Page 8 of Nyx

"Notice that."

My hands ache from the clench of my fists, and I struggle to continue standing taller as she sobs over a man who has hurt her relentlessly for years.

"I deserved better."

"Notice that."

"I deserved better," I repeat, but my voice is weaker.

"I want you to head to your safe space," she urges.

In my head, I stare down at my mother, wishing things could've been different, but eventually I turn around and walk out of the room.

In the next breath, my eyes flutter closed, and I'm alone on a private island where no one could ever reach me. I walk toward the stairs of a private bunker, the door swinging open easily.

Fifteen steps toward the center of the earth, several more doors, and a retinal scan later, I'm alone and safe.

I lift my eyes to hers.

"You did well," she says.

I shake my head, feeling as if I got no further than I did the last time, other than the shift in blame.

"She deserved better, too," I argue.

She nods. "She did."

"She's my mother."

"I know."

"I should've protected her."

She swallows, and I don't know if she's trying to figure out what to say or how to say it in a way that won't make me fly off the handle.

"She should've protected you."

"He was the problem," I argue, sitting forward and leaning in closer.

She doesn't budge, and I sit back. It's not my intention to scare her or use my size advantage to intimidate her.

"I don't disagree," she says. "I don't disagree that she was a victim. I'd never say she deserved what she got for staying. We both fully understand, as adults with what we've witnessed, how the cycle of abuse continues. I'm saying you deserved better, and as a child as young as six years old, seeing and being the victim of violence yourself, your mother should've protected you."

I blink at her, letting her words sink into me.

My mother never forgave me for what I did that day. That brief moment of relief on her face was from not being hit more that night, not relief that I sent our monster to hell.

She hated me for it until the day she died of liver failure.

Both of my parents were severe alcoholics.

I figured she drank to ease the pain of the abuse, but she didn't stop, even after he was no longer around to hit her.

"You can love her, and you can hate her for not protecting you. Both things can be true at the same time."

"I don't hate her," I mutter.

"You can be disappointed in her because she didn't protect you," she clarifies. "You can blame her for forcing your hand into protecting her, which triggered something inside of you that gave you the belief that killing a monster is the only way to stop a monster."