Page 37 of Make Me Scream
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.”
“A bit of both,” Bill admits honestly.
“I guess there’s that.” I blow out a breath, which makes Bill chuckle, his large body taking up most of the small hallway space—and blocking any view Lucy may have, which I’m grateful for.
After a few long minutes of us just standing there, my eyes wandering the cracks in the moldy drywall, I ask, “What do I do, Bill?” The question hangs in the air, potent and tangible. “I was almost out. Just over two months.Two fucking months,” I mutter. It’s so close, I can almost taste it.
“Survive, kid. Just like you have been.”
I frown. “That’s not what I want anymore,” I tell him honestly, not realizing how true it is until I say it out loud.
Bill turns and gives me the saddest smile. “I know.”
“I almost made it,” I whisper, chin quivering uncontrollably all over again.
“Yeah, Abel. You almost did.”
“I made tater tot casserole!I hope you like it,” Lucy exclaims as she plops the food on the table in front of me. She clearly just bought the oven mitts, and judging by the stains on the dish, I’d say she just picked it up from the thrift store. Matter of fact, I think I remember seeing that exact one, one of the many times I’ve been there.
The thought makes me laugh, which confuses Lucy.
“What’s funny?”
I shake my head, and my hair flops in front of my eyes. “This whole fucking situation. You thinking you’re actuallytrying.Like any of this matters.”
“It matters to me, Abel,” she says softly. I rear back becauseno. Fuck that.
“What gives you the right?” I ask, voice merely a whisper. Bill fucked off somewhere in the living room to give Lucy and I some “privacy”, but now, I’m cursing his stupid, bald-headed ass because where the fuck is he when I need him?
“I’m your mother.” Her voice cracks, and I loathe the way it makes my heart feel so heavy.
“You say that like it means something.”Stay cold, Abel. Don’t fucking give in to it.
“It does to me.”
“But it doesn’t to me, Lucy.” I grit my teeth. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand,” I argue, voice slowly getting louder. “I have no idea who the hell you are. All I know of you are faded memories that I think I confuse with the dreams and nightmares. The only reason I recognized you is because of some Polaroid I’ve managed to keep a hold of through all the houses I’ve passed through.”
“A Polaroid?”
“Really?” I chuckle, pushing my chair back and standing. “That’s what you get from that?”
Her eyes widen, stringy, white hair framing her gaunt face—a face I hate to see look so much like me. “No.No,” she repeats vehemently. “Please, Abel. Sit.”
I narrow my gaze, eyeing her warily as I slowly lower myself back down, unsure of what I’m even doing. “Alright,” I concede.
“I don’t really know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would be a good start,” I mutter.
“You being a smartass certainly doesn’t help,” she snaps, and for some reason, it makes me flinch.
“Right.” Lucy nods sharply, looking satisfied, and I cower further into my chair, arms crossed and feeling chilled to the bone. She dishes us each a plate of food, the plastic clattering on the rickety table when she sets it back down.
“So, I’ve been sober for a while now—nearly a year. I was in treatment, rehab, whatever you want to call it for a few months at first, and then, after I got out, I started NA meetings and have been going to those five days a week in between my shifts at a diner in the next town over.”
She takes her chair across from me and takes a bite of her food. When she opens her mouth, I notice broken and rotted teeth—most likely a result of drugs, but it still makes me shiver.
“And that’s pretty much been my life—for the last year anyway. Anything before that is not worth repeating,” she says coldly, not leaving room for argument, and I stiffen.
