Page 91 of Spiralling Skywards: Fading
And then I slapped him.
I hit my child.
The outline of my handprint appeared red and angry across the top of his leg, and I stared at it in silence.
I hit my child.
Carter cried softly but never said a word as I stood and stared at him in silent mortification.
I hit my child.
I took a few deep, shaky breaths, and headed to the kitchen to make my son’s lunch. Once that was done, I turned to find my three eldest boys standing at the bottom of the stairs. Their cheeks were blotchy and their eyes were shining from the tears I’d caused them, but at least they were fucking dressed.
“Get in the car.”
We drove to school in silence, and when I pulled into the Kiss and Go zone, I kissed Carter’s cheek, told him I loved him, and wished him a good day.
I dropped the twins at playgroup, and then I went home and took in the devastation left in my family room. For the longest time, I stood there thinking about how it represented my life and the mess I’d made of it. Which led me to thinking about what I needed to do to make it better.
All my life, I’d worried that I would end up just like her. My mother. But I wasn’t like her at all.
I was worse.
I’d already taken the life of my unborn child, and a few hours ago, I’d inflicted physical harm on another.
Something needed to be done, but I didn’t know how to fix it. The more I thought about it, the thicker the fog became, the less clear I was able to see, and the deeper I sank.
I went through the motions of cleaning the seat cushions on autopilot, luckily they were leather. I tidied our home, and I collected the children from school.
I left Taylor at our house with the boys a few hours later. An early evening appointment was all I could get for this last and final attempt at searching for the old me.
I’d already had my nails done. I’d had my hair done. I’d had a pedicure, eyelash tint, and eyebrow wax. You name it. I fucking got it, because I thought all of that would help me find her. That girl I used to be.
I didn’t go far, just across town. I thought I’d try eyelash extensions this time—nothing too glamorous. I was just a stay-at-home mum after all. I opted for the one-on-one application, which took almost two hours, but I walked out with thick, dark lashes and absolutely no sign of the old me. I was still lost, but my lashes . . . my lashes looked fucking amazing.
And that was all that mattered, right?
Right.
The boys were happy. They loved their dog. They didn’t like me, because der, I was a terrible mother who murdered their sibling and screamed, swore, and smacked my children, but at least I had amazing fucking lashes.
I played my music loud on the way home.
I sang . . . loudly . . . the whole way.
“Ex’s and O’s”.
I pulled into our court.
I pulled into our drive, and then I felt a bump just as I noticed our front door was open.
No.
No.
This wasn’t happening.
Lucas waited at the window for me to come home.
