Page 94 of Kings Against the World

“Mom!?” I call again. “Hello?”

A low groan travels down the hall, pained and faint, but enough to reach my ears. I pivot, following the sound until I’m coming up on the bathroom door. It’s cracked open like the front door. I push it open and then gasp.

“Mom!”

She’s on the floor, slumped against the bathtub, her head lolling to the side. Blood drips from her left nostril, staining her upper lip. Her eyes flutter open and closed, unfocused.

“Oh my god.” My gun is slipped back into my purse, my hands on her shoulders as I kneel down. “Mom? Mom! Look at me, what happened? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She blinks hazily up at me, lids heavy, her mouth slack. The sharp tang of alcohol hits me as soon as she exhales a breath. Her words slur together when she tries to speak.

“Missed… missed my program,” she mumbles, head bobbing forward.

“What?” I give her a gentle shake, panic pressing against my ribs. “Who did this to you? Was it one of them again? One of the loan sharks?”

She flinches at the questions, her weak hands pawing vaguely at the air. “No… no… Zozo baby. Just Chris—he didn’t mean it. He didn’t?—”

I go still. “Dad did this?”

She waves a shaky hand, as if she can brush it all away. “He just… you know… your father was in a… a mood. But he went to the store,” she slurs, the words slow and mushed together. “Needed beer… and lotto tickets too. Don’t be mad, Zozo.”

Her eyes droop and her head tilts to the side again, her knuckles brushing her cheek in a childlike motion.

I bite down on the curse word rising up my throat and slide an arm under her shoulders, guiding her upright. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She sags against me, fragile and limp, as I ease her onto the closed lid of the toilet. She barely makes a sound when I press a tissue to her nostrils, blotting the blood. The brown skin beneath her eyes is bruised, a bloom of purple and red. Hot, acidic fury lances through me, but I push it down.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.

Growing up, I used to hide Zani in the closet and then insert myself between Mom and Dad in hopes it would make them come to their senses and stop fighting. Almost always over money. Almost always signaling another visit from the loan sharks demanding said money.

“You both need help.” I dab at her nostrils some more with the bloodied tissue. “I can’t keep babysitting you.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m serious, Mom. I’m done doing it. You need to get help. How much have you had to drink?”

My question is answered by the crunch of gravel coming from outside. A car door slams shut and the front porch creaks.

He’s home.

I rise to my feet in a single motion, blood pounding in my ears as I move to the hallway and meet him.

The door swings open with a groan. My father lumbers inside, plastic bags dangling from his wrists, his faded Lakers ball cap tilted low over his face. Mom isn’t the only one who reeks of beer.

“Zozo?” His voice carries an edge of annoyance. “Since when were you coming by?”

“You don’t have a problem with it when I’m dropping off some money.”

His gaze flicks toward the hallway bathroom, and for a split second, guilt flashes across his face before it hardens into something else. Something colder. “Your mother in there?”

I spot a scratch mark along his neck, telling me it was one of their usual rough, back-and-forth scraps.

“I was just telling her you both need help.”

“We could use more for the mortgage… we’ll be short again this month.”

“That’s not the kind of help I meant.”

---