As I pushed open the front door as there was an unfamiliar tension in the air. My mother stood by the entrance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, still in her church attire from five hours ago. She was a clear statue of frustration, her lips pinched into a thin line. Her piercing green eyes, fierce as ever, locked onto me with that well familiar, disapproving stare, the one that made me feel like I was always on trial, always falling short to meet her expectations.
"Who was that?" She spat, her voice low but harsh. It felt like an accusation, even before I'd had a chance to explain myself. Her eyes flicked toward the car still visible through the side window as it disappeared down the street.
"And, where the hell were you?"
She didn't wait for an answer, her gaze hardening like she already had a thousand judgments ready to unleash. I sighed, fuck here we go again woman?
"I was with the priest," I muttered, shrugging off my bag and letting it drop onto the hardwood floor with a soft, dull thud. It sounded muffled compared to the storm now brewing in my mother's voice. "You know, since you're the one who me up with the stupid Catholic paper?"
Her eyes narrowed, but her stance didn't soften. If anything, her frustration only grew, the familiar fire in her eyes now mixed with something darker. She stood there, almost trembling with anger.
"Venicia, I did that for your own good!" Her voice cracked with a certain desperation, as if she'd been repeating the same words to herself, trying to believe it. "When are you going to realise the evil in this town, huh? There is evil among us, and it's horrible!" She threw her hands up in exasperation, just like Father Charlie with his sermons. Her accent thickening with every word. It was almost laughable, her panic, her dramatic warnings.
She had a special gift for making the most mundane moments feel like an impending catastrophe.
I rolled my eyes, shifting my weight onto one hip as I gave her a lifeless look. "Mum, can I have the key to my own house back?" I asked flatly, my voice stripped of emotion.
"You don't get to use it as a free pass to fuck around with my stuff." My words hung in the air, flat and sharp, as I pushed past her toward the kitchen. I could feel her eyes following me, still burning with some unspoken frustration, but I didn't give her the satisfaction of looking back.
I glanced around, eyes darting over the cluttered counter, the dirty dishes, the abundance of papers that had been so desprate for me to finish. But all of it felt so irrelevant next to the tension between my mother and I.
"Mum," I added, letting the silence settle between us for a moment before speaking again. "You can't keep doing this. It's not... normal. I'm not one of your projects."
Instead of her usual bitchy banter.
The key hit the surface with a sharp, metallic clatter that echoed in the otherwise quiet room. Without a word, she grasped her bag from the dining table — its strap slipping off the edge as she yanked it up quickly and slung it over her shoulder.
Without looking back, she headed for the door, the heavy sound of her boots on the wooden floor fading as she stepped onto the porch before walking over the front yard,
three houses down back to my parents.
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Veniisucks:My "blond, scruffy hair days." said a saint.
