How We Are: A MFM romance

Mama's Boy

Cain

Violence is Ezra's mother. And he is a mama's boy. He loves her, he does. His real mother, though is...an interesting woman. Lovely, but deeply disturbed. We set foot into the house and she appears, dwarfed in front of us, a blank look on her face.

"You're alive," she said simply.

I nod. Ezra looks away and rubs the back of his neck. "We are, Mrs. Vitale. You look well."

There are two people actually that I'll tolerate and speak to. Ezra and his mother. And Dominque occasionally. We left and she has no way of contacting us. We'll track her down when we get back, apologize for disappearing.

Ezra will apologize. I'll give her a smile.

"No I don't. You've gotten taller," she informs me, stepping a bit closer. There's a dish towel in her hand. "I wasn't prepared. I don't have enough to feed you. I'll go to the store now."

Ezra rolls his eyes and walks part her. I glare at the back of his head until he stops. He raises his brows narrows his eyes into asking me what the fuck I want him to do.

I nod to his mother as she starts milling about for her keys.

Ezra sighs. "It's fine mom."

"Nonsense." She intones, "You'll starve with what I have. I'll starve. He'll—"

"I said it's fine," Ezra snaps.

I swallow and put on my best smile. It's the smile I made in 3rd grade and the photographer said it was nice.

I put my hand on her back and urged her to get to the couch.

"Sit, Mrs. Vitale. We're fine. We'll get groceries later."

She sits for five seconds before getting up and roaming toward the kitchen. Mrs. Vitale isn't actually very old, she's about in her 40's though she doesn't look it. As much as Ezra loves violence and how much they have in common those dead eyes?

He gets them from them. His mother especially.

"How old are you boys now," she murmurs. "You in school?"

"School is prison." Ezra frowns. "We have a restaurant remember?"

"He only says that because he's been to both," I smooth over his irritation, following her into the kitchen.

I spent my childhood in this home with Ezra. My home life wasn't the best and his was worse honestly, but his mother loved me. He loved me and it was more than I could say about the people in my house.

"Mrs. Vitale, I can do that for you," I offer, holding out my hand for the cast iron she struggles to pull out from the cabinets.

"No no. You boys go play your game. I'll make cubed steak."

Ezra scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Sounds like a plan," he grabs me pulling me toward his room, with actual strength which isn't like him.

I let him.

"I wish you'd be nicer to her," I grumble.

"Why do I need to do that? You're plenty nice to her. She only has one son. It's you," he shrugs, putting his hands  behind his back as we walk upstairs.

At the top of the stairs waits a familiar figure. I pull Ezra back immediately.

"Mr. Vitale," I greet him. "We won't be here long."

His eyes narrow in on his son. "You won't greet me?"

"The next time I planned to greet you was to spit on your grave. I think I'll keep that appointment," Ezra spits, pulling a small knife from his pocket. "But I can open up an earlier availability, if you want."