Page 62 of Roulette Rodeo
Her eyes fill with tears she's trying not to let fall, and seeing them makes my own eyes burn.
"That's not true—" she starts.
"It is!" I insist, shaking my head hard enough to make my pigtails whip around. "I know Daddy doesn't care. He brings weird ladies to the house when you're in the hospital and calls you a w...wench?" I stumble over the word, not quite getting it right but knowing it's something mean. "I don't know what it means, but it makes him laugh in a mean way."
The sadness on her face deepens, but she tries to smile.
Always trying to protect me from truths I already knew.
"I'm just...not allowed," she says finally, and there's defeat in it.
"But here!" I throw my hands up, gesturing at the ranch, the field, the impossible blue sky. "Here you're allowed, right? This is Grandpa's ranch. You can do whatever you want here!"
This time her smile is genuine, warm like summer sunshine.
"I guess I can," she admits, and kisses my forehead. The touch feels like a blessing, like protection, like goodbye.
"Maybe he'll feel pity for me and I'll get to leave it for you, sweetheart."
I pout, my bottom lip pushing out in that way that always made her laugh.
"Why would you leave it for me, Mommy? You'll be here with me. Forever and ever, right?"
She laughs, but it's the kind of laugh that's half sob.
"You're right," she says, even though we both know that it's a lie wrapped in love. "Forever and ever."
She hugs me again, tighter this time, like she's trying to memorize the feeling. Her voice drops to a whisper, urgent and desperate:
"Promise me, Rowenna. Don't be as weak and pitiful as Mommy, okay? Always fight for what you want. No matter what. Don't let the cruel world force you to lose your spark. Can you do that for Mommy?"
"Yes!" I vow with all the fierce certainty of childhood. "I'll be the strongest omega ever! Stronger than you, stronger than anyone! I'll fight the whole world if I have to!"
"That's my girl," she whispers, and I can feel her tears dropping onto my hair. "My brave, beautiful girl."
The field begins to fade at the edges, the ranch becoming transparent like morning mist. I clutch at her dress, trying to hold on, but I can feel myself getting heavier, older, pulled back to a body that hurts and a world that's cruel.
"Mommy, don't go!"
"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I'm always with you. In every cherry blossom, in every sunset, in every moment you choose to fight instead of surrender."
"But I'm scared," I admit, and I'm not sure if it's eight-year-old me or twenty-four-year-old me saying it.
"Being scared is okay," she says, her voice fading like an echo. "Being scared and fighting anyway—that's what makes you brave."
The dream dissolves completely, and I'm pulled back to consciousness like being dragged from warm water into cold air.
My eyes open slowly, weighted with exhaustion and maybe drugs, definitely drugs from the way my thoughts move like syrup. The world swims into focus in pieces—white ceiling, soft lighting, the quiet beep of medical equipment.
I'm in a bed. A real bed with actual sheets that smell like lavender laundry detergent instead of industrial bleach. The room is clean, medical but somehow homey, with actual windows showing trees and sky instead of neon and concrete.
My body feels like it's been taken apart and put back together by someone who lost the instruction manual.
Everything aches, but it's distant, muffled by whatever pharmaceutical cocktail is dripping through the IV in my arm.
There's a nightstand beside the bed, and on it, a water bottle with condensation still beading on its surface. Fresh. Recent. Someone was just here.
A sticky note is attached to the bottle, close enough that I can reach it without setting off whatever monitoring equipment I'm hooked to. My fingers are clumsy, uncoordinated, but I manage to grab both bottle and note.
