Page 31 of I Will Break You
“Want me to take them to your work?”
“Don’t,” she shrieks. “Take them to the cops.”
I turn through the gap in the juniper hedge and pull into Mom and Dad's driveway. The iron gate is always open because they hate when delivery people toss their packages under the shrubs.
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say. “Just take care of yourself. Xero’s out there, hurting everyone even vaguely connected to me. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want you getting caught up in the rampage.”
She sighs, and I can already tell she’s skeptical. “Alright… I’ll sleep with my crucifix. Love you. Got to go.”
I park in the carport and open the door, letting in the overwhelming scent of juniper, which makes my sinuses itch. Sneezing, I walk across the gravel courtyard toward the front, knowing I’m ruining my parents’ aesthetic. Their house is one of the oldest in the district and was originally a brothel. The mock Tudor architecture, with its pitched roof, intricate brickwork, and exposed wooden beams, creates the feel of an old tavern.
Memories of the house's history flood my mind as I approach the oak door. Legend has it that gangsters used tunnels at the top of the hill to roll barrels into the storeroom. I once traveled up there out of curiosity, but all I found were dense evergreens and a pair of rude assholes armed with machine guns.
Mom and Dad are so proud of the house’s checkered past that they restored the wood beams and leaded glass windows to impress their fancy guests at their candle-lit suppers. They’d be horrified to find their half-crazed daughter here, screaming about seeing corpses. They act like they’ve lived here my entire life, but I remember them moving in furniture while I was recovering from the accident.
Forcing down a flurry of nerves about their reaction to my unannounced visit, I ring the bell and listen for footsteps. When there’s only silence, I glance at the garden path, debating if Mom will get mad if I use the spare key under the rock by her hedge maze.
The door opens, and I flinch backward. Mom stands in the doorway, her smile morphing into something sour.
Standing in front of Mom is like looking into an aged filter, providing a major glow up. She has the same emerald-green eyes as me, with deep gold flecks, the same button nose, and full lips with high peaks. Her bone structure is more defined than mine and framed with shoulder-length hair that’s so brown it appears black.
The personal trainer, Pilates and protein diet have given her lean muscles, affording her the appearance of a woman in her thirties, even though she’s just turned fifty.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her gaze dropping to my bag. “I already have my hands full with Clive.”
“Something’s happened, Mom. Let me in, please?” I clasp my hands, cringing at having to beg for crumbs.
It’s been like this since the accident. Maybe even before. Dad once explained that Mom can’t stand to look at me out of guilt, but does she always have to be so cold?
I’m not usually so needy or desperate for her validation, but she’s been a lifeline since my last prescription got changed. Sometimes, the drugs are like trying to fight through Jello. Other times, it’s like trying to navigate dense fog. Everything is muffled, making me feel like a prisoner in my own mind. I can barely function, let alone manage to get employment.
My social media platform was supposed to earn me some independence. I planned on using my completed manuscript to earn an advance, so I could start paying my own medical expenses. Dr. Saint is an okay enough psychiatrist, but she reports everything to Mom.
Mom purses her lips and glances over my shoulder, as though she’s checking to see if anyone has spotted her in the presence of her mildly unhinged daughter who’s bleached the left half of her hair blonde.
“I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I add.
Her eyes harden, making me feel like I’m ten again and a burden. After the accident, there was a time when I was wholly dependent on Mom for everything, including going to the bathroom. I shift on my feet and try not to squirm. After what feelslike an eternity, she turns on her heel and walks down the wood-paneled hallway toward the kitchen.
It’s Tudor style, like the rest of the mansion, with a pair of oak beams running along the ceiling and into a wall of matching cabinets. Strangely, for a couple with so much money to spend, they don’t have a housekeeper or even a part-time cleaner. Mom takes care of everything, which is why she can’t stand having guests… At least that’s what she says whenever I ask if I can spend the weekend.
Uncle Clive sits with his head bowed on a high stool at the marble island. I’ve never met the man in person and have only seen him in old photos, but he’s instantly recognizable. He’s a paler, gaunter, beaten-down version of Dad, with dirty blonde hair falling around his face in greasy clumps.
“Clive,” Mom says, her voice suspiciously bright. “Say hello to Amethyst.”
Flinching, he stares across the kitchen at me through shifty eyes, his fingers tightening on his glass. Nostrils flaring, he stares up at me and scowls. “Amethyst.”
Goosebumps break out across my skin. Something about this man is off, and I’m not just talking about his appearance. My gaze wanders down the rolled-up sleeves of his rumpled shirt, where I find bandages.
“What happened?” I ask.
Mom rushes across the kitchen and ushers me out. “Don’t talk about that,” she whisper-hisses. “He’s… sensitive.”
“What happened to his arms?” I whisper back.
“Vigilante mob.” She lowers her voice until it’s barely audible. “They tracked him down to his new address and set fire to his house.”
I glance into the kitchen. Maybe my memory is fucked, but I’ve barely heard of Uncle Clive, let alone about him having problems with the law. “What did he do?”