Page 2 of Citrine

She goes back to her recounting of how smart her grandson is, the same one she's been trying to set me up with, but I can't listen over the roaring in my ears.

Memories of pain and terror, warped by my subconscious attempts to protect my young mind, try to surge up, but I shut them down before they gain traction.

She never touched me, but she never stopped my stepfather. That it stopped short of sexual abuse was the only blessing. Words and fists hurt enough as it is.

I owe her nothing.

He isn't here. I swear. Just want to see you. Miss you.

My traitor heart squeezes and my eyes fill. How can you hate someone and love them at the same time? Why, oh why, do I miss her?

I'm typing a message before I can think better of it.

How long is he gone?

As the indicator lets me know she is replying, I recognize it's a terrible idea. I also know I'm going to do it anyway.

This better not get me fired or I won't even be able to afford that hinky bed share arrangement I just landed with the freaky chains coming off the bed.

***

She still smells the same. Chantilly perfume—far too liberally applied—cigarettes, weed, and fear. I know better than to squeeze her as we hug. Grunts of pain when I came to live here as a teen quickly clued me in to how often her ribs are broken.

Her bleach-blonde hair is piled high, hairspray making it stiff. Her heavy makeup makes the grooves that betray her age seem even deeper. She's far too thin.

She isn't wearing her usual long-sleeves and so I can see the bruised imprints of his large hands on her biceps.

Makeup and clothing cover up a lot, and my mind snags on the fact that she isn't hiding the evidence from me. I doubt it's unintentional.

It doesn't take long to see past the facade of their happy lives to the evil underneath. If you bother to look. Telling people about it taught me… not to.

People don't want to know. Not really.

I move away from her and sit down at the kitchen table. As much as I love seeing her, my body is signaling to me in every way possible that I should leave. Now.

I ignore it and don't leave. Just like she never has. My fifteen-year-old self had the courage, though. She's screaming at me to not waste the opportunity she gave me, but I'm an adult now.

I can do this.

Still, this is the first time I've been back here since I chose to be homeless. Any other time I've seen my mother, it has been in public places. My heart's pounding and I have to keep my hands in my jeans so she doesn't see how much they're trembling.

"What did you want? My next shift starts soon."

She huffs. "You work too much. How many jobs now?"

"Just three. Mostly."

I bite off my desire to tell her about them. About how tired I am. Or how I wish I had remained in school. She'd only get defensive and tell me I shouldn't have left.

As if I could have stayed.

I wish I could tell her how messed up it is that the streets were safer for me than her so-called home or that I found kinder people in alleys to huddle up with for warmth.

But of course, I don't.

She's picking at her nails, sitting back in her chair as she lights up another cigarette.

I don't keep the disgust off my face, but she ignores me. She knows they make my allergies go haywire.