Chapter One
"Are you sure it wasn't my fault?" The guilt swirled in my stomach, a familiar feeling. I had a tendency to blame myself, to take on the weight of the world.
"Yes, Will, Anthony being a piece of shit has nothing to do with you."
I flipped over my phone and checked for new messages even though I knew that Audrey already blocked him on all of my accounts. The screen glowed in the dim light, but I saw nothing. No missed calls, no unread texts. I was completely cut off, and it was a relief. The silence was a balm to my battered soul.
"If you need me to go beat his ass to make you feel better, I'll do it."
"The only person's ass that you have to beat is mine for loving someone again." I say as I let my head fall down to my knees. Audreys hand runs over my back, soothing me. Her touch was gentle, comforting. She didn't ask me what happened, and didn't demand answers. She just offered me her presence, her support. It was a reminder that I'm not alone, that I still had someone who cared.
"C'mon man, let's go to my place and watch some cartoons."
"I'm okay, I need to head home anyways."
"Will, please." She whines.
"Not today." I pick up my bag from the floor and start to make my way down the hall. I then feel her grip my arm. Her fingers wrap around my bicep, halting my progress. There's a desperation in her touch, a fear of losing me.
"Hey, I'm not going to force you to hangout, but be kind to yourself for me, okay?" I tenderly held her hand and traced circles on her palm with my thumb. I looked into her eyes, seeing the concern etched into her features. I wanted to reassure her, to make her believe that I'll be okay. But the words felt hollow, insincere. I didn't know if I'd be okay. I don't know if I can ever be okay again.
"Don't worry about me, love, I'm going to be fine."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm okay."
Oh god,
oh god,
oh god,
I'm sorry.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She shrieked, her voice filled with rage. Her heart, already hardened towards her own flesh and blood, now turned to stone. I could see the disgust in her eyes, the revulsion. At that moment, I knew I was truly alone. I had lost the one person who was supposed to love me unconditionally. I, with tears streaming down my face, looked up at her with desperation.
"Mom, please, I'm struggling. I can't control it," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The words tumbled out of me, a confession, an admission of my weakness. I was reaching for the warmth of her touch, for her to be my mother again. Her disgust for me only grew as she saw the scars that marred my skin.
"Pathetic. You're just seeking attention, aren't you?" she spat, her words like venom. They hit me, piercing my skin and lodging in my heart. I felt a surge of shame, of self-loathing. In that moment, I believed her, believed that I was flawed and broken beyond repair. I was a burden, a problem to be solved. The pain was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to consume me. I was drowning in my own despair, unable to find a lifeline, unable to find a way out. This reaction is all too common for me.
With a resounding crash that reverberated through the hollow corridors of my heart, she slammed the door with such ferocity that it seemed to echo the shattering of my fragile soul. Fleeing from my grasp like a tempest wind, she left me an utter wreck—a twisted caricature of despair. With such reckless abandon, she barreled back into the room, her hands clutching a half full bottle of pills with a deathly grip. Each pill symbolized an unspoken word, a missed embrace, an unforgiven slight.
"If you want to kill yourself so bad, just do it." she hissed venomously as she carelessly flung the bottle towards me. It spun in the air—each rotation a taunt—a reminder of life's capricious whims. Her eyes were like daggers forged from ice as they pierced my soul. Rendered immobile by stark horror, I struggled to comprehend the gravity of her words.
"Do it," she cackled malevolently, her voice rending the silence with its cruel intent.
Her words became monsters in my mind, haunting specters that circled with malicious glee.
Do it.
Do it.
Do it.
"I knew all along—it was nothing but a trick for sympathy," she spat out bitterly, her voice laced with scorn while she slammed the door shut once more. She left behind nothing but silence, punctuated by the sinister companionship of pills and razor blades.
In a defiant act against my darkest thoughts—a rebellion against my own bloodline—I dragged myself to the bathroom. With trembling hands, I wrapped bandages around my wounds and banished those treacherous pills to the watery abyss. In this moment of forlorn triumph, I stumbled toward the mirror to wash away the evidence of torment from my face—only to be confronted by her reflection. Oh God! Her visage: twisted into grotesque shapes by age and sorrow; skin bearing rivers of tears staining her cheeks in blotchy paths of pain.
Do it.
Do it
Do it.
A surge of fury inflamed my very being as I clenched my fist in rage—a futile attempt to escape her genetic shadow—and unleashed a feral swing at my own reflection. The mirror cracked beneath my strike, the razors biting into my knuckles, and I was besieged by a cruel epiphany. Even now, entwined within chaos and heartache, I saw only her visage superimposed on mine; our shared features mocking me in tearful contortions whenever grief overcame me.
With trembling hands, contorted by a whirling storm of emotions, I cautiously approached the scattered remnants of the once whole and now tragically fractured mirror. It lay there, its pieces strewn across the cold, unfeeling floor, a cryptic tapestry of reflected sorrow. Each fragment, a mere splinter of our shared memories, glinted with the last vestiges of light as I began the painstaking task of gathering them—one by one—like the precious memories they symbolized. Gently placing them into the sink—a makeshift cradle for their fragmented beauty—I could not escape their siren's call.
My gaze then fell upon one substantial shard, its jagged edges catching the dying light in a morose dance. With cautious reverence, I wrapped my fingers around it and hoisted it before my eyes. The reflection within this solitary sliver pierces my soul; it was not my visage staring back at me but rather hers—my beloved mother. Her image enveloped in a distorted halo echoed within the confines of my raw psyche.
Possessed by a surge of anguish and longing that sears deeper than any physical pain might, I drew closer to that haunting shard. It was as if through touching this cold glass, I might bridge the chasm between life and death—a desperate ploy to reach her ethereal embrace. Yet all I grasped were cruel illusions.
And then, with a heart-wrenching resolve that bordered on insanity, I plunged that piece of glass into my arm with a force that underscored the turmoil within—a storm of sorrow raging in my chest. As each stroke tore through skin and sinew, forming ragged grooves that wept red with raw intention, I etched an eternal testimony to her memory—a memento more indelible than scars or bloodshed could ever be.
The collection of haphazard lines gave form to a term that, while simple in construction, bore the weight of unspoken words and unfathomable adoration: "Mama." The blood-soaked script stood stark against my flesh—a crimson memorial for eyes both mortal and divine to witness—a single word encapsulating oceans of unsaid declarations and unshed tears.