Page 2 of Vengeful King

She’s fading.

I swallow hard and try to push down my despair, fear, and anger. I watch her eyes grow hazy. She’s trying, struggling to access a memory that probably feels just out of reach. But for her, it’s gone.

Like she is. She’s gone.

I never used to think about what made people who they are. Now, with my mother fading more every day, I know. She’s not herself anymore; she’s not the same woman. The memories that made her who she was are gone, permanently. They’ve disappeared. She’s only an echo of herself now.

It’s a prolonged death, and it feels like hell. It feels like I’m watching her die a little bit day by day.

My mother turns to look at me, and I know in a second that she doesn’t see me for who I am. Her eyes slide right over me.

She smiles vapidly, patting my hand where it lies on the corner of her bed. She doesn’t keep eye contact; she turns to look out the window. I’m a stranger to her now.

But still, I try.

“I’ll ask. About the cat,” I say.

She turns to look at me. “The cat, dear? That’s nice.”

She’s being polite. She doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Her eyes turn away from me, absently roaming the grounds outside her window.

I bite my tongue and shut my eyes. I knew it wouldn’t last. Her moments of lucidity are happening less and less often these days.

And now I’ve lost her. Again.

I stand up and kiss her goodbye, her forehead powdery and soft. She doesn’t even acknowledge me. Maybe she doesn’t even recognize me doing this. Maybe she’s gone far away again, lost in her own mind—or what’s left of it.

As I head toward the door, I stop to collect myself quickly in front of the mirror. It’s small and square, cutting me off at the shoulders, and the woman staring back at me looks almost like a stranger.

God, I look awful.

There’s misery in my eyes. I don’t know if anyone else can see it. At least this time, I didn’t get so frustrated I cried. But I look tired.

I see some of my mother in myself. We have the same gray eyes, though mine are clear and sharp. I have my father’s hair; it’s auburn, knotted up at the base of my neck. I threw it up on my way here, too busy to make it look good.

I look like both my parents, almost perfectly in divide. I have my mother’s skin, my father’s statuesque nose and lips. I have my mother’s eyes. I am both of them, so much that I could be a textbook example.

I shake my head and push through the door, trying to clear my thoughts. I need to get out, before the smell of disinfectant and dying people makes me scream. It’s too bright in here.

I rush toward the front doors. I’m nearly there when someone stops me, a noise of surprise and a thrown-out arm making me stop in my tracks.

“Miss—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hold you up. But I need to ask about payment.”

The second the woman sayspayment,my stomach clenches.

“Oh.” I bite my lip, clearing my throat.

“You’re behind on your payments for the room,” she says quietly. “I just wanted to catch you before you left, because—”

“I understand,” I reply, cutting her off. I turn toward the front desk.

I don’t need to hear what she’s about to say. I’ve heard it all before.

You’ll default. You’re going to have to pay fines.

You need to pay the minimum at least.

Don’t you know you need to pay it? Don’t you know it’s worse if you wait?

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