68. Lilith #2
Her body jerked, and a ragged, wet gag tore from her throat, her knuckles smearing vomit across the sheets as her fingers clawed for something to hold on to.
Gasping. Choking. Fading.
I felt nothing.
No panic, no guilt, no instinct screaming at me to drop to my knees and help.
Just… anger.
I was just a kid. I needed you. And you chose him.
Her whole body shook, thin and frail like her bones were trying to rattle out of her skin.
“I begged you,” I said, voice quieter now, colder. “I begged you for years.” My throat tightened, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. “You don’t get to reach for me anymore.”
Her chest bucked suddenly, whole body lurching like something inside her was about to snap.
I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging tiny crescents into my palms.
I should’ve moved. Should’ve grabbed her. Should’ve done something.
But I didn’t.
Because in some cold, ugly corner of my mind, I knew what this meant.
If I just stood here… if I just let this happen… it would be over.
I wouldn’t ha ve to be her nurse anymore.
Wouldn’t have to drag her off the floor.
Wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces she kept shattering herself into.
I wouldn’t have to sit there with her sobbing in my lap, swearing that this time she’d leave him, that this time she’d be better, that this time she’d try.
I wouldn’t have to drag her off the floor when she was too wasted to stand. Wouldn’t have to clean up the vomit or change her clothes or listen to her slur apologies I knew she didn’t mean.
I wouldn’t have to take hits on her behalf. Wouldn’t have to stand between her and him, begging him to hit me instead, bracing for the slap, the shove, the fist, just so I knew she’d go another day without fresh bruises.
I wouldn’t have to sit in the bathroom afterward, pressing a frozen washcloth to my face, telling myself it was worth it. That keeping her safe was always worth it.
I wouldn’t have to hear her scream at me— ‘ shut up, Lilith, just shut the fuck up! ‘—like I was the problem, like I was the reason everything was so goddamn broken if God forbid I ever stuck up for myself.
I could run.
I could go.
I could be free.
And I wanted that. I wanted it so badly I could taste it.
I’d loved her once.
Really, really loved her.
She used to tuck me in at night, kiss my forehead and promise me that no matter what, she’d keep me safe.
She used to make my birthday cakes from scratch because she knew store-bought icing made me gag.
She used to dance in the kitchen with me, twirling me around like the whole world didn’t exist outside those walls.
I remembered the way she used to sing to me when I was little, her voice soft and sweet, rocking me back and forth like I was the most precious thing in the world.
I remembered her laughing in the kitchen, spinning me in circles until we were both dizzy and breathless.
I remembered lazy mornings curled up in her lap, her fingers smoothing through my hair while Daddy read the newspaper and pretended not to notice cartoons playing on TV.
And for years, I held onto that.
I clung to those memories like they were proof that she was still in there somewhere, still the parent I needed her to be.
But she wasn’t. Not anymore.
I didn’t have a place left in my heart for her. Not after everything she’d let happen. Not after everything she’d done.
I knelt down beside her, chest tight, throat burning.
She was blue and purple, barely twitching, foam spilling from her mouth.
“Mommy,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You gave me life. And you let that life fucking rot.” The words hitched out of me like something sharp had torn loose.
“I don’t think you’ll go to heaven, Mommy.
I don’t even think heaven’s real. But I hope…
I hope you get to see Daddy again. And I hope he shows you what it’s like to be happy without hurting people, and getting hurt. ”
A horrible rasp dragged from her closed-up throat.
“I hope you get to be whole again. I hope you finally get to be good again.”
Her eyes watered. From the choking? From real emotion? I didn’t know.
“I’m not saving you. Not this time. I really did love you once, Mommy. I’m sorry.”
I walked back to the bedroom I’d spent so many nights cowering in, heart racing, breath held, flinching at shadows that stretched too far under the door.
I grabbed my backpack. There wasn’t much to take—my shitty thrifted iPod, a few books, the cash, and some clothes shoved into the bottom.
I’d be eighteen next week anyway. Old enough to leave. Old enough to vanish and not even show up on a missing person’s list.
I huffed a laugh through my nose.
Like I’d ever be reported as missing anyway. Especially now.
I glanced back only once.
Lifeless. Still. Hollow.
No more twitching, no more gasping. Just a body now. Just… gone.
And so was I.
Death wasn’t kind. It wasn’t poetic or clean. It didn’t come wrapped in quiet sobs or whispered goodbyes. It was ugly and bitter, and it stunk of rot and ruin.
But tonight, it smelled like something I’d never known before.
Freedom.