Page 2 of Inflame Me
I kill the lights before fully getting up the driveway, not wanting to make noise if I don’t have to. Lights illuminate the home with only a few of the drapes closed, the living room being one of them. I turn off the engine and get out of the car, only shutting the door enough to turn the dome light off on the inside. I have never really had to do this quiet stealth thing before. Hopefully, I can pull it off.
Peering through the window of the living room, I see James lying on the couch, half on it and half off. His wide mouth is open, and drool is falling out and onto his blue T-shirt that has a huge wet puddle. Gross. I never thought for a moment that he was good-looking, but my mother saw something in him. What, I didn’t have a clue. Still don’t.
I open the screen door with a slight creak and cringe at the sound, wanting to yell at it to shut the hell up yet simply staring at it angrily. Turing the door handle, I find that it’s locked. Shit.
I pull my keys out, holding all the keychains and keys hanging from it to silence them, and then open the door slowly. My eyes stay locked on the man on the couch as I creep through the living room, into the kitchen, and back to my mother’s bedroom.
My heart constricts as I look at the room. The lamp on the side table is turned on, but it’s crashed on the floor, the shade hanging on to it by a thread. Clothes, blankets, jewelry, papers—well, everything is tossed to the floor, and the mattress is partially exposed. But the kicker is the blood on the sheets. Quite a bit of blood is smeared on the fabric, and it’s bright red. Shit.
I move to the bathroom door, but I don’t dare to knock.
“Mom,” I whisper softly, holding the door handle, my other hand on the top of the door, and my ear pressed to the door, trying to listen. “Mom, it’s me. Open up.”
I hear slow movements on the other side of the door along with some muffled groans. Then I feel the lock click in my hand, and I turn the handle.
Oh. My. God.
My entire world stops and tilts on its axis. This isn’t a beating. This is so much more than that. Her beautiful face is almost unrecognizable with bruises forming and cuts with blood oozing out of them, falling down her face, into her eyes, and down her cheek. Her long, strawberry blonde hair is matted to her face with the blood. Her clothes, for lack of a better word, are ripped and torn in so many placed it looks like she’s wearing tattered rags.
“Mom.” I bend down in front of her, not wanting to touch her yet wanting to desperately, just to make sure she’s here with me.
I jolt my hand back, clutching it. I can’t add to her pain, and nowhere I touch her would help right now.
Tears form in my mother’s eyes, but she doesn’t shed them. “Baby, get me some clothes, and I’ll get dressed while you pack things.”
I seriously don’t think she could dress herself judging from the way she’s holding her arm and the pain etched in her face. She said she didn’t think anything was broken, but I’m seriously rethinking that one.
Instead of arguing, because God knows how much time we have until James wakes up downstairs, I nod, unable to form words. I then get her some baggy clothes, hoping like hell they won’t hurt too badly.
Everything from that second on is a flurry of activity on my part. I grab two bags from the shelf in her closet and begin hastily throwing in my mother’s things, grabbing shirts, pants, shoes, and everything in-between.
Opening the dressers, I continue with the packing. Well, it’s not really packing, more like swiping the entire drawer and stuffing, but whatever. I toss my mother clothes in hopes that she will be able to get them on her, but if she hasn’t by the time I’m done, I’ll help her.
It takes me less than five minutes to pack up everything of my mother’s that I can see and enter the bathroom. She’s sitting on the toilet seat with a towel blotting away the blood on her face.
“Mom, once I get you out of here, I’ll get you cleaned up.” I kneel down before her and slip on her tennis shoes, tying them quickly as her body trembles. I have to get her out of here before whatever control she has erupts. “I have two bags packed. Is there anything else you need?”
Her eyes lift to mine, tears pooling in the green depths of them.Please don’t cry.If she does, I’m afraid whatever strength I have will dissipate, and I will follow.
What child wants to see their mother hurt? Not me. Tears would do me in.
“There’s a box. I hid it in the corner of the closet. You need to peel back the carpet from the right corner and pull up the plank that is beneath it. Inside is a shoe box. I need you to get it and my purse, but that is in the kitchen, so we can get it on the way out.” Even though her voice is strangled with pain, I can sense the strength within my mother in her words. God, I love her.
“Stay here,” I order, moving quickly back to the closet and doing exactly what my mother said. I yank the yellow box out, which has a bit of weight to it, but I don’t have time to look. Instead, I grab another bag, one that has my mother’s gym clothes in it and throw the box inside.
I pile all the bags by the doorway, and then it hits me. Can she walk out of here, or am I going to have to carry her? There’s no way I can carry the bags and her. Hell, I can probably barely carry her. Double Shit.
Mom listened, staying right where I left her in the bathroom. Her eyes meet mine, sorrow blooming in them. Enough of this.
My adrenaline pumps through my veins, and as it courses, all I can think of is getting her out of here now.
“Can you walk?” I move to the side of her body where her arm doesn’t look like it’s hanging on and help her rise to her feet as she inhales quick pants. Talk about a tough woman. I’m not sure I would be able to be this strong after what she has endured. It’s another thing I’ve always admired about my mother.
“Yeah,” she says weakly, taking a step before her knees buckle a bit.
I hold her weight as she regains some of her balance and is able to walk a few more feet. After a bit, she’s doing much better about getting her legs moving.
I grab the bags, hoisting them over my shoulder and picking up one in my hand. Mom stays by me as we walk slowly through the house.
