Page 70 of Beg Me Angel

But she seemed different, like she was battling her own set of demons. My parents' marriage was rocky at the end, it wasn't picture perfect.

I always thought that the weight of my Dad's illness sat heavy on her shoulders, that it was too much for her to deal with. She had to take care of it all when he became to too sick to even help himself.

My mother had to tend to us, her job, the house, and to my father. It was a lot for anyone one person to deal with. They used to argue while he was bed ridden, fighting over things that I didn't think were worth it.

I was angry at her for taking out so much of her frustration on him. I didn't think he needed it, not when he could barely lift his head and hold down a bowl of broth. I thought she was selfish, focusing only on monetary things; money, bills, pressures at work.

But thinking about it now, maybe it wasn't that she was selfish. Maybe it was her way of diffusing the pain, of stepping outside her body so she didn't have to feel it and be able to deal with everything at once.

She had shut down, closing herself off to everyone, even my father. I hated her for a long time for doing that. When he needed her shoulder, she wasn't there, when he needed her ear, she had it blocked.

Maybe her regret far surpassed mine and her outlook on life had changed, her emotions cleansed. Maybe she was realizing that feelings are what make us human. She had every right to feel the way she did back then, but she never let herself feel happy or loved or even lost.

If she could see something in my eyes, if she could read what I was feeling from just a look. . .

Maybe she was trying to help me understand and accept that what I was feeling wasn't wrong, but right. I had every right to feel connected to him because he had done something I could never truly pay back.

And maybe it was possible that my mom felt the same gratitude. I had been alive, I had been found, I was safe. If he did or didn't do this, either way, I was home now, I was here with her.

We only had one set of memories to go on, and for me, I had serious doubts that they were accurate. I knew Sara wasn't trying to lie, but I had this gut feeling that she just wasn't right, that her brain latched onto his face for some unknown reason.

Pax's letter told me he was selfish, he came right out and said he had kept me there for himself. But in a way, I felt like I belonged there. This world had changed, it didn't hold the same nostalgia I expected it to.

I had come back from the dead to a place where my face was the star of a flier, where my story was one of sadness and happiness all balled up into a massive clump of shit.

The news was pointing the finger at Pax, the police were pointing the finger at Pax, but my heart. . . It was pointing someplace else.

Pulling the plates from the cupboard, I closed the door and started towards the table. My feet made soft taps on the tile while my heart beat loud inside my chest, drowning out the world around me.

A heavy hand gripped my shoulder, nails digging into my skin deep. And then it happened, it all happened so fast, a flash that was captured in one blink.

“Vera? I said good morning, didn't you hear me?” My brother Chris stood behind me, shaking my shoulder in his hand. “Hello? Earth to Vera.”

My eyes shot open wide, head slowly turning to his. His lips scrunched up as he cocked a brow, peeling his hand off my shoulder and letting it drop to his side. “Are you alright?”

My tongue danced across the roof of my mouth, trying to moisten the dryness. I felt my heart racing inside my chest, the weight of the air seemed to thicken like I was breathing water.

The room became fuzzy, blurring everything behind my brother's face. Opening my mouth, I forced out the words as I swallowed, my voice raspy and dry.

“I remember. I remember it all.”

---