[ AUSTIN ]
I stare at the bite mark from my teeth.
And then I look past the apple in my hand. At my Mom, who set the China plate down on the table with shaky hands.
My eyes get narrow and jaw taut, " Mom! " I call her out.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
" You didn't take the medicine, have you?"
She gasps softly, tapping her palm on her forehead, " Jesus, I forgot." Her soft, inaudible words catch my ears, and my eyes soften. I take another huge bite from the apple.
She walks past the dining table and starts looking in the drawer near the front door. Her mumbling while rummaging through the area continues, saying things like 'I remember I kept it here only, where does it go?'
I shake my head slowly, " You did not keep it there, Miss Dorson." I mention, " It's in the pocket of your purse."
My mom has a habit of forgetting where she puts things. She often finds her belongings scattered all over the house, insisting that she left them in specific places.
A few moments later, she walked back into the dining area with her purse hanging down her forearm and sat down across the table from me. She began taking her pills, one by one, pausing to look at me for confirmation. I nodded after every pill she showed me, signaling that yes, this was the right one.
Eight pills at a time.
I don't like seeing her take that many medications to manage her reactions; yet, she doesn't seem to mind. I've tried many times and consulted various doctors to see if we could reduce the number of medications while still achieving the same results, or if any exercises or treatments could help her. They all gave me the same response: NO.
They explained that some things leave a lasting impact, and there's nothing we can do about it. That's what Ethan has done to her; he left behind his terror in her life.
It's been ten years since he died, and my Mom still act on loud voices frantically, she still lowers her head whenever someone asks her any question, still afraid to eat at the table.
The most upsetting thing was when I raised my hand to pat her head. She got scared and immediately began screaming for forgiveness, shaking and trembling violently. Ever since that incident, I've tried my best to avoid touching her.
Fuck that.
She probably sees my father's portrait in me somewhere, as I am cursed to look a lot like him. Same blue eyes and this stupidly ugly mud brown hair, and of course, his height too. The more I hunched over in childhood, the less I thought I could reach six feet in adulthood.
I'm grateful to God for my curls, which I inherited from Mom, as well as my pale yet beautifully tinted skin. I also try to mimic her way of speaking, hoping it might make her feel less scared. However, no matter how hard I try, my voice always comes out more resonant and serious when I attempt to talk softly. So, I usually don't bother trying.
At first, I thought Mom was genuinely scared of me, and not of Dad's part in me. Because it's too suspicious to believe that she just trusted me that day when she found me in the store room, drenched in her husband's blood. I just told her that I grabbed the scissors when he was harassing me, and stabbed him in self-defense. Obviously, that hasn't happened, and it was so damn clear with the view there. I mean. . .Who stabs someone twenty-two times in self-defense?
But she doesn't seem to doubt me; she just pulled me into a tight embrace and chanted like a mantra, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."
She helped me get clean that day and supported me through my panic attacks as she dealt with her own. Then to my surprise, she called the police, made them investigate the scene and told them, "My husband does drugs a lot and often takes loans from thugs, they were warning us to do this. . .But I never thought they would really kill him."
She didn't say that she saw them doing this, but just suggested the police. And of course, they believed. That's what police do anyway. After a long time, when they didn't even get close to those thugs Ethan took loans from, they closed the case and apologized to us. First time ever, I thanked our law system and police for not finding the criminal.
My Mom lied for me that day, and I felt like she lied to me, too. She said it was ok, said she trusts me and forever will, told me that his blood on my hand doesn't make me a sinner, it was a mistake. And god forgives mistakes.
On the other hand, I sometimes feel that she does view me as a sinner. It's not Ethan's eyes that scare her, but mine; eyes she saw in the room, shadowed with blood. I remember her first reaction clearly; reading her lips when she said "Satan!" was so easy. She clutched tightly to the cross hanging around her neck as she looked at me. But being a mother, she took a step closer, recognizing that I was her child, not something demonic.
Sometimes I think she knows-- that wasn't a mistake. But lied to me, to herself.
But that might be just my thoughts; otherwise, she wouldn't be at this ease with me for all these years, and wouldn't have celebrated so loudly when I graduated. Also, wouldn't have shed tears when I became a detective two years ago. She was happy, happier than I, and I was delighted for her too.
My working shifts seem to annoy her sometimes, but everything else? Is fine for her. Especially she likes to see me on TV interviews so much, and for god knows why, new channels call me for a lot of interviews too.
Seventy-two cases have been handed to me yet, and in seventy cases the suspects die, either by accident or, shall I say, mistakes.
I chose my fate and destiny on the very day I killed Ethan. Because some genius said that: Either it's for one murder, or ten thousand, you'll go to hell.
The result will be the same, but my sins won't. I would gladly choose hell as a great sinner rather than just someone who made some mistakes.
After all, when Mum tried to make me promise that I won't ever kill someone again, I very clearly shook my head. I didn't promise.
I won't. Until I'm satisfied.
Because I realized.
When the Son of god can't.
Then Son of Satan will.