Brat’s not home when I get in. That’s probably a good thing. He’s been bunking off school again, but Mum still won’t punish him. It drives me mental. I suffered at school, but she still made me go. When it comes to Bratley, though? Nah, he can do what he likes. Fucking favoritism.
“Mum?” I call.
Nothing.
I unzip my coat slowly. The house is cold. Mum can’t afford to put the heating on unless it’s absolutely freezing outside, and even then, it’s only on in short bursts. Right now, it’s jumpers and blankets weather.
I try again. “Mum?”
“I’m here,” she says and lets out an almighty barrage of coughs. I close my eyes and count to ten.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, well, maybe. I could do with some help.”
I dump my bag by the front door and trudge into the living room. Mum’s sitting there on the sofa, wrapped up in an old crocheted blanket. Dark circles ring her eyes.
“Hey love,” she says. “Good day? Get lots done?”
I nod and perch myself next to her. I’ll stay for a bit, just to be polite. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I do love my mum. But sometimes I could do without all this. The tired smiles and the aches and the pains and the ooh, love, could you justs. I know she needs looking after. I know she has issues. I respect that. But I have issues too, and all I ever get is “exercise is the best remedy!” Get outside. Don’t eat cake. Think positive. Every. Single. Time.
She asks me about uni, and I give her a bare-bones reply. She’s not really all that interested—the only thing she seems to be able to concentrate on nowadays is this pain she is supposed to be in, so she doesn’t ask me to elaborate, which is fine by me. I don’t tell Mum about Amy, but despite myself, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see her again.
Mum mumbles about how the doctor’s going to up her Amitriptyline prescription to help her sleep, to go on top of all the other medication she needs to help her function, oh, and could I be a dear and pick that up for her tomorrow, yes, it was done over the phone because she couldn’t get out, too much pain.
Too much avoidance, more like. I sometimes wonder if this whole “phantom pain” thing is more about hiding something deeply psychologically broken within her. Maybe that’s why I joined my course. To understand my own mother.
I just nod, like usual. She smiles weakly at me, a smile I know so well. I get up and make her a cup of tea. She acts surprised when I give it to her, like I’ve never done it before. Bit bloody rich, if you ask me.
I could stay longer, but I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.
***
My heart flutters painfully as I log in to my laptop and click my email. I dropped an absolute humdinger online this morning, and the anticipation of the backlash feels a bit like Christmas.
And there it is. Fifty-seven notifications, no doubt every one of them either hating my guts or worshipping me as a goddess. This is better than sex. Or so I think, not that I have any experience in that particular field. All I know is this makes me tingle all over in a mightily delicious way. I hover the cursor over the first message, drinking in the excitement.
You fucking bitch!
Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff. Why yes, I do get off on it, thank you for obliging! I lap up every insult, every lol!!, every accusation of trolling.
THIS. IS. THE. LIFE.