Page 93 of Dmitri

I didn’t hear her come home. How long have I even been sitting in this bathroom?

The news I got today has me operating in a fog. One I need to get out of before my next fight. Swiping my tears away, I stand up and roll my shoulders back.

And cry all over again.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Rage controls me, and I throw my fist out, busting the vanity mirror over the sink. My knuckles sting. I use the pain to focus.

Splashing cold water on my face, I get my act together and finally open the door. Only when I see my mother standing in front of the freezer with a bottle of vodka in her hand, I lose my shit all over again.

“The fuck are you doing?” I never talk to my mom like this. But I’m mad. I’m mad and sad and scared. Miss Ashley is going to die of cancer. The only mom I’ve ever had. The sweetest woman in the whole wide world is refusing treatment and is going to die.

Why couldn’t it have been Anya instead?

My gaze drags down to her round belly.

That’s why.

Because God is cruel and gives rewards to devils while punishing angels.

“Dmitri,” Mom chides, putting the bottle behind her back like I can’t see it. “Why are you crying?”

“Why is there vodka in your hand, Mom?” My chin trembles because I have too many feelings slamming into me at once. I don’t know how to control them. “Answer me!”

“Because I was moving it out of my way to reach the ice tray.” Her hand rests protectively over her belly, but the other still holds the bottle behind her back. “Why are you crying?” she asks again.

Maybe I’m delusional, but it sounds like she genuinely cares. And I need someone to talk to about this, so I fall for it. “Miss Ashley is going to die of cancer.”

Her eyebrows pinch. “Who?”

“My friend’s mom.”

In all this time, I’ve never told either of my parents my best friend’s names. They’ve never come over when my parents were home, and I’ve never ever talked about Miss Ashley. Why share the only ounce of happiness I have in my dark world with two parents who don’t give a shit about me?

It’s clear that not even my dad cares anymore. He spends more time arguing with my mother than he does fighting in the ring. He doesn’t come to any of my fights. He doesn’t come home for dinner half the time anymore either.

“Oh well, why would you cry about that? She’s notyourmother.”

My vision hazes red. “What?”

“You always were a crybaby,” she huffs. “No matter how much I’ve tried to harden you, you’re just like your father. Too soft. Too weak.”

I’m on her in a blink, getting in her face so fast she doesn’t have time to back up. “Fuck. You.” Hot tears flood my vision. “Fuck you!”

“You do not disrespect me like that!” Mom lifts the bottle of vodka and cracks me over the head with it. “You do not cry over another woman!” She hits me with it again and I fall onto the floor, blood pouring from my head. “Iam your mother!” She screams like a deranged banshee. “I am your fucking mother,not her!”

I want to get her off me, but I’m too scared I’ll hurt the baby if I push her back.

Screaming and crying, the heels of my combat boots scrape the carpet as I try to slide away while she sits on top of me, scratching and clawing, beating on me.

“Anya!”

We both freeze and look over to see my dad standing at the front door.

He storms over and tears her off me. She screams and kicks when he hauls her over to the couch. “What is wrong with you?”

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