Page 92 of Bleeding Hearts

He’s supposed to get off early, around four today and the two of us are going to try this new Greek restaurant around the corner from Blackheart.

I told him I’d meet him at the shop when he got off and we could head over. It’s three-forty now, which means I have about five minutes before I need to get up and get my things together before heading out.

My phone rings from the coffee table in front of me, and I pick it up, already knowing who it is before even looking at the screen.

My mother has been calling me once or twice a day the past few days, but today, this is her sixth call.

It’s become normal for her to try to call me, but the amount that she’s called me today makes me think something is wrong.

My mother is one of the calmest and most collected people I know. She’s poised and proper, and she’s not the type of person to blow up someone’s phone, even her daughter’s, without reason.

I’ve ignored her calls for months now and I had planned to keep ignoring them but worry festers under my skin at the thought of ignoring her if something’s really wrong.

I watch the call ring, staring at the screen as I debate whether to pick it up. It keeps ringing as I think and then before I can make a decision, it stops, making my decision for me.

But then it rings again not a second later, my mother’s name shining across the screen, and my worry intensifies.

I give in, clicking answer and bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I say hesitantly.

“Demi, thank goodness you answered. I need you,” my mother says frantically into the phone.

I sit up straighter, now giving her my full attention. She sounds distressed in a way that I’ve never heard her before. The naturally elegant tone of her voice is completely missing, replaced by one of panic and anxiety.

“Mom? What’s going on?” I ask.

“I’m so sorry, Demi. You were right all along; your father is a monster.” She cries into the phone, practically choking on her sobs. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to get out. Your father left for a business trip this afternoon, but he’s only gone until tomorrow. Will you please come help me pack my things? I have to get out of here before he gets back, sweetheart.”

My heart breaks for her and how hurt she sounds, for the woman who, despite adding to my own trauma, has dealt with so much pain at the hands of an abusive and manipulative husband for so many years.

Hope festers in my chest as she speaks, the desperation in her voice of wanting to finally get out, of finally asking me for the help I’ve been offering her for so long.

“Okay, Mom, it’s okay. I’m coming to help. I’ll be there soon, I promise.” I stand from the couch, grab Gordon Meowsy and bring him to his room with fresh food and water.

“The door will be unlocked when you get here. Please hurry, honey. I don’t want to be alone right now.” She begs.

“I’m on my way, Mom.” I throw my phone on the counter while I search for my purse and put on my shoes, slipping the sneakers onto my already-socked feet.

My mind is in a million places by the time I grab my purse, practically running out the door. The main thing running through it is that my mom needs me.

I run downstairs, jump in the car, and get right on the road to my mother’s house. I reach over into my purse to grab my phone as I stop at a red light, knowing I should text Asher where I’m going like I promised, but as I search through the contents of the purse, I can’t seem to find it.

It’s then that I realize I must have left it on the counter.

The light turns green, and I know it’s too late to turn around, so I figure I’ll just call him using my mom’s phone as soon as I get there. Asher’s words from weeks ago about my mom tricking me run through my mind, but only for a second before I push them far away.

I know my mom and she’s many things, but she wouldn’t trick me like that. She couldn’t. I’m her daughter.

I speed all the way to her house, not stopping to comprehend where I’m going until I pull into the driveway and put the car in park. I stare at the large house in front of me that I haven’t seen in nearly seven years.

I close my eyes, remembering the day I left, the freedom I felt, and try to push down the overwhelming anxiety crawling up my spine at the thought of walking back into the place where most of my nightmares live.

But then I remember my mom, the panic and tears in her voice. She’s still living inside the nightmare, and she’s finally ready to accept help.

So, I push my own fears aside and get out of the car, walking up the long driveway and to the front door. I push down on the large gold handle and open the door.

Shivers crawl up my spine as I step through the doorway. The place hasn’t changed a bit since I left. The same clean white walls, pristine furniture that looks more for show than use, the same haunted feeling.

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