Page 109

Her eyes stare at the ceiling, glassy and empty. A ragged hole marks the side of her temple, and the gun lies, sleek and black, inches from her limp fingers.
A choked sound escapes my throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“No! Please.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she wakes up and tells me this is all some sick joke.
It is, right?
My hands are stained red with her blood.
She’s gone.
My mother is dead.
I gather her into my arms, cradling her head against my chest. Her blood smears across my shirt, my hands, my face.
And I start to laugh. Great, gasping guffaws that shake my whole body.
It eventually fades, replaced by a hollow emptiness that settles deep in my bones like the blood on my skin. My legs go numb, and my arms ache from holding her, but I can’t let go.
Can’t do anything but sit here, rocking slightly, my mother’s head lolling against my chest.
I stare at her closed eyes, willing them to blink, to show me the brown color I inherited from her, to do anything. Accuse me.
But they remain still. Dead.
Just like her.
A hysterical giggle bubbles up my throat again. It’s just so fucking perfect, isn’t it?
“I hate you.” My voice is hoarse from laughing or crying or screaming. I don’t even know anymore. “I hate you for doing this to me.”
The grand exit no one saw coming.
Except maybe she did. Maybe this was her plan all along. Confess her sins, make me say I still love her, then blow her brains out and leave me to deal with the fallout.
Classic Mom move.
A sound penetrates the fog in my brain. Footsteps?
“Hellooo?” A voice echoes through the house, distorted like I’m hearing it from underwater. Familiar. “The door was open. Anyone home? NayNay?”
Blake?
“You butt-called me.” Footsteps approach, growing louder, more real. “I swear if this—” The footsteps stop. There’s a sharp inhale, then—”What the fuck…”
I look up. Blake stands in the doorway, her eyes wide open as she takes in the scene before her. Mom’s body. The blood. Me, covered in it.
“She’s dead.” The words feel strange on my tongue, like they belong to someone else’s story. Someone else’s tragedy. “She—B? Is this real?”
“Naomi…” She takes a tentative step forward. “I… Fuck. I’m so sorry. We need to get rid—” She kneels down next to me, her hand hovering uncertainly over my shoulder. “Did you?”
I look down at my mother’s slack face, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. Her skin is already cooling beneath my fingers. “She did it herself.”
“NayNay, honey, I need you to let go of her, okay?”
Let go? How can I let go? If I let go, she’ll be gone for real.