I must have hit my head pretty hard again because my vision is filled with static for a moment. The pounding of my head returns and I'm forced to choke down the bile rising in the back of my gradually bruising throat. I still feel the imprint of her hand around my neck and wince as I gently run my fingers over the places where her talons left marks on my skin.
I want to scream, to fight back, to treat her the same way she treats me, but I don't.
I force my mouth shut, biting my young until I can taste the cooper blood filling my mouth. I can sense her dangerous aura, the one that tells me to sit straight in my seat and beg for my life, but I can't bring myself to care. I'm seething too, a rage I can never let her see, so I stay silent. I want to chastise her for bringing back my concussion and bring up statistics on how repeated head trauma can be fatal and point out that she would be the one that had to dispose of my corpse, I want to bring up the extensive cost of funeral expenses. I want to point out how irrational she is, scream at her for making me into a target, blame her for everything she's ever done to me, but for once my survival instincts win out over my stupid sarcasm and the words catch in my throat. There is no reasoning with her, no chance of getting through.
Watching the blurs of the city from the car window I can't help but feel guilty and ashamed of what ive done. She's just trying to teach me a lesson. This is just routine punishment. I have no right to argue with her, she's my mother! She gave birth to me! I should want to please her, to make up for everything I lack. I should want to make her life easier. I should want to love her, and a part of me still does, but it's hard to love her when she blames me for things like this. It's hard to love her when she hurts me like this. It's hard to love her when she makes it so clear that she hates me.
Whoever said sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me never had their mother scream at them to kill themself.
Something tells me they would change their mind if they were suicide baited by their own mother... it's been a while since she's done that though, so I should really stop holding it against her... besides, someone stopped me before I went through with it so it's not like it really matters anyway.
If I dare to let myself feel it I'll be doomed to relive it for the rest of my life. Not that I'll live that long anyway, but I'd rather my last moments not be filled with memories of pain. If I'm gonna die at least let me go with memories of my days spent with karma so I can die with a smile on my face.
But I can't help it. With every thought of he graceful touch and the warmth of his breath on my skin as he holds my close to his chest, with every daydream of his love her hate comes back sevenfold.
Slut
Whore
Asking for it
Swine
Disgusting
Lucky
You deserve this
I lazily turn my gaze away from the window and let my head pull forward, staring blankly at the trembling hands in my lap. I know they're my hands, that this is my body, but it doesn't feel real. I'm distant, floating outside myself. I'm brought back to my senses by the tears that sting my eyes, bringing a familiar heat to my face and threatening to spill over. I obviously refuse to let them. I've become an expert at swallowing my emotions and burying everything deep within.
As the time ticks by, the dread within me bubbles to the surface. I know all too well what awaits me once we reach the confines of my prison.
With every mile that separated me from the brief sanctuary of Karasuma's presence, any spark of hope left in me dies. He was a complete stranger but he believed me. He trusted me. He cared enough to try to help me and even stood up to my mom! He cares, or at least, he did a really good job of pretending he cared. I need to force that fantasy out of my head. It's a pipe dream to think he actually wanted to help me. He was just doing his job. How could someone like me, someone so broken and damaged, hold on to the belief that someone could actually care? That I could actually escape this hell I'm living in?
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms, desperate to hold on to something tangible, something to anchor me as I drown in my dread as the car rolls to a stop in the parking garage. The weight of the inevitable claws its way back into my brain, making a nest where my self worth should be. With one last glance out the window I see a family walking together across the street. The young boy sits atop his father's shoulders as the mother pushes her newborn in a stroller and their golden retriever follows dutifully behind, nudging another little girl along the path, helping guide her away from the street as she holds her mother's hand. I watch them disappear into an apartment complex nearby. That's what family is supposed to be like. Families are supposed to love each other. Parents are supposed to love and protect their kids. Mother's are supposed to be kind and compassionate. Children are supposed to be cared for. Why can't I have that?
In a way I know it's my fault. I'm a disappointment. I'm the son my mother never wanted. I ruined her life, shattered her dreams. She has every right to hate me. Besides, she gave me life. I wouldn't be here if she hadn't decided to give me a chance. We were a family once. I ruined it. This is my fault.
As I open the car door I feel all air leave my lungs. I freeze gripping to the frame as my mind runs through the endless horror what awaits me when we get "home". The harsh glare of the street lights illuminates my mother's face, deranged and twisted with anger. Her scowl transforms into a sick grin as her venom filled eyes lock onto mine.
She grabs my wrist, opening my wounds and forcing me out of the car, slamming the door behind me. She pulls me out of the garage, dragging me by my collar as I struggle to free myself. She pulls me to my feet before pushing me to the ground and I slide across the rough concrete landing in an alleyway a few feet away, which is apparently a great inconvenience for her since she looks even angrier when I manage to pull myself off the ground. She's far stronger than she looks, and I guess my weight, or lack thereof, helps when it comes to flinging my across the garage and straight into the brick wall I'm currently slumped against. Instead of waiting for me to stand she grabs my hair and drags me behind her, rocks and broken glass sticking to my skin as she pulls me across the run down alleyway. I try and fail to stifle my screams, so she does it for me, pulling me towards her before stealing my voice as she wraps her hands around my throat, pushing me back towards the ground, grinding my face into the dirt and kneeling on back. My lungs burn as they beg for air and my vision continues to blur. The sting is all too familiar to me, a painful static that takes over your vision and fills your head. I almost beg her to slam my head into ground and just get it over with. She prefers to watch me struggle. She always has. She lifts me again turning me over so the last thing I see is her maniacal grin. She's always loved to watch me writhe in pain as my "pretty little porcelain face" turns blue, after all "blue suits you, brings out those big bright eyes that gorgeous hair".
I pass out after a solid 6 minutes of being strangled to death, since I'm used to this by now. I'm no stranger to having the air stripped from my lungs. It's one of her favorite torture methods.
Even if I am used to it, it doesn't make it any less terrifying to watch the world light up in a vibrant red before slowly fading to black
No strings- My Fault
Start from the beginning
