She found him in the bathroom. He hadn’t intended for her to find him there. He’d locked the door—he swore he’d locked it. He remembered turning the lock and hearing the little click reverberate throughout the small room with finality. That lock would keep him in and keep her out, force his hand and protect her from him. Yet she’d found a way to bust inside and expose his ugly truth. Perhaps nothing in this world could withstand a mother’s love. Or, perhaps, the universe was working against him, refusing to allow him to make one good decision. He only wanted to do something right. Couldn’t they see that? Or, most frightening of all, it was possible that he had not truly locked the door, that his hands had betrayed him, tricked him into thinking he was safe in isolation. How dare these hands attempt to abandon his resolve? Now he doubted that he could trust this job to them, but he had no other choice.
The stupid things trembled as they picked up the blade. He admonished them, promising this would be the last thing they ever had to do. His frustration did not stop them from shaking. Maybe the anger would make it easier. He allowed it to swell in his chest, boil and bubble up to the surface… then it fizzled out. The wave of fury dropped back down into the pit of his chest and stood still, a silent lake, its surface pulsating in anticipation. The rippling water reflected a face not his own, young and bright.
She’d been a rambunctious little thing. She hadn’t been what he initially expected when he first saw her, first held her, swaddled in a blanket, pink and mewling. He had hoped she would be sweet and gentle, the epitome of femininity. He’d only been a child when she was born, but the moment he saw her he knew he would devote himself to her protection. However, she’d surprised him. Over the years she’d grown into a rascal of a girl. She was pretty and did everything she could to counteract that. She stole his clothes for herself, cut holes in them to make herself unique. She got into fights at school and came home with bruises and bloodied lips. She grew hard and sharp—sharper than he could ever be. She blamed him for their mother’s absence. She couldn’t understand the way their mother suffered for them, so he’d let her. She hated the word “No.” She would scream at him about trivial things, like when he ate the last donut or if he couldn’t afford to buy her a leather jacket or when he didn’t let her drive the car. She was young but eager to be old. She always insisted she didn’t want to be taken care of or protected. When he’d disagreed, she would claw at his face, grab a knife from the kitchen and tell him she didn’t have a father and most certainly didn’t need one.
Despite her threats he’d tried to be hers. She’d aged him rapidly while she stayed naïve and selfish. She was a petulant child all the way to the end. She wanted to drive, she’d said. She was still too young, he’d replied. They’d had this argument a thousand times. This time she looked at him with big eyes and called him her brother in such a fond tone that instantly his willpower melted away. She could do that to him sometimes. She could flip a switch and become the little girl he’d always hoped she would be. Most of the time it worked, for she did this rarely, making each time she did it special. Her eyes turned baby blue gentle and she would smile. God, that smile made him feel like everything he’d done had been worth it. Her laughter was his favorite thing, though. Her voice became a trickle of treacle.
She looked so happy driving. Was this the first time he’d ever seen her genuinely happy at something he’d done? She wouldn’t be happy moments later. Face bruised, lips bloody, shards of glass embedded in her pretty face. The glass was everywhere, tiny daggers tearing at his skin and hers. Her small body was crushed and crooked. He could see red-white bone bursting out of her skin at the elbow. Her neck was twisted so that she was staring at him. Blue eyes still wide open, frozen in joy. Her lips were parted, as if she wanted to say something to him, like she was about to tell him something wonderful. She stared at him like that for an hour. And he stared back, for his head was stuck in place under the ceiling of the car. Her elated expression imposed on him in the small space, stealing his air and consuming every thought, invading every part of him until he felt as contorted as she was. He waited to join her in that fixed elation. He waited and waited until a terrible buzzing broke the silence and someone reached through the walls and pulled him out.
In the bathroom he turned the steak knife she’d once threatened him with over and over between his fingers. He sat down and inhaled. He hoped she wouldn’t be mad when he arrived—then again, she was always mad. He would apologize profusely and promise never to leave her side again. And he would finally tell her that he loved her, as he realized he’d never told her before.
The blade was hovering just above his flesh when his mother barged in. He expected her to say something, but she didn’t. She scrutinized him for a moment with wary eyes. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. She stepped toward him and quickly plucked the knife from his hands. It left his grip too easily; he’d barely been hanging onto it. Why?
Then she knelt down in front of him and pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes. He sat still, unsure of what she would do. After a few moments of silence, she said simply,
“Stay.”