Page 66 of Morsel

A dark gray ponytail bounces down the aisle. A leather jacket swings on a man’s shoulders. He spins around, his proud weathered smile gleaming at the students.

Artemis leans on the podium. “Professor Milk is hard at work on her new exhibition for Sway Gallery. I offered to cover for her today; I hope you all don’t mind.”

My chest compresses. Is her new exhibition actually that close, or is it an excuse because she knew I’d be here?

She’s avoiding me, isn’t she?

“I’m Artemis, but you can call me Arty,” he says.

A student shouts: “Wait. Are you Arty Milk? Like the practical special effects artist who worked on Hunting Sasquatch? That Arty?”

He waves a hand in the air, dismissing the question with feigned sheepishness. “No one has forgotten about that shit show, have they?”

The classroom erupts into conversation, an energetic buzz floating in the air.

Artemis Milk, huh? Like they’re fucking married.

I roll my eyes. His name sounded fake before, and now it sounds even more made up. Mona would never marry a lowlife like him. He must’ve stolen the name from her. And Hunting Sasquatch? So fucking what if it’s a cult classic now? That movie bombed at the box office. They lost money on that piece of shit.

A few students raise their hands and ask Arty questions about the monsters and gore he’s created over the years. I slouch in my chair and grind my teeth. Artemis substituting for Mona’s lecture is a blow. She knew I’d be here, and this is like rubbing our non-exclusivity in my face. Just like my mother.

When my mother was going to run off with her boyfriend without me, she showed me how little she truly thought of me. Her only child.

If you could control your needy little tantrums, you’d get what you want. But you can’t do that, can you? You’re selfish, my mother said. A spoiled rotten little boy who never stops whining about what he wants when he has more than enough. How much of a stupid, little boy can you be? Look at yourself! She pointed to the knife in my hand. You’re making a sandwich out of ingredients that Daddy bought for you, and you want to complain about me leaving to go find him?

I remember staring at the knife, then back at her. The bread was molding; I had to cut around the fuzzy blue spots. The cheese was as hard as plastic, and the meat smelled sour, but I knew if I wanted the stomach pains to go away, then I had to eat it. And deep down, I also knew she wasn’t leaving to find him; she was leaving for good this time, and she would never come back. The home was empty without her boyfriend.

I wasn’t good enough for her.

No wonder he left us, she hissed. He takes care of us, feeds us, and does everything for us, and all you want to do is break us apart. Why can’t you control yourself, Kent? Why can’t you just be happy with what we’ve done for you? Why can’t you be grateful for once? No, you have to ruin everything by being such a pathetic little freak.

Thoughts rushed through my head; none of them were fully formed. They were more like bubbles floating in the air, each one of them popping as soon as they skimmed my fingertips. The only thoughts that stayed—that didn’t evaporate as soon as I had them—were the memories of when her boyfriend, or Daddy as she so affectionately called him, hurt me.

Daddy kicking my ribs because I breathed too hard, while she pretended to be asleep.

Daddy forcing me to pretend to be happy at my tenth birthday as bruises healed on my neck.

Daddy knocking me out when I didn’t eat the extra hot dog.

Did I have to be grateful for that too?

Anger simmered inside of me, threatening to boil over the edge.

He takes care of you, I said to her, putting extra emphasis on that last word. I tightened my hold on the knife’s handle. He told me he would be happier if I was dead.

Maybe you should be dead, she said flatly. You don’t like living with us anyway.

Those words were sharper than a knife, and I swear in that moment, I could’ve gutted myself and spilled my intestines on the floor, and my mother would’ve laughed.

My mother picked up her duffel bag, hiking it higher up on her shoulder. She angled toward the front door.

Panic rose inside of me, fighting with my inner rage. She couldn’t really leave, could she? A mother is supposed to love you unconditionally. She gave me life. We were supposed to be connected beyond the umbilical cord. Why was she leaving me?

Please don’t go, I said.

Control yourself, Kent, she muttered. You really are pathetic sometimes.

I tried to remind myself she liked her boyfriend because he was unafraid. Because he was strong. Because he had control. Because he wasn’t afraid to put us in our places. I tried to tell myself I could be like that too.

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