Page 22 of Queen of Madness

It was around eight o’clock, a little after the streetlights turned on. I had to carry Fi home because she rolled her ankle, trying to skateboard with the new kid down the block. The moment the door opened, I knew something was wrong. I knew it before I put Fiona in her bed and told her to stay still while I got her an ice pack. I even knew it before I saw my mom’s feet shaking from the aftermath of her seizure as she lay nearly comatose on the kitchen floor.

A pot of spaghetti sat idle on the stove, and three placemats were perfectly aligned on the table, waiting for us to find our rightful places. After making quick work of the ice pack, I promised Fi I’d be back shortly.

When the neighbor saw my mother’s brittle limbs strewn across the weathered linoleum, it took a shit ton of convincing for her to help me take her to the hospital. We were already going to be in debt with the visit alone, and I knew we couldn’t add the cost of the ambulance too.

Later that night, I’d find out that my years-long suspicion of a possible addiction was accurate.

At first, I blamed the pieces of shit that sold her the drugs, the off-brand Adderall that promised to give her all the energy she needed to work eighty hours a week. I confronted a few of the well-known sellers in the area. Even at thirteen, I was big as shit, already pushing six feet and tipping the scales close to one fifty. Scrawny, but lean, with enough muscle to knock some of the grown men to the floor before they did what the weak always do and pull a gun. It was the only way I’d relent, because with each punch, with each crack of their jaws, I’d feel better.

Why?

Because it wasn’t really them I was hitting. It was me.

The real person who let my mother almost die.

I’d agree with her every time she asked me to take care of Fi. To feed my sister dinner and get her ready for school or bed. I made Mom feel content with leaving us at home while she picked up extra shifts and side jobs. I allowed her to think that it was okay for her to run herself ragged as long as our homework was done and the house stayed as clean as it possibly could. I thought by doing that I was relieving her stress. Helping her see that we were okay while she busted her ass to make ends meet and put what she could on our table.

But all along it should have been me who was picking up the side gigs. Not only that, but I should have told her about the little things Fi was starting to do. Her small cries for attention. The fact that there were things I couldn’t teach her that Mom needed to.

A week after our mother came back, everything changed. She was forced to stay home, to learn to cope and live with her new symptoms, and with barely a trickle of money from our absent sperm donor, I was allowed to pick up the slack.

That’s when the darkness I’d been born with started to grow. When I was younger, it’d been shoved into the furthest corners of my mind, too busy with all my focus on helping raise Fi to feed it. But when I started picking up the jobs, it was like feeding it a protein shake.

I’ve done well keeping it in line, but now that I’m in the belly of a beast much bigger than my own, it wants to come out to play. To compete.

Shoving the dangerously idiotic idea back down, I close my hand over the worn metal handle. As expected, the door is unlocked, but inside, my mother isn’t there.

I quickly walk through the small house, my boots echoing against the faux wood sticky tile. My sister’s and my shared room remains empty and untouched as it was when I left it yesterday. Our two beds are pressed against opposite ends as if an invisible line runs down the middle, either side completely different. Fiona’s side is nothing but green pothos and cream bedding, while mine is as bare as can be with only posters of local bands on the wall.

Traveling back through the hall, I find my mother's room is empty as well, along with the shared bathroom and living area.

My nerves begin to wind, a sickening sensation curdling the amazing breakfast in my gut.

What if—

Thankfully, I don’t have to finish that thought as a single piece of paper and a small box on the dining table catch the corner of my eye.

I can’t help but sigh a bit of relief that not only is she okay, but out in the fresh air. Most days she’s a recluse, staring at old reruns or griping over her latest soap opera. Slowly, our neighbor has begun coaxing her out of the house, and I think it’s helped with quite a few side effects of the drugs.

Grabbing the small box, I rip off the single strip of tape holding it together. Inside is a single item, something I didn’t even know they made anymore.

Is this a fucking Nokia?

I take the ancient piece of technology and power it up. On the microscopic screen, a text pops up from a number already programmed.

SM: Call me when you get this.

After clicking the number, it only takes half a ring.

“So you’re alive. That’s good.”

“Where’s my sister?” I cut to the chase, invoking as much poison in my words as possible.

He tsks, and I hear the phone’s plastics squeak as it gives way to my tight grasp. “All I have is a map right now. I’m sure it’s the same one you have.”

“Perhaps. Got any codes or anything?” His voice is as sleazy as it was the day on the roof, and it begins to boil my blood in how laid back it is. Like this is a casual conversation, and he doesn’t have my kid sister locked away in some fucking basement or some shit.

“No! I just fucking started. All I know so far is who is in charge of what and how far their property lines go.”

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