Page 12 of King of Ruin

The corners of his lips lift. “I’ve heard you say that before. I wonder if you mean it the way you did the first time you said it.”

His eyes darken at the same time the images of me writhing in front of him in the shower flash in my mind. The soft clicks of my barbells hitting into the slick glass as he took everything I had to offer. And I gave it to him. Not because he asked, but because hetookit.

Something I hadn’t realized I needed. But he did. Now, I’m left with the residual anger growing into a dark, twisted version of self-hate. Too many should haves and missed signs on my part.

“Tell me, Boss.” His hand finds my throat, squeezing just enough to force my face to his.

I close my eyes, not willing to let him see me anymore. “Leave, Kane.”

His hand disappears, but the phantom warmth of him remains as heavy steps signal his retreat. “As you wish.”

It isn’t until the door closes and I hear nothing but the hum of a nearby generator that I finally open my eyes. I let the emotional whiplash, defeat, anger, resentment, and frustration bubble to the surface.

It’s then I do something I haven’t done in years.

I scream.

Pushing my spaghetti around with my fork, I watch as baby Fi slurps up the noodles on her plate. Her small face is covered in marinara sauce, bits of green parsley sticking over and across her cheeks like freckles. I’d gotten distracted with the ending of a chapter from myGoosebumpsbook and put too much of the seasoning in the pan.

Luckily it doesn’t really add any flavor and Fiona doesn’t seem bothered. Or maybe it’s the dash of sugar I threw in that has her eating wildly with pasta dangling over half her face.

It was a tip I saw once on TV, from those late-night infomercials that try to sell different things while also showing you how to use them. A lady with long blonde hair was explaining how her special spoons could measure, strain, and serve pasta. While she was making the sauce she tossed in sugar and said it helps cut the acidity of the tomatoes.

Not too sure what it means, but I tried it once and haven’t gone back. And considering we have spaghetti once a week–four times, if you count leftover days–I want to make it as perfect as possible. That way Fi doesn’t complain and I don’t have to use up all the bread in three days by making nothing but sandwiches. My kitchen skills are still pretty limited after all.

I can also make regular things like mac and cheese out of the box and put waffles in the toaster. But that stuff is more expensive and doesn’t last as long, or make as much as a big pot of spaghetti.

My eyes drift from the noodles dangling from Fiona’s nose to my mother. She’s sitting on the couch, her head pressed back into the cushions, eyes closed and her feet on the small coffee table. She just got off a double shift and I know she’ll probably stay like that until her alarm goes off for work in the morning.

She’s had the same routine for three years now. Work, home, sleep. Work, home, sleep. Day in and day out.

Ever since the day we lost baby Bunny, things have changed.

My mother became a stranger and I became a caregiver. I had to learn quickly how to take care of a one-year-old. How to somehow balance my Wednesday night training, hide any cuts and bruises, and make Fi breakfast. Learn what time I need to be up in order to drop her off at the neighbors so I could be on time for school. How to eat on the go, that way I could cut my after-school library trips by moving them to my lunch period, ensuring I’d pick her up before it gets too late.

Then we play until her stomach tells me it’s time for dinner. After that, a bath and story before tucking her in for bed.

It isn’t until I’ve cleaned the house, washed the dishes, and scrubbed our clothes in the sink, that Mom usually walks in. Besides Wednesdays, she’s coming home later and later, her eyes dimmer and emptier each day.

Still, she always smiles at me, thanks me, then kisses a sleeping Fi on the forehead before taking her own shower and going to bed.

There was a time I used to be angry with her. Mad she seemed to leave me and Fi behind as if we didn’t exist, just like Bunny. But as time has gone on, the more I realize she’s still hurting.

I wonder if every time she touches her tummy she thinks of her? I know I do when I look at her flat stomach, and because of that my anger has faded into understanding. Into wanting to do the best I can to keep any more stress from her shoulders. And when I’m old enough to work, I’ll take over the bills too. Let her rest at home and enjoy time with Fiona. Maybe then she will have time to heal.

Though I already know her answer, I walk quietly over to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You hungry, Mom?”

She mumbles something I can’t make out but shakes her head.

“I’ll leave you some in the fridge,” I whisper before returning to the table.

I wrangle a squealing Fi out of her strapped seat, tickling the side of her ribs as I carry her to the bathroom. After setting her down, she watches me fill the tub up with soap, pouring in bubbles under the spout until it’s almost overflowing.

Once it’s ready, I go into the hall and put my back against the wall. I finally got her potty trained a couple of months ago, so now we have a little system. She goes potty, washes her hands, and then gets herself into the tub. Once she’s covered in bubbles, I step back inside, sit on the toilet, and tell her funny stories until the suds begin to fade.

Tonight she picks the bookGoodnight Moonafter she waddles into her room, still wrapped in her towel. After we get her PJ’s on, and she climbs into bed, I get to the last page before her soft snores fill the room. I make a mental note to put the humidifier on before my ride gets here.

Hitting her nightlight on, and traveling back to the kitchen, I notice my mother still in the same position. I keep quiet as I clean everything up, but the knock on the front door shakes the frame and makes her jolt upright.

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