Trust and Love (Trevor Philips x Reader)

VIII: Grief

You never had a home. It was always the weird stares of people. The shoving on the sidewalks. The simple yet chaotic sound of traffic. 

That was the only home you had ever known and some part of you were okay with it. 

Your parents were the dense type. Every time you had wanted to come to them with an issue, it was always reflected with a sarcastic or insensitive remark. Especially your mom. 

One time, at the age of 15, you had gotten hurt, to which your mother replied. 

'Oh, the one time a kid gets hurt its a fucking travesty.'

Then would continue on with how when they were younger, they used to get skinned knees and some other rebellious events they went to. 

You never really had any sort of closure with your mom. You never spoke to her about your issues due to it always being shot down, or worse to be used against you in another conversation later on. Oh how mothers always say I'll remember that. Which, always pissed you off. 

Now in your late 20's, early 30's you wondered where it went downhill. How after you graduated, a gap year turned into years for further education. The warm loving embraces of your mom and dad turned into cold and distant stares. How the room you once had now is storage for things they say they will use, but don't. 

How now you're now homeless with a useless degree of graphics designing with a needle stuck in your forearm in a shady alley way with other bums.

Out all of the fucking things that happened. What happened to you?

There was an instance, using your spare change to call your mom in a huge drug-induced fit. Your hands shaken and it was nearly impossible to dial the numbers to your parents home. Once you did, you were greeted with a tired greeting and just the sound of that, you could imagine your mothers bleary eyes.

"Why couldn't you ever fucking listen to me m-mom?! It's all your fault I'm here!''

"What the hell are you talking about Y/n?" You grit your teeth as you felt your head being filled with that tv static. 

"You! Why couldn't you support me? Why couldn't you just listen and not judge?! Do you even know that makes me feel?!" I yelled into the gross toll phone. Your mom didn't reply for awhile and you even began to think why you spent a dollar on knowing silence.

"I fed you. I raised you. I watched you come into this world, blank canvas and all. How this small child I held in my arms could do good. It's not my fault you left yourself to the care of a crack house. It's not my fault that you wasted a degree on those years, hell knows where! Own up to your shit Y/n, because I'm not going to be alive forever. You're going to miss me when I die and You'll think-''

~ To continue this call, please enter fifty more cents. ~

You hung up the phone before staring at it long enough to practically burn a hole through it. You didn't want to know what you'll think. If anything, that would be the last time you would talk to your mother. 

And it was. 

Four months later, she succumbed to a heart attack. You hand't found out about the news till nearly the next year by a distant relative. The news hit you in somewhat of a numbing wave. 

It angered you in the later months after the news how you couldn't just miss her.  All that ran though your jumbled head was the mean remarks she made towards you. How all the issues you had come to hide from her, in absolute fear, were to never be discussed. 

She told you countless times you would miss her. 

Countless. 

You felt like an awful person that you couldn't grieve like the others in your family had. How something was mentally wrong with you. So you turned to more heroine. More cocaine. More...whatever could be liquefied and put into a needle. So that at least you could feel something. 

So that you could figure out why you weren't grieving. 

Someday, you thought, Someday I'll be able to miss her. 

Note: Sorry this is a shorter chapter, but I'm not dead :) backstories are bit of a nice thing, huh?