Page 336 of Phobia
I let my eyes linger over his slight shape for another moment.
I know what I'm supposed to do.
Call the cops.
Call an ambulance.
Call Andre and ask him to save this boy from me.
I won’t do any of those things.
I don’t even have the urge to pretend I would ever consider handing overmyboy to someone else. As of this moment, giving him up has become impossible.
I close the tailgate, then pull back the canvas, securing it with hooks and lock my truck. When I turn to the back door, Andre is there, looking at me.
No need to ask him if he's seen what I've done.
He says nothing as he walks back inside.
I find Andre behind the bar as he makes himself a cup of coffee. He merely observes me as I'm slowly folding my leather apron, tucking it away on a shelf behind the counter. He watches me put my jacket on, taking a sip of his espresso.
“How long will you be?” he asks, his voice flat.
“This time...I don’t know.” I look straight into his eyes. I want him to be the voice of reason. Convince me I’m insane. Force me to confess my crimes.
The irony of the situation hits me, as between the two of us, I am that – the voice of reason. I am the cool and composed business partner, the ever-so-diplomatic friend, always polite, and never getting into trouble. Always wearing that fake smile like it’s permanently plastered over my face. The illusion of normality never reaches my eyes.
He bobs his head like he understands.
He doesn’t.
Nobody does.
Even I don’t know why I need to do what I do. Why it feels right.
He makes no further comment as he walks away from me and disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone to face my demons. Leaving me alone withmy boy.
Chapter 3
“Ma Cheri, you are pretty like a girl.”
I giggle, feeling her fingers tickling me after a warm bubble bath.
I'm five years old again and my mamma peppers me with kisses as I wriggle on the bed. We laugh and I feel happy, safe, and loved.
It's not real. None of it is.This is how I wish it had been.
Years later, when the memories are suddenly crystal-clear, I finally hear how much her voice was pained with tension when she spoke to me. Her tired eyes and her trembling hands trying to corral a horrified child to sleep. To exhaust me enough that my eyes closed on their own so she wouldn't have to drug me. She would if she must. And she did. Many times. If her spent body couldn't handle my fear anymore, forcing me to sleep was her only option.
Until one day, she made a different choice. The wrong one.
This isn’t real.
She's not here.
Bath. Bath every night. Until the night she left.
Bath.
