Chapter Text
The blue glow tints your eyelids as you slowly come to. The room is awash in the haze of the tube television. The tape’s run out, its butt sticking out of the VCR slot. You roll onto your side, no recollection of dozing off, only the last few lines of dialogue from Sandra Bullock.
You sit up, the blankets twisted at your feet, and groan. Groggily, you turn your legs over the edge and slide forward to reach for the cardboard shell and slip the tape from the slot. You put the case over the black plastic and add it to your collection of old VHSs.
You stand in the small space between your television and futon and stretch. Your alarm clock gleams 1:34am into the blue dim. It’s not so late. It’s the weekend so you don’t have much to wake up early for anyway.
Your mouth is dry. You let yourself into the hall and rub your eyes as you walk the few steps to the open archway of the kitchen. The cupboard creaks as you open it and take out an old amber coloured glass and flip on the top, water filtered straight into the crystal. You shut it off and turn, a giggle drawing you from your assumed solitary.
You see a bloom of light from a tiny rectangle, your mother’s features shadowed as she smiles at her phone. She’s usually the first to bed, not that you leave your room very much as it is. You sip and near the doorway, looking into the small living room as she flinches and looks over at you.
“Oh, honeybun, I didn’t know you were awake!” she blackens the screen and yawns, it doesn’t seem genuine, “I was just about to go to bed.”
“Who are you texting?” you croak and take another drink to wash away the frog from your throat.
“Your aunt,” she stands up and tucks the phone away. You think she’s lying but you’re not good at telling one way or another. Besides, why would she lie?
She’s still in the dark navy pants and striped shirt of her uniform, the emblem of the post service on her chest. She wasn’t home when you nuked your tray of processed potatoes and bland turkey but she told you she was going out with Stella from work. Usually they went to the bingo now and then, it must have been another girls’ night.
“Ah, so how was bingo?” you ask.
She blanches and sniffs. Her eyes are hooded, she’s tired and it reminds you how sleepy you still are.
“Great,” she answers at last, “I hope I didn’t wake you up, honeybun, you go back to sleep…” she nears you and squeezes your shoulder. You wince and she remembers herself, as affectionate as she is, you’ve always struggled with it. “Good night, love you.”
“Love you too, mum,” you say as she sidles past you.
You’re almost jealous. Of your own mother. She has a life. You don’t. You sit in your room and do next to nothing. Sure, you have your online classes but those are bullshit, you can do those in your sleep.
Sleep. You take your glass of water and head back to your room. That’s all you want. Sleep and forget how lame you are.
📼
At first, you’re not sure you heard what you heard. You think it’s the movie, maybe some sound mixing you never noticed before. You’ve seen the movie a dozen times over, another relic from your collection inherited from your grandmother. You pop the last kernel of popcorn in your mouth as you hear the low tone again.
You dust your fingers off on your pajama pants and check the clock. It’s eleven on a Tuesday! Your mom should be asleep. She needs to wake up bright and early to get to the post office while you have to get your paper done for Unit Three.
You take the empty bowl, a few unpopped kernels left in the bottom and near the door. You listen through the wood. You grip the old metal knob as you hear your mother, the same giggle from that night almost two weeks ago and another, deeper, a slithery snicker.
Slowly, you open the door and peek out, the yellow light casting into the hallway from the kitchen. You squeak and snap the door shut as a figure passes closely, unexpectedly. There’s a pause as their voices fade. Then a knock.
“Honeybun,” your mother calls through, “are you awake?”
You cringe. They definitely know. You’re certain the stranger saw you. Who is he? Why is he there? Your mother taps again and the green irises flash in your mind, it was all you glimpsed before your retreat.
You slowly ease the door back again. Your mother smiles sheepishly and you poke your head out as you don’t see the man.
He’s still there, further down, by the front door. He’s standing by the shoe mat, tall, lithe, traces of black still in his silver hair, a dark suite trims his stature nicely. Tailored and expensive. Much unlike anything in your modest existence.
“I hope we didn’t disturb you,” your mother draws your attention back to her as you shy away from meeting the man’s gaze.
“No, I just wanted to–” you raise the empty bowl.
“Oh, okay, hon,” she smiles, “we were just having a drink. I thought you’d be asleep, so…”
“It’s fine, it’s your house,” you say guiltily, “really, it’s… okay.”
You peek down the hall again. The man is watching you. Who is he? You’re not brave enough to ask. You can barely speak loud enough for your mother to hear.
“He’s… a friend,” she explains hesitantly, “Loki. I met him at work. He has family overseas so he sends a lot of mail.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, breaking his silence as he ends the nicety with your name, “your mother has told me so much about you.”
You nod. You don’t know what to say. You aren’t good with strangers. Not with people in general. You couldn’t even muster the spine to attend a real college like everyone else in your graduating class. No, you closed yourself in and watched the world pass you by on the screen of your boxy laptop.
“Here,” she takes the bowl, “go back to bed, honeybun, I’ll get this for you.”
You say nothing else and let her have the bowl. You quickly hide again as she pulls the door closed. She’s evasive and you’re not stupid. You know what ‘drinks’ are, you know the man is likely more than a friend or soon to be, and you know you interrupted them. She couldn’t be more plain in letting you know it.
Guilt follows you back to your bed. Your mother expected you to be out of the house by now, she should have an empty nest, she should be free to do all the things she put on hold for you. You ruin everything. You tuck yourself into bed and hit play on the remote. You can’t hear the actors as you sink into self-pity.
Well, once you finish your diploma, you can get a job. There are loads of virtual positions you can apply to, then you can free her and yourself. Find a small apartment to hunker down and not be a burden to anyone.
You face the wall and close your eyes before the tears can well. You wish you were better. You wish you could do more. You wish you weren’t broken.
📼
Saturday night, you stand by the microwave watching the countdown on the microwave. Your mother surprises you, not just with her sudden appearance but with her pretty red dress. You haven’t seen her dressed up in years. She never had an occasion. You finished your last year of high school through correspondence so she didn’t have any graduation to attend, you got your piece of paper and hid it in a drawer.
She smiles, her painted lips curving nicely beneath her full cheeks. You haven’t seen her that genuinely happy in some time. Only shallow smiles to assure your doubt.
There’s a moment, a fleeting remark that should have been more than.
“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim and put the hell of your hand to your head, “your date.”
“Date?” she’s almost giddy.
“Mum, I’m not stupid,” you sigh, “I’m not a kid anymore, you know? You’re allowed to have fun without me.”
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s that serious,” she shrugs, “you know, I’m older, it’s difficult–”
“He looks even older,” you say.
“Hey,” she frowns.
“I didn’t mean it… in a bad way,” you chew your lip, “sorry, it’s only– I hope you have fun.”
“Thanks, hon,” she bounces in her heels; those are new, “are you sure you want to eat that?” she looks at the microwave as it beeps, “I can leave some money for pizza.”
“I’m fine,” you say as you turn and carefully remove the steaming plastic tray, “really. You go out and don’t worry about me. I’m an adult. I can handle it on my own. I’ll just be studying. Probably sleep a bit early.”
“Okay,” she says reluctantly as she taps her fingers on the counter, “you sure?”
“Mum,” you huff.
“It’s just… I wish you had some friends to keep you company–”
“I’m fine,” you insist, “I like being alone. Now go. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can, honeybun,” she says, “but I worry.”
“You don’t need to,” you grab a fork from the drawer, “one day, you won’t have to at all.”
“Don’t say that,” she says.
“Promise, mum, I’m doing good! I’m gonna get a job after all this and… I won’t be your problem anymore.”
“You’re not a problem,” she insists.
You keep your thoughts to yourself and take your tray of overcooked mac and cheese, “I hope you have a good time with him.”
“I’ll… I’ll text you when I’m on my way home,” she offers.
“Okay,” you brush past her.
“Love you,” she says weakly.
“Love you too, mum,” you echo without looking back.
You quickly scurry away, kicking your bedroom door shut behind you. You’re happy for her, really. But you can’t help but think about how pathetic you are. You’re nineteen and you’ve never even been on a date. Never kissed a boy, never even flirted with one. Shit, you can hardly leave the house to buy a soda at the corner shop.
📼
It’s late. Another night. Easy to forget the days as they blend together. Only the dates in your syllabus keep them from falling apart completely.
The night isn’t much different than the day. You’re nocturnal, a night bird, flitting in and out of your nest. The house is silent as you emerge from your room and tiptoe down to the kitchen. A chamomile brew to calm your flustered nerves.
You fell asleep on your textbook, pages bent and drool stained on the text. Tomorrow, your midterm. Despite it being open book, you feel that anxiety twisting deep in your stomach. You shouldn’t be napping when you have so much to review.
You put the kettle on and wait. Nothing as riveting as watching water boil. You turn and put your head in your hands, elbows on the counter as you yawn. You’ll be alright, you tell yourself, but you’re not very convincing.
The ticking of the burner fills the kitchen, the only noise in the silence limned only in the night light set into the socket. You don’t want to wake your mother, she’s due for another early morning shift. The least you can do is not make her work any harder.
You barely hear the bare foot on the tile. The kettle starts a soft rumble and it’s only as you lift your head that the speck in the corner of your eye gives you a start. You turn to face the shadow, expecting your mother but frightened at the unexpected.
That man. That stranger. The one who makes her giggle.
Loki, you remember. You haven’t seen him since that first night. She texts him, sometimes a phone call, and goes out to meet him. He feels like a ghost, not real, not to you.
He wears only an undershirt and a pair of short grey boxers. You give a pause. He’s almost naked, you think as the shadows line the muscles beneath the thin ribbed fabric. He’s in good shape for his age, but that’s a thought you shouldn’t have.
“Ah, I see I am not the only restless creature in the night,” he drawls as you turn away, hiding your discomfort, fumbling to twist the knob on the stove before the kettle can whistle. He waits but you don’t answer. “Your mother did mention you’re rather timid.”
You have no words. You don’t know him. You don’t want to know him. Your mother has every right to him but you prefer your distance. You take a bag from the box and put it in a mug. Your hand shakes as you pour the tea, spilling hot water on yourself as you hiss but keep in your pain.
“Might I trouble you for some?” he asks as he nears, his shadow obscuring the glow of the small bulb of the night light, “chamomile?”
“Mhmm,” you nod and put the kettle down. You grab another bag from the box and snap the lid shut. He takes a mug down himself and slides it over expectantly. You drop the bag in and he thanks you.
You claim your tea and back away. He lifts the kettle, unbothered, and pours a mug full. You watch him. The kitchen is tiny like the rest of the house. There isn’t much room to pass. Not comfortably.
“Your mother says you’ve been studying, you’re in school?” he says as he peeks over his shoulder at you, the kettle resting on the coil.
You stare at him. The breath is caught in your chest. Your fingertips are icy even as the tea burns through the porcelain.
“It’s about the time for exams, yes?” he prods.
You blink. You bite down and set your mug on the counter. You back away and turn to edge past him, brushing closely as you quickly flee. Forget the tea, you won’t be sleeping. Not with a strange man in the house.
You hear a chuckle before the door closes you in. You flick the small button of the lock beneath the knob and stumble away from the peeling paint.
Why didn’t she warn you? Your mother is keeping secrets. She’s lying to you. You thought she was the one person you could trust.