Chapter 25 #2
I scoffed. Mother of the year, ladies and gentlemen.
Buying her twelve-year-old violent video games, because last week, Damon had questioned whether she really needed to be prescribed pain medication for a minor backache.
She came up with all types of excuses to refill her prescription, and Damon was catching on.
This was the perfect distraction so he wouldn’t ask too many questions moving forward.
What more could you expect from a drug addict’s parenting skills?
She ruffled his hair, chuckling as he tore into the box. He started setting up the console but paused midway.
“Something wrong, son?” she had asked.
He had frowned, searching inside the box.
“What are you looking for?”
“I think the store made a mistake. There’s only one controller. Can you call them and ask them to ship the second one?”
Her brow creased. “Why do you need a second controller?”
“For Caden,” he had replied like the answer was obvious.
I rolled my eyes. The prized heir still didn’t get it, did he? Despite spending twelve years with our parents, he was utterly clueless about our family dynamics.
Luckily, Mother dearest was there to shatter his illusion about this perfect family. Her smile faltered. “It wasn’t a mistake, Damon. Your brother is still grounded for damaging the curtains downstairs.”
Last month, some of the curtains in the basement had turned black when smoke rose from my sugar and potassium nitrate mix. How else was I supposed to create a smoke bomb? It was called collateral damage.
“That was weeks ago,” Damon protested.
Her expression soured. “Which means he has had weeks to apologize for it. Caden doesn’t get video game privileges until he shows remorse for his actions.”
Whatever. Like I wanted to play her shitty video game. I would never apologize to inferior beings.
“C’mon, Mom,” Damon groaned, massaging his temples. “You know Caden doesn’t do apologies. You already docked his allowance to clean the curtains. Just let it go.”
“It’s not about the money, it’s about accountability. Caden keeps doing dangerous experiments at home after we specifically told him not to. I can’t reward his behavior with a video game.”
“But—” Damon had started warily.
“No buts.” Her voice sharpened. It was that tone she generally reserved for me.
Damon stared at the gaming station for a long moment. Only the word yearning could describe his love affair with the latest console. Yet he pushed the box away. “If Caden can’t play, then I don’t want it, either. You can return this.”
Of course.
Damon and his savior complex. He clearly wanted the stupid metal box but had too many fucking principles. Always the martyr. It made my teeth itch.
My mother seemed peeved by the turn of events. “Damon. You can’t punish yourself for your brother’s mistakes.”
“But he only used the basement because you guys took away his shed.”
My jaw clenched at the reminder. I had been happily staying out of this family’s way, spending most of my time in the shed and doing my class projects there.
But no, even that had to be taken away from me.
All because I had worked on a free energy project using magnets and copper wire.
It wasn’t my fault the power lines weren’t strong enough to sustain my creation.
The circuit overload fried a few appliances around the house, and not even the major ones.
My dramatic parents took away my shed, and I hadn’t found a moment’s peace since.
Damon leaned closer and dropped his voice. “He takes a million science classes and almost all of them require him to do experiments. Where else is he supposed to do them?”
“At school!” she replied, exasperated. “We don’t want him doing unsupervised experiments in the house.”
“But school told us these projects were to be done at home. This isn’t his fault, you know? You and Dad can supervise him if you are worried about what he’s doing.”
I scoffed. As if Mother dearest would ever take the afternoon to supervise one of my projects or interests. Being locked in that shed with me would be her worst nightmare.
“Damon…”
“Please, Mom. It won’t be fun to play without Caden.” It was a bald-faced lie. Damon just wanted to include me, though I wasn’t interested in these things. “Think of it this way. If we play together, he’ll have less time for unsupervised experiments.”
Her somber expression said it all. She didn’t want to relent, but she also couldn’t stand to make her firstborn unhappy. She sighed. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”
Yippee. She said fine because she couldn’t bear to spoil her favorite son’s mood.
Damon grinned and turned back to setting up the console. When his head snapped up, his eyes found mine across the room. “Caden.”
My mother glanced up. Her pupils were dilated, probably because she had recently upped her dose.
She thought I wouldn’t notice. The only person she couldn’t hide from was me, and she hated me for it.
She looked at me like I was the wild animal she wasn’t sure should be fed.
If she could help it, she would put me down one day.
But Damon didn’t see the truth about our family, nor did he see us for what we truly were. Our mother was self-destructive, our father was an idiot, I was a monster, and Damon was clueless.
He jumped to his feet like he had just spotted a long-lost friend. “Dude, you won’t believe it, Mom got us a Nexora Viba. The store forgot to include the second controller but we can take turns until it ships.”
Mom got us a Nexora Viba? He spoke as if it had been her plan all along. As if he hadn’t just begged her to share the console with me out of pity. Or perhaps because it would be too awkward to play in front of me. It wasn’t enough to be the perfect son, he also had to be the hero.
“Do you want to go first?”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m good,” I muttered, turning on my heel.
“Dude, it’s Doom of the Dead —” Damon’s hand clamped down on my shoulder to make me listen to his pitch about the dumb game.
Fuck him.
I turned around and shoved him. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
He stumbled back, crashing right into our mother.
“Caden!” she exploded, grabbing Damon by the arms to steady him.
Damon’s eyes flicked to mine, rubbing his shoulder.
There was something there—hurt, maybe—not from the shove but from my rejection.
Honestly, I hadn’t meant to shove him that hard.
I didn’t want him touching me, that was all.
I had no idea why he bothered with me when I had made it clear that he shouldn’t.
The glimpse of regret left my thoughts as soon as my mother’s shrill voice filled the room. “What is wrong with you?!”
I shrugged. “He shouldn’t have touched me.”
“You do not put your hands on your brother!” Her eyes burned holes through me. “Do you understand? Apologize.”
I sneered just as Damon stepped between us. “It’s fine, Mom. I surprised him, that’s all. He didn’t mean it.”
For fuck’s sake. Could he give the savior complex a break for once in his goddamn life?
“No, Damon. This is not okay. This is exactly the behavior I’m talking about.” Her seething eyes raked over me. “You’re grounded. No dinner tonight. No electronics. Don’t show your face until you’re ready to apologize.”
“Sure, I’ll apologize. When hell freezes over.”
She pointed at the stairs. “March to your room. Now!”
I leisurely took the stairs to the second floor, which further pissed her off. When I reached the landing, I could hear Damon trying to calm her down.
“Why does he have to be so cruel?” she wept while he consoled her.
“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t cry.”
If I had to guess, she wasn’t hurt by my actions.
She was upset Damon refused to see me for what I truly was—the uncouth leftover child who had become the bane of their existence.
I didn’t meet her standards as a child—not like her perfect Damon.
She was horrified to discover that a little boy could break rules and sabotage opponents without remorse.
When Damon and I played Monopoly , I’d slip hotels onto my properties while he was in the bathroom.
My mother called it ‘cheating,’ I called it ‘strategic asset management.’ I convinced Damon that washing dishes built character, so he did mine for three years.
At ten, I persuaded Amy Berger, some lovestruck fool who used to follow me around, to take the fall for setting fire to the science lab after my experiment went wrong.
At eleven, I forged Mother's signature on detention slips. By twelve, I realized I was more intelligent than my teachers and regularly cut class if the subject matter didn’t interest me.
In algebra, I used to correct Mr. Peterson's equations, then walk out when he fumbled through explanations.
Each incident, each note sent home about my ‘disruptive behavior’ or ‘antisocial tendencies,’ was confirmation of her long-held suspicion that I was the devil’s embodiment.
My childhood was rife with the texture of her disappointment, the clipped tone she reserved for me, the way her lips thinned when I entered a room, and her involuntary recoil when I brushed too close.
My existence presented her with a riddle she could neither solve nor ignore, a constant reminder of the one variable in her life that refused to be brought to heel.
The time-outs, punishments, and protracted lectures had no effect except to train me in the art of sullen resistance.
Then came the therapists. A circuit of women in soft cardigans who all, after a few months, issued the same verdict: “He was gifted and acted out because he was bored.”
They parroted those words because I had conditioned them into believing it.
My mother suspected it but couldn’t find a therapist that I couldn’t outsmart.
None of them would sign off on shipping me off to some mandatory school for dysfunctional and troubled children.
I did everything to gain the upper hand and to manipulate meager humans to bend to my will.
Rules might as well be written in private codes where I was concerned.
But Damon, he was golden and luminous, with the blueprint for human decency.
In my mother’s eyes, I was the genetic miscalculation that threatened to corrupt her perfect firstborn.
It made sense to focus on the child she had a shot at molding into a decent human being.
The only thorn in her side was me. Our parents feared that I would corrupt Damon and wanted me out of the house before that could happen.
Unfortunately, Damon had this disillusion of a perfect family that included all four of us.
My mother couldn’t risk Damon hating her by shattering his fantasy, and ultimately, stopped trying to send me away.
She had always bent over backward to make Damon happy.
It puzzled me. Why did humans humble themselves in exchange for a connection?
They clung to each other as if forming lifelong bonds would make their pathetic lives somehow matter.
Humans were weak, and I couldn’t relate to this incessant need for attachments.
Even to my twin, I was a lousy brother throughout our childhood.
It wasn’t until our mother passed away that I started tolerating Damon.
Her death gutted him, and unlike me, he didn’t do well in solitude.
I wouldn’t win any Brother of the Year awards for my efforts, but ever since our mother died, I stopped pushing him away.
Still, it wasn’t a connection I necessarily needed.
But Rose… Rose was different. For the first time in my life, I craved a connection with another human being.
My feelings didn’t fit societal constructs, nor would anyone write flowery songs about it. Rather, it was something savage that had sunk its teeth into my flesh. It was a tether I didn’t know I wanted until it was wrapped around my throat.
She was my purpose, and I had never had one of those before. The only thing I knew was my work because I had a mind for it. But a purpose…it was different.
It was addictive.
Sure, our relationship would ruffle feathers. I could already hear Saint Damon droning on about how I was jeopardizing my career. But I could handle the university. I could make the dean look the other way by expediting my work. The downside? I’d have to hire more incompetent staff members.
Rose’s family would pose objections, too, but with her scent lingering on my skin, I couldn't find it in myself to be bothered by it. My need for her transcended anything I’d known. This wasn’t just desire, it was absolute.
After months of torture, I had finally entered heaven. I had tasted what life could be with her, and I would burn anyone to the ground who tried to take that away from me.