Chapter 36 #2
“I’m more than capable of making myself something to eat, Lucia.”
“I know,” she says, kissing my chest this time. “I like taking care of you.”
“I like you taking care of me too, Luc,” I admit, because it’s the truth. “But never feel like you have to … okay?”
She nods once before releasing me and turning to leave. She pauses at the doorway and glances at me over her shoulder. It feels like she’s hesitant to go, like she’s worried I won’t be here when she gets back.
I give her a wink. “I’ll see you soon,” I say, in an attempt to reassure her.
She offers me a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Okay.” The word comes out as a whisper. Like, there’s more she’s not saying. A shadow of insecurity, maybe.
I turn back around and meet her gaze in the mirror. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She holds my eyes for a second longer, nods her head once, then slips out the door.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of her, because the scent of coconuts still lingers in the air.
I glance down at the razor I’d just put down, and smile to myself as I reach for it again.
She left me a sandwich in the fridge, so I wouldn’t starve while she was gone.
It’s not much, but damn if it doesn’t feel like love to me.
The Uber pulls up outside the place I bought for my mother, and I fucking loathe having to get around like this.
It hasn’t even been a week, and I already know I’m not going to last the other five without driving. The doctor can shove that suggestion right up his arse. I’m not built to be chauffeured around like I’m some helpless invalid.
I toss a quick thanks to the driver and step out, the sun beating down on my shoulders as I stare at the front door I haven’t walked through since I bought this place.
It was brand new when I purchased it, and now it looks like hell chewed it up and spat it out.
One of the front flyscreens is hanging half off the frame, flapping lazily in the breeze. One window near the front porch has a gaping hole punched through the corner, with spiderwebbed cracks radiating across the glass, probably the aftermath of some drug-fuelled argument.
The lawn’s a goddamn jungle, with grass almost knee-length, and there’s weeds clawing through the flowerbeds I paid someone big bucks to plant.
There’s rubbish littered throughout and cigarette butts stubbed out on the front steps. I should’ve known my mother and that fucker she was shacking up with wouldn’t take care of it.
I sink my hands into my pockets, jaw clenched, and stare at the wreck of a place I tried to make into a home for her.
I step off the front path and head around the side, pushing open the gate that’s barely hanging on by one hinge. It screeches like it’s in pain, and I grit my teeth as I shove it open wide enough to squeeze through.
The backyard hits me like a punch to the gut.
If the front of the house looks neglected, the back looks like it’s been abandoned to rot.
Bags of garbage—some split open, others piled so high they lean like unstable towers—litter the overgrown grass. Flies swarm the mess, and the stench is so foul that it makes me gag as it bakes under the afternoon sun.
There’s a broken lawn chair tipped sideways in the dirt, half-buried in weeds, and a soiled mattress propped up against the back fence.
I ball my hands into fists at my sides.
This place was supposed to be a fresh start for her. A clean slate. But instead, it’s just another dump filled with the same kind of filth she’s always let in.
From where I stand, I can see the back door hanging half off its hinges, the frame splintered as if it had been kicked in. That’s probably how our men gained access when they came looking for her.
I hesitantly step over the mess and make my way up the back stairs. And if I thought the stench outside was bad, the one that hits me when I step inside is enough to make my stomach lurch.
I cover my nose with the back of my hand, eyes scanning the room.
It’s worse than I expected, and even with my mother gone, I still can’t shake that feeling of being let down once again. She was extended more mercy than she knew what to do with.
I bypass all the filth and dirty dishes piled in the sink, crusted over and stinking like they’ve been there for weeks. The counters are sticky, and fast-food wrappers and empty beer cans are scattered across every surface.
There’s something about the sight that is so familiar it stops me cold.
It punches through the years like a blade, dragging up memories I’ve spent most of my life trying to bury.
The mess.
The smell.
The same feeling of chaos swallowing a house whole.
Waking up covered in bugs. That’s where it started.
The smell of mould in my clothes, the sticky film of sweat and dirt that never really washed off.
The places where we stayed over the years were never clean.
You couldn’t call them homes; they were fucking cesspits.
Rotting food and rubbish piling up until it became part of the furniture.
My mother never noticed, or if she did, she didn’t care.
I remember feeling like I was covered in grime I couldn’t wash off, forcing myself to clean up in the sink of a public restroom—or sometimes at school—because the place I was living in had a bathroom that was practically uninhabitable.
I notice everything now. That’s why a single piece of food lying on the ground makes my skin crawl. It’s why I scrub the sink until the porcelain shines like glass. Why I fold my clothes perfectly, and have floors so clean you could eat off them.
People may call it obsessive, but I call it survival because I swore a long time ago that I’d never live like that again. Cleanliness isn’t a preference; it’s control.
It’s safety.
It’s mine.
It’s everything I swore I’d never live in again.
I move through the formal dining area and pause at the archway that leads to the main room. All the brand-new furniture I bought her is gone, probably sold off to fund her habit.
There’s a ratty old couch sitting where the Italian leather lounge used to be. Stained, torn, sagging in the middle like it’s given up trying to hold anything up. It’s disgusting. I wouldn’t let my dog lie on it.
My eyes sweep the room, and I spot her handbag tossed on a side table like an afterthought. I move towards it, careful where I step, until something shifts underfoot.
I glance down and see an empty pill bottle rolling lazily across the floor, and my stomach drops.
Are they the pills she used to take her own life?
I don’t touch it, I don’t want to. I snatch up the bag, turn and head back the way I came.
I’ve seen enough.
I don’t stop walking until I’m standing on the sidewalk, like distance alone might scrub that house off me. My mother’s bag hangs haphazardly off my wrist, the cheap leather sticking to my skin.
I take a deep breath and feel it burn all the way down to my lungs as I dig into my pocket for my phone.
I scroll through my contacts until I find the number I’m after.
Lorenzo. Or Light ‘em up Lorenzo, as the guys call him.
Our resident arsonist. Reliable as hell, and a little unhinged, but that’s what makes him good at what he does.
Me: I’ve got a job for you.
Lorenzo: Sure. Where?
I type in the address of my mother’s house and press send.
Lorenzo: Isn’t that the new estate?
Me: Yeah.
Lorenzo: Whose house is it?
Me: Mine.
Lorenzo: Insurance job?
Me: No.
Lorenzo: When do you want it torched?
Me: Tonight.
Lorenzo: Anyone living there?
Me: Nah. They moved out and left it in a mess. I don’t have time to clean that shit up.
Lorenzo: Fuck. I hate when cunts do that.
Me: Yeah.
Lorenzo: Consider it done, brother.
Me: Thanks.
Tomorrow, my mother’s place will be nothing but a pile of ashes.
Just like her.