Page 34 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“Damon,” her voice is warm, the same tone she uses when she’s worried about me. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine,” I answer automatically, but she’s never been the one to let me off easy.

“Don’t you‘I’m fine’me,” Her tone sharpens, the kind of mom voice that saysI know you’re full of shit. “How are you really?”

I huff out a laugh, running a hand through my hair. “I’m in class, Mom. You caught me in the middle of painting.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… I wanted to hear your voice. You’ve been so quiet since I left, and I got worried.”

There’s a pause, the kind that only comes when there’s too much to say and not enough words to say it. It’s weird, talking to her like this. Before, I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up the phone.

But five weeks ago, I called her in the middle of one of my worst mental breaks, my voice shaking as I told her I needed help.Again.I was standing on the edge of something I didn’t know how to come back from, and she was the one person I trusted to pull me back.

She flew down the next day and stayed with me while I checked myself into the clinic. She sat with me through the intake process, her hand on my shoulder the whole time, like she was physically holding me together.

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t press. She just stayed.

“I’m trying, Mom, and I’m getting there. It’s hard, but… I’m feeling better,” I answer honestly. “Better than I was.”

“You sound better,” she says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “I was worried after…”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “Me too. But I’ll be fine, Mom. Thank you for worrying about me.”

“Always, sweetheart. You know I’m here whenever you need me to be,” she says gently and I can hear the faint clatter of dishes in the background. She’s probably in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast.

“I’m proud of you, Damon,” she suddenly says. “For asking for help. That took a lot of strength.”

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. “It didn’t feel like strength,” I admit quietly. “It felt like falling apart.”

“Sometimes falling apart is what it takes to put yourself back together,” she says. “And you’ve come so far already. I just… I want you to know how much I love you, okay? And how proud I am of the man you’re becoming.”

I press the heel of my palm against my eye, blinking away the sting. “Thanks, Mom. That… that means a lot.”

She knows I’m gay. She’s known since I was sixteen when I came out to her in the kitchen one night while Dad was at church. She cried, hugged me, and swore she’d keep my secret until I was ready to tell him. That was nearly eight years ago, and she’s kept her word ever since.

But my father still found out in my third year at Blackthorne. He cut me off and called me a “demon” for being who I was and told me I wasn’t allowed to ever come home again.

Then Caleb died soon after, and I went on a spiral that caused me to be checked into a clinic back home. I had to request a pause on my scholarship, and because one of the biggest art houses in the city was displaying my work already, I was granted the pause.

Trust me, I know how fucking lucky I am. Blackthorne loves showing off that they churn out the best of the best.

“You scared me, you know,” she says, pulling me back to the present. “But I’m so proud of you for taking that step. For getting help.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “It was either that or… I don’t know…”

We both know what I mean.

“But you made the choice, and that’s what matters. Are you still going to your sessions?”

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Twice a week. They’ve been… good. Hard, but good.”

“That makes me so happy to hear, Damon. Really.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. “You’re so sappy, Mom.”

“Guilty as charged,” she says, laughing softly. “And how’s everything else? School, life? Anyone special you’re not telling me about?”

I bark out a laugh, the question catching me off guard. “Mom, come on.”

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