Page 5 of Cruel Charming Psychos (Necessary Evils 2)

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be pointing fingers. The bottle has almost killed you and you still go running back to it.”

She flicks ashes onto the floor, apparently forgetting that maid service isn’t a thing when you’re staying at a motel that costs forty dollars a night. “I’m at the end of my life. There’s no point in this tiger changing her stripes.”

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to.”

“That’s because we’re weak.” She attempts to laugh but coughs instead, coughs hard enough to spew phlegm into the air between us. “It runs in our blood, cowardice coursing through our veins.” She leans over the side of the bed, putting the cigarette out into an empty beer bottle. “I really tried but I took a good look around at my life and I thought to myself, what the fuck is the point?”

“Good question,” I say dryly.

She reaches for another cigarette, sticks it between dry lips, and lights it. Takes a long inhale before blowing out a cloud of smoke with eccentric flair. “How’s the baby?”

Her words catch me off guard.

“What did you say to me?”

“Mothers have a sixth sense for these kinds of things.” She holds the cigarette between her lips as she rises to her feet and approaches. She reaches forward, towards my stomach, but I pull away. “I wouldn’t let her around me, either.”

“I’m not pregnant, Mother,” I grind out as if it was a lie, but it’s not. For once, I’m telling the truth, but I consider folding and telling her a lie instead. I think about the way she’d recoil in shock if I admitted it. The way the life would leave her eyes at the thought of me carrying the grandchild of the woman she claims ruined her life. “There’s no way in hell that I’d ever bring a baby into this fucked-up world.”

“You’ve already committed the worst sin, killing that boy.” She takes a measured step back as she takes another puff, and then watches me carefully. “I guess sticking a hanger up your cunt would only stamp another stamp on your passport to hell.”

“Have another drink, Mother.”

“Do you think you’re taunting me? Do you think that by saying that it’s going to make me not want to have another drink, like some kind of reverse psychology?”

“No,” I say dryly. “I’m just hoping you keel over one of these days so I can finally be at peace.”

Her lips ripple with pride or amusement. I’m not sure which, but I’m not sticking around for her abuse any longer. I disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. And for the third time today, I’m forced to face my own reflection in the mirror. Once again, the person I see looking back at me is different. There’s something about the sullen, pale-yellow lighting that sends a chill down my spine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a cheap disposable razor sitting on the edge of the yellowed bathtub. My throat tenses, but I’m drawn to the blade just the same as I ever was. I slowly step towards the tub, taking a seat beside it. It’s a hard habit to break, and although it’s been a while, I know that Mother was right.

I am weak.Weare weak women, unable to break away from our worst habits and addictions. She’s addicted to numbing herself with alcohol. I’m addicted to punishing myself with the pain of a sharp object.

I make quick work disassembling the razor, ripping out a makeshift blade.

There’s something about cutting myself in the worst fucking bathroom I’ve ever been in that is romantic to me. The dirt, the grit, the yellowness of the light. It’s the perfect mood setter for cutting open my own flesh. I flirt with the idea of how beautifully dark the redness of the blood could be seeping from beneath my skin. It’s the only way to drown out all the voices.

I sit the blade on the edge of the tub before pulling my jeans down to expose my thigh. When I pick the blade back up, my hand is shaking profusely. Every voice in my head is screaming louder than before, but they’re screaming not to do it. I’m stubborn though. I do what I’m not supposed to do and never do what I’m supposed to. It’s a bad habit that’s impossible to break.

When I lower the blade to my skin, flirting with breaking the skin, I take notice of the tattoos of scars etched into my skin. They are battle scars. They are trauma scars. They are real, the realest thing about me. The only things I’ve ever had control of and maybe that’s why I’ve always done it.

I force my eyes closed as I try to will myself to push down, but when the tears burst from the levy of my eyes, I realize that I can’t do it. I throw the blade against the wall across from me and listen to it bounce onto the ground from behind closed eyes. With shaking hands, I pull my jeans up over my thighs and button them before looking back into the mirror.

The fourth time today and yet again, I’m a different person. I wear the tear-stained proof of my scars on my reddened face and though I try to wash away the wetness, the redness remains. Good thing Mother’s too drunk to take notice. I steady myself before opening the door.

When I step back into the bedroom, I come to a sudden halt.

She stands in front of me with the cigarette dangling out of her mouth, burned to the filter but with a trail of ash still there. She holds the stack of money Nick had given me. “I never believed you were an angel, but I never quite believed you were actually a whore.”

“Give me that,” I seethe, the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes again. When she doesn’t respond, I rush forward to try and grab it out of her hands.

She juts her hand backwards, holding the cash out of reach. “This is blood money.”

“I pulled it out of my savings,” I lie through my teeth, but there’s no point. She fucking knows I’m lying. “Give me the fucking money, Mother.”

“How long did you have to lie on your back for this?”

“Give it to me.” I rush forward, tackling her against the dresser. She’s too weak to fight back and I’m able to wrestle the cash from her hand with ease. I take a step back from her as I stuff the cash into my front pocket. “I don’t know why I ever had any hope that you’d get better.”

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