The sound of broken glass echoed from the kitchen.
My mom stood there, staring at the floor. The pieces of glass scattered like a mosaic of her anger.
I didn't even break the vase.
It was the cat.
But she didn't care.
That speechlessness turned into anger. She glared at me, her hand trembling with the same fury that haunted me every night in my sleep.
She slapped me.
Again.
And again.
She used to be nice, didn't she?
Or maybe she wasn't, and I just kept dreaming about the version of her I wanted.
The nightmare began there.
I couldn't even scream.
She locked the door after she was done, leaving me there with blood on my lips and bruises on my chest.
⸻
"How did it make you feel, Daniel?"
The therapist's voice was soft, but heavy. Like she had asked this same question too many times, but somehow this time… she actually cared.
Daniel smiled.
"I don't remember."
"Try," she urged. "Was it anger? Pain? Fear?"
"Maybe all of them," I said, leaning back. "But do I really feel scared? Or is there something deep down inside me…feeling satisfied?"
The therapist's hand froze over her notebook.
"Why would you feel satisfied?"
"Because I killed her."
My voice was calm. Cold. Like saying what I had for lunch.
"I stabbed her. Right in the heart. She didn't even scream."
The silence in the room was deafening. The air turned thick.
"Daniel…" the therapist started, her fingers subtly reaching under the table, perhaps for the panic button.
I leaned forward.
"Don't worry," I whispered. "You're not like her. Yet."