Page 14 of The Nephilim's Finesse

"Doesn't matter if I do," he said bitterly. "She doesn't listen. I don’t know if I can take it anymore.”

My heart sank at his confession. I knew Brian's mother had been a source of stress for him, but I didn't realise how much it took a toll on him. "Brian, you can't keep going down this path," I uttered. "You've worked too hard to get clean."

"I know," he murmured, looking down at the ground. "But what else am I supposed to do?"

"Keep trying," I said, my voice softening. "You're stronger than you think. And remember, you're not alone in this. I'm here for you."

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. "Thanks, Raph," he whispered.

"Anytime." I gave him a reassuring smile. "Let's go grab some coffee and talk more about this."

As we walked away from the alleyway, I felt a sense of responsibility towards Brian. He was one of my patients, but he’d also become a friend. I knew I couldn’t fix all of his problems, but I’d do everything in my power to help him through them. That was what being an addiction counselor was all about—helping those in need, no matter how difficult the journey may be. Helping them understand their addiction and gain coping skills to get and remain sober was what I was there for.

When we sat down at a coffee shop—it was too tempting to go to a pub with him, so we didn't—I took a sip of my coffee and looked across the table at Brian. He had been quiet for the past few minutes, lost in thought. I could tell he was struggling with something.

"Tell me about your mum," I said, breaking the silence.

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with sadness. "It's just..." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She's always been a problem, but now that I'm clean, it's like all of her issues are coming to the surface. I hate being with her and having to take care of her."

"I understand how difficult that must be," I said, trying to offer some comfort.

"But do you?" he barked. "Do you really understand what it's like to have a mother who doesn't care about you? Who would rather spend her time with drugs than with her own son?"

I took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. My mother gave me away to the Nephilim when I was about a year old. I don’t remember her, and I didn’t know if she fought to stay with me or not. "No, I don't understand exactly what you're going through," I admitted. "But I do know that holding onto anger and resentment towards your mother isn't going to help you heal."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered, looking down at his hands.

"Brian, listen to me," I said firmly, searching his eyes. "It doesn't matter if you hate her or not. What matters is that you find a way to deal with her and make the best out of your situation. Look for your own apartment, and get someone to take care of her. If you need help, I'm here for you. But you have to be willing to take that first step."

He looked up at me, his expression softening. "I know, I'll try." His voice was cracking.

"Good." I smiled. "Now, let's finish our coffee and talk about some strategies to help you cope with your mother."

As we continued to talk, I couldn’t help but think about my own past and the struggles I faced. To stay clean, not giving in to the allurement. I felt for Brian. It was arduous to be with his mother, see her suffering, and argue with her. It was never easy dealing with difficult relationships, but sometimes, it was our only choice.

Suddenly, I realised that I wasn’t thinking about Brian and his mother anymore but about Victorija and me. I’d told him that what mattered was finding a way to deal with her and make the best out of his situation. That was true for me, too. I only had to heed my own words.

It was just another day in fucking hell with Victorija. I asked her questions; she stared at me or through me. As I questioned her, she sat in one of the chairs and bobbed her leg, the only sign of her impatience or annoyance, I couldn't quite tell.

When she started to rake her fingers through her crimson looks and then to braid it into little plaits, I felt anger rise within me. Did she think this was all a joke? That it didn’t matter how many lives she ended? How many witches, warlocks, Nephilim, and humans she had killed? How many had suffered because of her? We only wanted to end this senseless slaughter. Was that so hard to understand? My heartbeat accelerated, and I ground my teeth. Who'd she think she was? I wanted to strangle her, shaking her until she finally started to speak, to apologise for what she had done. I balled my fists and took one step towards her.

She looked up and, reading my expression right, stopped braiding and backed out of the chair.

“What do you think this is here? Do I bore you?”

She squinted her eyes, not saying anything, yet her posture was ready to defend herself. She backed away a step further. I was in front of her in a heartbeat, pressing her between the wall and my body. Only inches separated us.

“Your behaviour is so rude!”

Her eyebrows nearly touched her hairline. “Rude? You think I’m rude?”

She pressed her lips together as if to seal them off from saying more.

“Oh yes,” I growled. “I’ve been accommodating and polite to you, given all the possibilities. Still, you don’t cooperate in the least.”

She boiled inside. Victorija tightly clenched her knuckles together, pressing them so hard that her fists showed a visible amount of white bone. Her eyes were full of loathing, angry tears forming in them. Her nostrils flared, and her mouth contorted in disdain, revealing her fangs. She opened and closed her mouth several times. The fight not to say something and scream at me was almost funny, and a cold smile escaped me while she struggled.

“I hate you so much!”

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