Page 17 of You Had Me At Thirteen

Easy.

With my thirst quenched and my mind put back together, I head back upstairs to finish the episode I was watching.

Maybe my life will someday become a documentary, just like the woman in this one, sweet and innocent until she goes all Norman BatesPsychoon a stupid man who didn’t know what he had until she stabbed him in the balls.

Prick. They’re all the fucking same.

EIGHT

Wren

* * *

As I stare at my phone reading over Matilda’s messages for the tenth time, a smile creeps onto my face. Is it weird that I can’t remember the last time I felt a genuine smile? It’s not long before the muscles in my cheeks twitch, letting me know I’ve spent enough time not being pissed off. It was only a matter of time before I shut those feelings down. Who am I to feel any sort of happiness right now?

Although I have to admit, teasing Matilda gets me out of my head for a few moments.

I swear she leaves her curtains open just to entertain me, not that I’m complaining. After eating alone again, I need something to cheer me up.

Which reminds me, I need to check on Mum. I picked up her medication from the pharmacy this afternoon, handing over a wad of cash that would make most people in the store avert their eyes.

Why is a kid like that carrying around that much money?I know they’re all thinking it, but they don’t know how, or what I do, to get it. The medication is a last-ditch effort, and if it doesn’t work, then I’m shit out of luck.

Reaching into my bag, I feel around for the paper one holding all my fucking hope in one packet.

The door to Mum’s room is ajar as I approach, so I knock first, not wanting to startle her, then peek my head in. ‘Hey Mum,’ I say.

She pushes herself up into a sitting position before placing a bookmark in her book. She smiles at me. ‘Hey baby.’

I make my way over to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘You were asleep when I got home, so I didn’t want to wake you. How are you feeling?’

She places a hand on my thigh. It’s warm against my skin, although a little sweaty, but it doesn’t bother me. ‘I’m okay. Sorry I wasn’t down for dinner tonight. Not much of an appetite at the moment.’

I lift a shoulder. ‘That’s okay. It’s in the fridge if you want some tomorrow. But you need to take these.’ I hold out my hand with two blue pills in it.

She looks down with a sigh. ‘Wren…’

‘Mum, take the damn pills.’ I shove my hand at her.

When her eyes meet mine again, the pain in them steals a little piece of my soul, and it takes all my strength not to crumble right here in front of her. She can’t see me lose my shit. That’s for Thursday nights, when I let loose with my fists.

‘How?’ She stares at me, her hands folded in her lap. The woman is stubborn as hell when she wants to be, but right now is not the time.

‘I told you, Dad sends money.’

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t lie to my mum, but it’s the only way I can get her to take the drugs that cost ten thousand dollars a month. If she finds out I get the money through illegal means, and that my dad doesn’t give two shits about her – or me – then the last remaining speck of hope she still clings to will evaporate, and I’ll be left with nothing.

After the doctors told us chemotherapy wouldn’t work, I researched everything I could. I stumbled across a new trial treatment for women with ovarian cancer, so we took it to the oncologist, who insisted it showed some promise, but he couldn’t guarantee it would work for her. The only catch was the price tag attached to it. But how do you put a price on someone’s life, when it could save it?

At first Mum flat-out refused, but I convinced her I would speak to Dad about it, which I did. But I didn’t get the response I wanted. Apparently, the money he’s been making is tied up in all these investments and he won’t be able to cash in on them for at least another twelve months. Let’s just say that the conversation didn’t end well.

So I found my own way of making that sort of money, and it’s paying off for the moment. Mum is getting what she needs, and I get to obliterate faces. It’s part of my healing process, if only to make me feel somewhat more able to get up every morning. It’s a temporary fix, and by the time Thursday morning rolls around, I’m ready for another fight.

But I’ll do it over and over if I have to, just to see her smile one more time. Or have her pinch my cheek as I pretend it pisses me off. Except it doesn’t. It’s just a front. No adult man is going to admit that, though. But maybe I will. Maybe I’ll scream it from the top of my lungs to the world if it makes a difference. I love my mum. So what? Most people love their parents, except most don’t have to watch theirs wither away in front of their eyes.

Mum’s face is tight as she searches mine. The look in her eyes tells me she doesn’t quite believe me, but she says nothing.

I breathe a sigh of relief when she takes the pills from my palm and grabs the glass of water on her bedside table. Her hand shakes as she brings it to her mouth, water slipping from the glass, down her chin.

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