Page 56 of Morsel

My mother never gave me any of that.

I shouldn’t be comparing Mona to my mother though. They’re different people. Mona gave parts of herself to me. Even if she doesn’t realize it, Mona loves me.

Control yourself, I think. You’ll get what you want.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I start to say, but a drop of anger taints my next words. “Mona, you know I’m trying?—”

“Can’t you be happy with what I give you?”

Water brims the edges of her eyes. Pleading. Begging me to understand. But the longer I stare at her, the less those tears seem real.

It’s another performance, isn’t it? Or am I that callus?

I should be groveling, but I’m hungry, and fuck, doesn’t she see that I haven’t done anything wrong? All I did was ask. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like I actually cut off her toe.

A choking noise breaks up her tears.

“I have to amputate my toes at my house for my project, and you have the audacity to want more of me?” She recoils, her nostrils flaring. “Let me break it down for you. If I do it here or if I let you do it, then that won’t fulfill my vision. And if I don’t get what I want, then none of this will matter. I won’t matter. My art won’t matter. And you definitely won’t matter. Do you understand what I’m saying, or do I need to make it simpler for you?”

Weakness clamors through my body. We’re lying down, but my head spins like I’m about to trip down the stairs. I understand what she’s saying, but I don’t want her words to be true.

She’s calling me stupid, isn’t she?

It hurts, but she’s right though. I am stupid. I shouldn’t have let my desires get out of hand.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Can I at least go to your house and watch, then?”

She rubs her temples. “Will you ever stop?”

I scrape my hand over my face and numb those emotions.

I can be good. I can be better. I can control myself. But will I ever stop asking? If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe after she gives me what I want. The question seems bigger than that though, like she knows that my hunger for her will never actually be satiated.

For a split second, I see it from her view: I have a woman who is finally willing to cut off parts of her body for me, and for some stupid reason, I need more.

Maybe I am selfish.

And I find myself begging her.

“I can be good,” I say. My voice cracks, and I hate, hate, hate how I’m the little boy cowering in the corner and waiting for his mother to look at him and approve for once. I can’t help it though. This is who I am, and I need her to need me too. “I swear I’ll be good.”

A low breath whistles from her mouth, and she reaches for my hands. “Let’s wait until my body heals first, then we’ll talk, okay? Right now, I’m starving.”

My heart pounds. I can fix that for her.

I prop myself up on my elbow. “Let me feed you,” I say. She raises a brow, and I brush the black strands of hair out of her eyes. “Not like the restaurant this time. I’ll pick something up. I want to take care of you.”

She gives me a curious half-smile. “Okay. Sure.”

“Stay in bed,” I say. She nods in obedience. I rush to pull on my boxers and pants. “I’ll be right back.”

At the nearest grocery store, I buy a beet salad and orange juice with cash. Next door at the antique shop, the display window catches my eye: a gold chrome vintage wheelchair. It’s gleaming and borderline gaudy. I’m cutting it close to Mona’s lecture, but even if we’re a little late, this gift will be worth it.

I pay for the wheelchair with cash, and it easily fits in the back of my cargo van. A short while later, I roll the wheelchair into the bedroom.

“I’ve got a surprise for you now,” I say. “I don’t want you to waste any time walking when you can be healing those pretty little feet.”

Mona lights up, and that expression of amusement reassures me that I did the right thing.

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