Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 2

"Where's that useless boy?" My mom slurs as she stumbles into my room. Her eyes scan the dimly lit space before settling on my grandmother and on me curled up under the thin blanket. "You're as useless as they come," she hisses, grabbing my legs. "Get down from that bed now and go to work. I need money for a drink."

Her fingers, cold and rough, yank at my blanket, pulling it away. Her words are like sharp knives, cutting through the air, stinging more than the physical touch of her hands. My body tightens instinctively, but I don't say anything. What could I say that wouldn't set her off even more? I don't move fast enough for her liking, so she pulls harder, her nails digging into my skin. I wince but say nothing, my throat tight, my chest heavy.

"Why don't you go to work yourself?" my grandmother's voice cuts through the tension in the room. She stands up from the bed, her face worn from years of dealing with my mother's reckless ways, her hands shaking slightly from frustration.

My mother scoffs and turns to her, ignoring me for a moment. "My life was better when he was in school," she snaps, her voice dripping with bitterness. "I was always getting money from those rich kids, and their parents. They didn't mind, especially with him being so good at what he does." She slaps the side of my leg again, as though it's my fault that I'm here, instead of continuing the education I had to abandon.

My gaze fixed on the cracked wall across from me. I don't want to see the hatred in her eyes, the disappointment. It's a routine by now. I stopped hoping for anything different.

"Yi, leave him be," my grandmother says, her voice firm as she steps closer, yanking my mother's hand away from me. I know she's tired, too. She's been the one picking up the pieces, talking to me when my mother disappears for days on end. But she's old, and she can only do so much.

My mother sneers. "He's my son, and I can do whatever I wish with him. Why don't you go to your useless son?" Her voice drips with venom as she swings her hand at my grandmother.

I sit up quickly to hold my mother's hand, but my grandmother catches my mother's wrist before the slap can land. "My son may have his faults, but he doesn't treat his children this way, and Zhan is my grandson," she says, her voice steady but tired. Her grip on my mother's wrist is firm, like a barrier between storms, and in that moment, the air feels heavier, charged.

My mother wrenches her arm free, glaring. "You always take his side. Do you think I don't see it? You never defended me when I needed it, and now you're doing it for him. Useless. All of you, useless!" Her voice is rising, trembling with years of pent-up anger.

"What's there to support anymore? I supported you for years until you turned yourself into this person you don't even recognize," my grandmother hissed, her eyes cold and unwavering. She stood inches away, her words sharp and piercing, like icicles through the thin armor. "Do you even realize what you put Zhan through? The abuse, the sacrifices... all for what?"

"He is useless," my mother spat. "All his mates are graduates with money. But what does he have?" She hissed, the bitterness dripping from her words.

My grandmother's gaze was sharp, unwavering. "He has you to show for it," she replied. "You are the useless one, squandering her son's money on booze and drugs." She hissed back, the words cutting through the tension in the room.

Silence fell, thick and heavy, as they glared at each other, each wound reopened, each resentment exposed. I shrank into the corner, hoping to disappear, wondering how I fit into this fractured family.

"Both of you are the cause of my misfortune," my mother hissed, her voice laced with blame. "It's your responsibility to take care of me." Each word dripped out, shameless and heavy, as though we owed her for every hardship she'd faced.