Page 2 of Zade (Den of Sin)

Age Seventeen

My mom was a good mom until she wasn’t. We did everything together. She was my closest friend. Quickly, things changed. She became more withdrawn every day. The depression continued as did the attempted suicides. It’s sad the way we get used to bad situations. At first it was shocking but then it became my new normal. First it was missing my plays and then, my after-school snack became a thing of the past. Everything we once did together no longer mattered. It’s strange how you can grieve for someone that isn’t dead. My mom began staring off into space regularly, taking part in nothing. Zade altered his work schedule and became my primary parent. My mom became background noise, always there kind of, but not really. I was ten years old when I learned that the mind can be a prison one cannot escape from.

To this day I don’t know what happened between my mom and my step-father, Zade. I only know that I came home from school one day and he was gone and I never heard from him again. My one source of stability abandoned me like I never meant anything to him.

ChapterOne

AMIRA

Age Seventeen

Mental illness sucks so bad and I can’t fucking stand it. The doctors prescribed every medication big pharma has come up with in the last several decades. None of them do a damn thing. It’s like she’s trapped inside her mind. I miss her laughter, the silliness, the good times we once shared.

I once read that relationships between a mother and daughter are some of the most challenging. ‘Frequently, jealousy plays a significant role’ I read as I tried to understand the reason behind what mine did to me. I don’t think it was jealousy more than likely it was opportunity. The memories of her as a happy person are far and distant now. I think she always struggled with depression. Every year it got worse until she spiraled out of control. Then she found the one thing that made it bearable to continue to live, numbing the pain for a short while.

His name was Smitty, and he is ultimately responsible for my living hell. He was the first person to give my mother pain pills. Honestly, I think he had his eyes on me even then. I was only eight years old. Too young to understand what was in the Ziploc bag he handed her. Too young to understand what the future held.

I was twelve years old by the time Smitty touched me for the first time. My mom escorted me up to my bedroom, “You want me to feel better don’t you?”

“Yes,” I responded, not having any idea why we were in my room.

She took a seat on the edge of my bed so I followed suit, and sat beside her while she continued, “He has the medication I need to make me feel better. If you give him what he needs, he will give the medicine to me, if you don’t, he won’t. Don’t be the reason I stay sick.”

I nod, “Anything. I’ll do anything for you.”

My mom smiled at me, smiled, my heart was happy for the first time in a long time. More often than not, she didn’t like me anymore. I lived for making her proud.

“He’ll be up in a few minutes. I suggest you do what he wants. If you don’t, Amira, so help me God.”

The angry frown lines were back.

“I promise, Mommy.”

I had no idea what I was promising, but it didn’t take long before I learned what she meant. I can’t even tell you the number of times I laid there being touched by him in the name of her medication. As time went on, the number of men grew, it wasn’t only Smitty anymore. None of them cared when I cried. I always cried. John was worse than all of them combined. He liked to tell me how dirty and disgusting I was while he touched me. That began my pursuit to get clean but I never could. How do you wash away the filth when it’s covering you on the inside? Still, I tried. To this day I’m still trying.

I’m sitting in English class listening to Mrs. Hunt drone on about the essay we have due in three weeks, yes, the same one I have not started yet. It only counts for fifty percent of our grade.Only.

“You should be done with your rough draft by now. Has anyone not completed it yet?”

That would be me, but there’s zero chance of me admitting that. My mom just got home from another grippy sock vacation two days ago. I’ve had bigger issues than a stupid argumentative essay on whether sex clubs should be legal. Who cares? I certainly do not.

A text notification goes off on my phone earning me a glare from the most annoying teacher I’ve ever had.

Holding it under my desk I open it when I see it’s from my neighbor Veronica.

Veronica:

Come home. It’s an emergency.

My heart pounds in my throat, I know it’s about my mom because that’s the only reason she even has my phone number. Ever since mom got sick, she checks in on her when I’m not there. Somewhere along the way, I became the parent, mom became the child. Quietly, I slip out of my seat, and tiptoe out of the classroom.

My piece of shit car wouldn’t start this morning so I had no choice but to take an Uber. As I wait for my driver, I text her back.

Me:Omw. Is everything okay?

A response comes through almost immediately.

My driver finally arrives and I slide in the back and I say a quick hello and quickly put my seatbelt on.

---