Page 1 of Riot's Thorn
PROLOGUE
RIOT
Age eighteen. . .
Hysterical cries are the first thing I hear when I walk through the door. Instantly, my shoulders slump and my mood plummets. After hanging up my backpack and jacket, I walk down the hall toward where the light from the hallway showshercurled into a ball on her bed.
“Mom, I’m home,” I say, hoping that will be enough to calm her down.
“Oh, you finally decided I’m worth your time?” she snipes from her darkened room that smells of cigarette smoke and depression.
“I was only gone five hours,” I mutter, but it was the wrong thing to say because her wails get louder. She likes it when I do things for her, so I try again. “Did you eat dinner? I can make you something.”
“Don’t you dare act like you care now!” she snaps. “Not after I was nothing to you all day, not even worth a second of your precious time.” Her eyes do that thing they do right before she starts calling me names. “You’re no different than your father.”
I recoil in fear because Mom despises Dad, which can only mean she despises me, too.
“He’s a worthless piece of shit.”
“He only shows upwhen he wants something.”
“That loser will never get anything from me ever again.”
Yet, each time he waltzes back into our lives, telling her how much he loves her and how she’s the only thing he has in this world, she forgives him. Then, like clockwork, he vanishes again to chase another woman, leaving us worse than broke. How can I be like him when I don’t do any of those things?
“I had to work.”
She jumps out of bed, her sorrow turning to rage. “You said you’d always be there for me. You said you’d never leave me alone like he did, but you lied.”
I back up with each step she takes. “I’m here now.”
People have always been hard for me to understand, but Mom has never made sense. No matter what I do, it’s wrong, and no matter how I approach her, the reaction is always the same. She yells, gets violent, and kicks me out, only to later break down, cry, and beg me to come home.
But I know I’m not like Dad, so despite how difficult she is, I stay. I quit school and got a job to pay the bills. I do all the cooking, cleaning, and shopping. Without me, we’d be living on the streets again. Most days, she can’t even get out of bed, let alone hold down a job. She hasn’t tried in two years, relying on me completely.
It wasn’t hard for me to find a job, and working at the cement factory pays good money. Plus, my supervisor says I’m an excellent worker, and it won’t take me long to earn a promotion. I don’t know how anyone could be a bad worker when all you do is load bags onto the rotary packer. It’s easy.
“What good is that job going to be when you come home and find me dead because I couldn’t take the loneliness anymore?Because that’s what’s going to happen! Then, everyone will know what a bad son you are, and for the rest of your life, you’ll have to live with knowing you killed your mom.”
I consider how life would be with her gone, and I don’t think I’d mind. All my problems would be solved. Sometimes, people say things they won’t really do just to make a person feel bad. Is this one of those times? Because the more I think about it, the more I hope she really does down a bottle of pills.
“That doesn’t make sense. I have to work,” I repeat. “We’re behind on rent, and if we get kicked out of this trailer, we’ll be living on the street. You gave Dad the car, so we have nothing to fall back on.”
“You know what?” She charges now, shoving me with all her might. I trip but manage to stay on my feet. “You think it’s more important to impress your boss than be with your own mother during a hard time, then go. I’m better off dead anyway. No one loves me, not even my own son, so what do I have to live for?”
“I can’t go back to work; I’m not on the schedule. It’s Friday, so I don’t go back until Monday.”
“Maybe you should go find a second job then. You have me living in this trailer with stained walls and shoddy plumbing. I deserve better than this.” Shoving me isn’t enough, so she takes up smacking. “I’ve housed, fed, and clothed you your whole life, but when I need you, all I get is this dump.”
“I don’t understand. Do you want me to go or stay?” I flinch when her hands connect with my head from all angles, stinging my face and neck.
She scoffs. “Do whatever you want, Lucas. I don’t care. You’re just like every other man—selfish and abusive.”
I just wish she made sense for once. Does she do this on purpose because she knows it confuses me?
“Calm down. You drank too much. You should sleep it off.” I’m backed up against the front door and know if I don’t get thisunder control, the neighbors will call the cops. The last thing I need is for them to haul her away for beating on her kid. Or worse—for her to lie and say I was the one hitting her. Both have happened in the past, and neither ends well for either of us.
“Don’t tell me to calm down! If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t drink at all!” she screams as she pulls my jacket and backpack off the hook, pushing them at me. “I want you gone!”
