Page 114 of Riot

I knocked once out of habit before pushing the door open.

The room was dark as hell. Curtains drawn, air stale. The only light came from the TV glowing low, some cooking show playing on mute. She was sitting up in bed, arms folded tight like she was cold even though the thermostat was set to damn near 80.

“They’re trying to kill me,” she said without looking up.

I paused in the doorway, jaw ticking. “Who?”

She blinked slow, turned her head toward me like she was seeing through me. “Them. The women. The ones downstairs. The ones in the walls. They whisper. You hear them, don’t you? They’re poisoning me.”

I let out a long breath and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. “Mama, there’s nobody in the walls.”

“You don’t know what I know,” she snapped. “They been creeping. Creeping and waiting. They want to take my place.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t take your meds, did you?”

She ignored that. Reached for my hand instead. “You gotta let Malia go.”

My stomach clenched. “Don’t start?—”

“She wasn’t good for you,” she hissed. “I told you. She was terrible. A liar. A snake.”

“She was pregnant,” I said flatly. “With my baby.”

“She was pregnant,” she spat like it was dirt in her mouth. “So what? That don’t make her a mother. Trust me I know! It takes more than being pregnant… or giving birth to be a mother.”

I stared at her. Something in her voice had shifted. Sharpened. Coherent. Focused. But the moment flickered away just as quick as it came. Was she trying to tell me something? Did she feel regret for how she raised us.

“Mama,” I started, trying to meet her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

She blinked, vacant again. “Don’t let the whispers in. Don’t let them crawl under your skin. They’ll eat you from the inside out.”

I rubbed my face, tired and tight. She was unraveling. Faster every time.

I leaned in to hug her, because what the fuck else could I do, and that’s when I smelled it.

Underneath the lotion, her Coco Chanel No. 5, the sweat and fear and old age—there it was.

Sickness.

Death’s knock.

Cancer.

It’s a smell I was too familiar with. Her mother had it. Boaz had it. The folks on my grandmother’s floor at the hospital. The animals too far gone to save. It had a stench—bitter and final. Like metal and mold and grief.

She tried to pull back but I held her tighter, closing my eyes for a second, letting that knowledge settle in my bones.

“You need to go to the doctor,” I said low.

“No more doctors,” she whispered, gripping the front of my shirt like I was the only thing anchoring her to this world. “Please, Silas. Just let me be.”

Ugh. She was back to calling me that man’s name.

“I can’t do that.” I stood and eased her up with me. “You raised me to be a savage, remember? You don’t get to tap out now.”

Her knees buckled and I caught her, my arm firm around her waist. “Come on. Let’s get you out the house. Get some air.”

She grumbled, weak and stubborn, but didn’t fight me.

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