Page 47 of Violent Cravings

"Always as a waitress?"

Our eyes meet in awkward silence, as if we're checking each other. Was it okay for me to talk about myself, about my life outside of this? Was it okay for him to ask me about it? He always insisted that we push reality aside, not even allowing me to call him by his name or letting him address me by mine.

Right now it seems as if he's wondering about all of that himself, and the question lingers solemnly in the air between us.

"No," I say, my eyes fixating on his. "I've held many different jobs."

"Like what?"

"Several of them were waitressing jobs in restaurants or with catering services," I admit. "But I also did proofreading and tutoring when I was in college."

He raises his eyebrows, casting me a curious look.

"College, huh?" he says. "Where did you graduate from?"

I feel as if a cold clamp closes around my chest, choking my breath out as I'm filled with remorse and grief. Talking about my failed attempt at college is still hard for me, even after all this time. You'd think that more than two years would be long enough to leave even the worst of times behind and be able to speak about it without having the pain return with such vicious force. I've pushed the memory as far away as possible, but every time it comes up, I'm overwhelmed with the same pain that filled me back then.

"I... didn't graduate," I say.

"Oh? Why is that?"

I lower my eyes to the food in front of me, shoveling some scrambled eggs into my mouth instead of giving him a reply right away. He continues eating, too, but his eyes are on me, heavily weighing on my consciousness.

"I had to quit," I simply say, shielding the truth from him.

"I kind of figured that," he says, not sounding satisfied. "But why did you have to quit?"

I look up at him, meeting his eyes with what I hope he perceives as determined strength.

"Someone needed my help," I say. "It was more important to me than college, and I had to be there for her."

"Her?" he inquires.

"My mother," I reply. "She... got sick, very sick. I wanted to be with her and I couldn't do that while I was living across the country."

"That's very good of you," he states in a matter of fact tone. "Is she doing better now?"

I swallow, fighting back tears. My mother died more than two years ago. She died from cancer, mainly because it was diagnosed way too late. We had no health insurance at the time, and living on the brink of poverty didn't exactly help matters. For my entire life, my mother had scrimped and saved up what little she had so I could go to college, even though she knew the only way I’d still be able to afford it was if I received a scholarship. I did, and I went, but I forfeited everything when I decided to drop out of college to help her with her battle.

There was nothing I could do for her, no matter how much I worked, prayed, hoped, cared. The best I could do was lie to her. I lied about dropping out of school, I lied about the debt that was piling up as we fought our way through her illness and she became too sick to handle anything. I let her believe that I would be okay, and that she wouldn't have to worry about me.

I wanted her to die in peace.

"No," I say eventually, my gaze darkening. "No, she didn't get better."

He sighs, grasping the meaning of my words. I almost flinch away when his hand reaches over, closing around mine.

"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice, heavy with empathy. "I'm really sorry to hear that, doll."

"It's okay," I say, lying. "It's been a while. I'm doing okay."

Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and he casts me an apprehensive look, as if he was trying to see the lie in my eyes.

"I'm sure you will be," he concludes. "My doll is a warrior."

His words are so intimate and honest, as if we've known each other for years. After all he's done to me, it strikes me with a strange sense of pride that he sees me as a warrior. It's encouraging either way.

"Maybe I am," I whisper, smiling at him.

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