I jerk out of her grip, rubbing the spot where she touched me before I fix my glare on her. It has zero effect, as usual. “No. What you’re asking of me is impossible.”
A delicate brow arches. My mother is classically beautiful. Modernly preserved. Nary a wrinkle in sight, not that anyone cares. My father left her years ago. She has no man in her life. Nothing to focus her attention on.
Just me.
“Nothing is impossible, darling. You of all people should know this. Look at you. You’re a living miracle.”
White hot rage turns my blood to ice. The only reason I’m still alive is because I figured out what she was doing to me—convincing a team of doctors for years that something was wrong with me, when I was perfectly fine.
Perfectly healthy.
All while she poisoned me with unknown toxins. Deprived me of healthy essentials. Kept me up so I could never sleep, making me look and act worse and worse.
I swear I have a faded memory of her holding a pillow over my face while I struggled to breathe. Did that actually happen? Or is it a figment of my overactive imagination?
I’m still not sure.
Despite my confronting her several times, calling her out for what she’s done to me, she pretends those conversations never happened—and so do I. The winter of my junior year in high school, when I almost overdosed by my own hand versus whatever she was doing to me, she finally stopped with her charade. Her theatrics.
But she’s given one hell of a performance throughout my life. Downright award-winning. Always the frantic, concerned mother unable to help her poor, sickly daughter. It took me some time, but I first suspected what she was doing around the age of eight.
Eight.
Then I immediately put the thought out of my head because no one ever wants to admit their mother would do something so horrible to them. I couldn’t fathom her cruelty, until I had to finally face the fact that she wanted me dead.
But why? For attention? That’s the only thing I could figure. My father neglected her. My brother avoided her and my sister pretended she didn’t exist.
So she turned all of her diabolical focus on me. Her own life was complete chaos, and the only thing she could control was me.
Ironic that I nearly died because of my own choices, not hers. I was distraught back then, and I felt abandoned. I turned on my best friend and ruined that relationship. There was no point in going on. My entire life felt like a lie. Or so I thought.
Turns out, my mother still has plans for me—to send me to another sort of death.
“And I’m at least giving you options,” she continues. Her smile is cold, her gaze calculating. “So go ahead. Make your choice.”
We’re in her study at the Manhattan penthouse, though we could be anywhere and still have this battle. We clash all the time, ever since I was little. It’s as if this is the only way we know how to communicate—by tearing each other down.
My older brother Whit dismisses our mother so wholeheartedly that it takes her breath away every time he does it, which is often. My younger sister Carolina threw herself into studying ballet, so she wouldn’t have to deal with our mother’s controlling ways. She left home at thirteen and never came back.
That was years ago. And I always found it funny that she chose ballet, considering it’s the most rigid, controlling form of dance there is, and Carolina still went to it in search of freedom. That’s how domineering our mother is—when someone allows her to be.
That’s me. The one with Mommy issues, the one who’s constantly seeking her attention. Her approval. Her acceptance. Despite her almost killing me, I still want her love. Crave it, even.
Much to my eternal shame, I am the only one out of the three of us our mother can actually manipulate.
“Well?” Mother’s sharp voice snaps me out of my reverie and I blink at her, momentarily confused. Within seconds though, it all comes flooding back.
My decision. My supposed choice.Which man shall I marry, Mother? Perhaps Mr. Mid-Life Crisis? Or Mr. Older Than Dirt?
I don’t know which one is worse.
“Give me until tomorrow.” I stand up straighter, lifting my chin, internally searching for strength, but coming up woefully empty. “I will give you my answer then.”
“Giving you any amount of extra time is dangerous. You know this.” Mother crosses her arms, her gaze sweeping over me, her disapproval obvious. “Don’t try and run away from me, darling. I will find you. I always do.”
“Oh, I know.” I smile, but it feels forced, so I stop. “I don’t plan on running away.”
What’s the point? She’s right. She always finds me.