Page 105 of Whiskey Throttle
His rasp from smoking is thick with unspoken heartbreak. His heart bleeds from wounds I caused years ago. Not healed, not gushing open, but deep and infected.
I did this.
Not the ex. Not his sister. Me. I carved crevices so vast and intricate that he’s become this harsh and hardened version of himself to survive me. The guilt and knowing are enough to make me physically sick.
Those were dark days for me too. I hated myself. Hated my life. Couldn’t bear the burden of that life and house anymore. Barrettmoor was a prison, and I was the prisoner. My children were the wardens back then.
“I did. I had nothing to give. I wasn’t caring for you properly. I was so lost. So caught up in my despair that I had to get help or the ex was going to take you children away from me. I took you to every specialist I could find to fix me and fix you. So he would love us. Stay with us.”
“That fucking worthless sack of shit.”
Dom jumps to his feet, the room seeming to shake under his rage. Redirected so quickly and so easily. He’s pacing, hand ripping at his hair, seeming to want to rip it from his scalp.
His boots strike the floor in heavy thuds. Like each step is a desperate attempt to stomp out a memory that won’t die. His breath grows shallow. Rage radiates off him, but beneath it is barely concealed betrayal and pain.
“I used to wish he’d hit me,” he spits out, spinning back to face us. “At least then it would’ve made sense. At least then I could’ve hated him for something real. Not just the way he made me feel, like I was a fucking experiment he never signed up for. Never fucking wanted.”
His hands claw the back of his neck. A shudder runs through his whole body. He bends slightly at the waist, hands on his thighs, breath ragged. Hollister moves like he might stand, but I stop him with my hand in the air.
This isn’t a moment to interrupt.
Another tactic learned in therapy. Never interrupt. Let him get it all out, or he’ll stuff it back in and explode later.
“I felt defective, you know?” Dominic’s voice is breaking at the edges. Tears slide down his face and drip on the rug. “Like I came out of the womb wrong. Too smart, too much, too intense. And no one, not you, not him, and not the whole fucking army of therapists ever just said I was okay. That I was enough. That I was loved.”
The last is a desperate whisper.
I press a hand over my mouth, but the sound that escapes is part sob, part gasp. All these years, and I still feel completely helpless and unworthy of him. More tears flow, blinding and hot, but I don’t wipe them away. I want them to fall. I want to feel every drop because I deserve to feel like the horrible mother I am.
The devastation.
How broken his confession is. It’s more than I can bear. It cleaves through me, cold and merciless. My insides bleed from the pain I’ve caused as such a horrible mother. A hollow ache claws across my heart, etching a newer, deeper grief that will go to my grave.
He paces again.
A trapped animal searching for an exit that doesn’t exist. His chest heaves, and he grips the mantle like he might tear it from the wall.
“I didn’t need more structure.”
Anguish seeps from him while staring into the dark fireplace.
“I didn’t need another tutor. Or some new diagnosis to explain me away. I needed my mom to lie in bed with me and hold me. Just once. I needed you to tell me I wasn’t fucked up.”
I stand, too upset to sit, yet too cautious to make the wrong move by touching him now. The holding and comforting he once wanted are miles apart from where we stand. Hollister’s thumbs press into his eyes, collecting tears, and then glancing up at me before looking out the window. It would have been better if he weren’t here for this. I don’t know why he is. I thought for myself. Now I’m realizing it was for Dominic. Needing a friend when confronting his mom. It rips my heart into pieces.
“I know that now,” I whisper, clutching the handkerchief and hovering close to him.
“I don’t remember everything about you. I don’t remember how you spent your days. Or what friends or events you went to, but I remember that fucking hallway at Barrettmoor. I remember sitting outside your door for hours and staring at the wood. Leaning my face into the crack at the bottom in hopes of seeing you. Fucking waiting and hoping. Thinking if I stayed out there long enough, maybe you’d come out and see me. Pick me over the darkness that I couldn’t see past. I wanted you to come out, scoop me up, and cuddle me. Just once.”
My entire body trembles.
Hollister reaches for my hand. Offering comfort when our fingertips touch. It’s fleeting and mostly out of reach. The simple act alone causes the lump in my throat to grow suffocatingly bigger. If anyone should be reaching out, it’s me to my son. Not his friend to me. Everything about this situation is wrong.
“I’m so sorry. If I could do everything over again . . .”
The rest hangs in the air between us as I wipe the tears from my face and take in a shaky breath. Reaching for him. Keeping it safe by gently resting my palm on his shoulder.
He flinches.
