As the car engine roars to life, I feel her seething rage. She waits until Karasuma goes back inside to start her scolding and any small flicker of hope I had left is immediately extinguished as she slaps my face. I feel the sting of her hand against my cheek.
The sharp glass of her ring slices my skin leaving a line of red in its wake.
It's almost comedic to think of what used to be. They used to be happy. She used to be happy. The perfect young couple that fell in love and dreamed of a new life together, a house near the city with a white picket fence and crystal clear windows to let all the light in. Dreams of a little girl with a loving mother and father and maybe a dog or cat for fun. It's pointless to dwell on how things could have been if they had just gone a bit differently. If I wasn't born would they still be happy? If I was the perfect daughter she always dreamed of, that straight A student she wants me to be, would things be better?
Unfortunately for all involved, I was born a boy, a disappointment, and a failure. So she's forced to pretend. She wears her ring like dad never left. She draws the curtains closed and plasters a terrifying smile on her face, and pretends I could still appease her. She pretends that I am that perfect daughter. She pretends all the abuse and pain never happened. Then every once in a while I'll slip up. I'll do something stupid and break the facade and the carefully woven strings that hold her together snap. She breaks, let's put all her anger, all her pain. She blames me for it all and uses me as a lightning rod as she lets out her rage. I can't blame her, I do the same, one glance at my arms and thighs tells you all you need to know. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and my pain is a surprising good tool to soak up all the sadness. It makes me feel alive again. Maybe she feels the same when she hits me.
"I can't believe you! You little slut! Dragging me all the way down here just to tell some sob story and waste the nice gentleman's time," my mother hissed, her voice dripping with disgust.
"You wasted all our time over nothing! You know full well that you deserved it for acting like that, seducing him like the whore we all know you are"
Her words always cut deeper than her knives. I can handle pain. I'm used to pain. Words just hit different.
"You and I both know damn well you were asking for it. You deserve this honestly, looking like that. It's an honor he thought a whore like you was beautiful enough to be desirable, you miserable swine!"
She turns the key and pulls out of the parking lot in fit of rage. She's dangerous like this, I just pray she doesn't hurt anyone else. I can take it. I deserve it after all. The random person she hits on the street doesn't. They're innocent. I hate that I can't protect them from her. I can't protect anyone from her. The only way to keep her stable is to let her take out her anger on me and avoid making it worse by upsetting her. I shouldn't have gone to see karma. That was so selfish and petty. I'm such an asshole.
"I mean, look at what you were wearing! Your hair all tied with ribbons, that tiny skirt, the makeup! You were practically begging for it! I thought I raised you better than that!"
With those words I feel my anger bubble to the surface. She's the one that dressed me that day. This is her fault. I know I should keep quiet. She can't be reasoned with, so speaking now is quite possibly the worst possible time to decide to grow a pair, but stupid is as stupid does the old adage says and who am I to question it's ancient wisdom?
"But mom, you dressed me that day?"
I match her sickly sweet facade in a mocking tone only to be met with a another slap and a hand wrapped around my throat.
"Did I give you permission to speak?" she snapped through gritted teeth. For mere seconds she takes both hands off the wheel and sends me flying into the car door banging my still aching head against the window hard. The car swerved and she panics, turning her focus back to the road with her grip now tightened on the steering wheel, the vehicle now swerving back before stabilizing.
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