Bad Deal

Preface ✬ Serene

I'd been leaning against the guest bedroom door for so long I was sure I'd mold into it. But when I heard Asshole's door open, I found that I was not fused to the wood, and managed to push up to my feet.
I backed away from my former resting spot, slowly, as though a hoard of zombies were pushing into it and I was all out of options. We lived under Asshole's thumb, ate according to his will. If he was done with us, if I'd pushed too far...it was like pulling out my pockets and seeing dust-bunnies emerge in a plume. Poof. Desolation. I was only ten. My tongue was never tamed. I wasn't used to holding it, cradling it like an incapable infant. Nannie found my informal speech endearing. When I said something out of pocket she would swat my nose, with a "now that's not very nice." But her eyes would be twinkling, a slight, near invisible curl to her tight mouth. I said what she would not.
But as it turned out, my loose lips had earned me blame for a fight. A fight that blew up the night and landed me on this floor for a two and a half hour screaming match. Mom didn't usually stand up for herself. But when Asshole spoke on me, she became brave. Or stupid. Nannie always said the line between the two was fine as my hair. I touched it instinctively, twirling and twisting it into a knot. I heard a pitter patter of steps in the hallway, gentle as rain. But I didn't feel the soft spread of joy when I half-woke in the middle of the night to a storm. A surge of fear coursed through me, exploding in my limbs like lightning. The door cracked open, and I scrambled to feel for the lighter in my pocket, when I saw my mother's face appear halfway around the edge of the door.
With a huge bruise flowering around her left eye like a blue daisy.
Tears blurred my vision, and when I blinked them away she was already kneeling on the floor next to me, tears spilling down her own face.
The rest of the night was a blur. She gathered me and my teddy bear and carried us out to the car. We drove to a motel, and slept on the floor because the bed had bugs. In the dark as I gazed at the shiny silhouette of my mother's face, of her wound, I wished that for a happy home of our own. I rarely wished, and I didn't again for seven years.
"Make a wish, cottontail," Mom said as she flipped the lighter closed. The candle sprung up from the white lump of cupcake frosting. She swiped it from the case at the diner. But the candle, she bought; the number seventeen, speckled with green and blue. I leaned before the beating little flame, feeling it warm my face like a summer night. It was winter, the heater barely keeping us circulated. The fire glow illuminated my mother's blonde braid, her pale teal eyes, the tattoo on her shoulder. An S for me, faded because she couldn't afford to have it touched up.
I squeezed my eyes tight, and wished for one thing.
Cash.
I blew out the candle.