fists, and there’s something polarizing about witnessing her deadly countenance. “If I ever find out who’s responsible for this, I’ll kill them.”
I appreciate her protective love, but right now, I need comfort. I want her voice to wrap around me again like an old cardigan. I want to make a truce with all my previous worry that I had sheathed in an invisible holster—worry that was impervious to the likes of pill-shaped serotonin boosters.
“Mom, please. I just want to forget all about this. I just want to move forward,” I beg weakly.
I no longer try to stunt the sobs caught in my throat or disperse the sorrow that wades in the root tangle of my chest. Lingering, lasting, languishing.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” I wail, burying my face in her shoulder and balling my fists in the back of her sweater. Her nostalgic, vanilla scent should be soothing, but it’s not.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you,” she coos, rubbing ministrations on my back, promising to never let go. “It’s just you and me, Buttercup.”