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My sister was a champion at hiding her truths.
I close my eyes, the memories of how her red-tinted pain flowed from under the bathroom door, hitting me out of nowhere. She was always braver than I could ever be. She took matters into her own hands.
It took grit, a certain fearlessness, and fortitude to face her demon.
It took courage to know she’d never get over what had been done to her.
She destroyed her monster.
Then she destroyed herself.
I choke down my weakness with another sip of beer, getting rid of those thoughts of her before opening my eyes once again.
With my smile back in place, I search the room for an outlet, a way to put me back on an even keel.
I come up empty.
It looks like it will only be me and my incessant need for pain tonight.
But that’s okay.
We’ve always been great bedfellows.
Chapter 3
Angel
People are pawns.
A means to an end.
Their fears aren’t my problem.
I learned that long ago.
My father taught me.
My grandfather taught me.
I was a great student.
But every once in a while, the ghost of my mother haunts me.
Every once in a while, she tries to slip that white cape over my shoulders.
It doesn’t cover my black heart for very long. It burns away into ashes quickly.
Tonight, as I sit outside the hospital where Greta took that bruised little girl, I’m struggling to untie the knot around my throat.
It’s choking me, cutting off the air and circulation.
It refuses to burn, and I hate my mother a little more because of it.
I don’t deserve this. I’m a good wife, a good mother.
I blink away the image of her on her hands and knees, a cut on her jaw as she cleaned up the broken vase my father threw at her because he had to wait a few minutes for dinner to be ready.
Women will never learn.