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She is gone.
Sour sickness churns in the pit of my stomach. I scramble to the bathroom down the hall and heave into the toilet. I stare at the chunks of vomit floating in the water, remembering how Mom used to rub my back in soothing circles whenever I got sick.
No one is here to rub my back now.
No one is here to comfort me.
I am alone.
I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth out in the sink. My reflection stares back at me in the mirror while I steady my breath. Big blue eyes. Dark hair. I look like the younger version of The Monster.
If a monster creates you, are you then part monster?
When I step out of the bathroom, Detective Woods is leaning against the wall waiting for me. I don’t make eye contact with him. Instead, I study his shoes. His shoes are always so shiny.
Woods places his large hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”
I nod.
“Thomas, I need you to come with me. Once the EMT checks you out, of course.”
I need to give my statement. I know the routine well. Only this time, I’ve witnessed a murder.
I follow Woods back into the living room. Yellow numbers now surround Mom’s body on the floor. My house no longer looks like my home. It’s a crime scene. I suppose it always was.
My eyes settle on the melting ice cream cake on the dining room table. An hour ago, Mom was singing Happy Birthday to me and Dad was explaining how turning thirteen meant I was a man.
Yeah. Today’s my birthday.
The flash of a camera interrupts my thoughts. Who would want that job, taking pictures of dead bodies?
Woods puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, kid. You don’t need to watch this.”
It’s too late, I want to say. I’ve already seen too much.
More than anyone should.
Nothing will ever be the same again. Not that I want it to be as it was before. Living with a violent drunk for a father and a weak, abused mother isn’t a life I want to go back to … but where will I go from here? Who will want me now?
A monster’s child.
A monster child.
Sobs rack my body. Uncontrollable emotions unleash, flooding every cell in my being. My hands clutch my chest, as if I can physically stop everything from pouring out.
I’m hemorrhaging.
A release of all the bad.
Pain.
Fear.
Rage.
Guilt.
“You’re all right, TJ,” my therapist says. “You’re in my office. You’re safe. You’re going to be okay.”
