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CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. vigilante shit.
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MORE OFTEN THAN NOT, I find myself in a position of wondering whether having a dead mother, or no mother at all, would be better than the one I have now. Before you start, I don't need any form of reminder of how objectively insensitive that is to people with mother issues. However, I'd like that same group of sensitive fuckers to even try attempt spending an hour with Selina Flores. If you didn't have a dead mother prior, she would definitely wind up dead if she was Selina.
Murder isn't fathomable to me personally. True, there have been many instances where I have debated it (some would say I premeditated it), but what's that in comparison to the completion of the act? Words are empty, more so thoughts; meaningless. So far as no physicality is present to support such gruesome fantasies, they are merely that. Therefore, internally wishing your mother dead is innocent and, in my case, extremely valid.
Need proof of that? I'm currently holding my breath whilst my shaky hand unintentionally rattles the front door handle, tremors being a minor result of cold and a major result of the fear that comes with facing my birth giver. Piercing pain pricks my tongue the more I bite down on it, repeatedly counting down to three in my head and trying to ease my way back through the white picket fence. There is no easing your way into a screaming match with Selina, it's always bound to slap you in the face like her signature backhand.
Ripping the bandaid off, I shoot a swift exhale through my pursed lips and swing the door open, pleased to be met with the sight of an empty entrance room. I relax my shoulders and prepare to rake a hand through my hair, only to notice it's still loosely tangled in a hair tie once my nails have already caught themselves in my web of unconditioned waves. In a series of buffering motions of discomfort, I inevitably direct myself up to my room, regulating my breathing once the chances of running into her begin to slim.
Though, to more of my nightmare than surprise, my bedroom door opens to reveal the woman herself perched on my bed, a nail file of mine sharpening her claws one by one. The breath cycle I was completing lodges itself in my throat, and I subconsciously grip whatever belongings I'm holding over my borrowed attire, and subsequently my body.
