A Collection of Short/Long Stories I've Written;

Becoming Ronnie: 20.

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve as I leaned forward; in order to pay the taxi driver. A scent, of tobacco, mint and coffee wafted up my nose as I did this.

The engine – still running – was soft and the journey – although not like my Porsche – had been quiet pleasant. I had sat still, twiddling my thumbs, thinking about what to say to my mother.

The man grunted in response and I said my gratitude’s before quickly getting out of the car; allowing him to get on with his runs.

Dylan had offered to drive me home, instead of getting a taxi, but I refused.

I was never getting on another motorbike again. Ever.

I watched as the yellow car; a signature vehicle of New York whizzed by, his wheels bringing up water from the roadside.

I sighed before I rushed into my apartment, dropping my bag on the floor. I wrinkled my nose. My house still smelt slightly damp; even though they had got the damaged items out and had drained the water from our apartment.

I dropped the keys on the kitchen Island counter before walking towards the living room. I stood at the door way. There was no light filled in the room (just like my mother’s soul, I thought dryly.) and the room was pitch black.

I scanned the room, knowing she was in here somewhere and then my eyes landed on her silhouette. She was facing the wall, and her back was to me.

“I thought you wouldn’t come home.”

I clenched my fist at the sound of my mother’s boring, cold, monotone voice that I hadn’t noticed before as dull. I shook the feeling away, before, as I left to come home, I talked to Dylan about not blaming my mother. I had blamed my dad for too long and now the truth was out, I just had to get over it and get on with life. (I couldn’t hate my dad because he didn’t do anything wrong and I couldn’t hate my mom because although she lied, she brought me up when my dad’s girlfriends didn’t want me around my father.)

I sighed heavily, wishing now; I had chosen to stay at Dylan’s. He insisted I had to sort out my family issues first but offered for me to stay afterwards. I had rejected the offer, but now, I stand in the same room as the woman who shows no love and affection towards her children after lying to them; I don’t want to be here and wish I was back with him. My lips tingled as I said Dylan’s name in my head and I smiled as I traced my finger gently against my lips, remembering where Dylan kissed me.

“I shouldn’t,” I finally said.

“Then why did you?”

I walked into the room a little way, turned on the light and shut the door. My mother winced from the brightness of the light but didn’t turn around, at all, to face me.

“Unlike some people,” I said bitterly, just to put a jibe in there, “I am mature. I wanted to settle this; as much as I didn’t want to be here.”

“I figured.”

“What?” It felt foreign – strange – that I was, even though it wasn’t pleasant, having a conversation with my mother that lasted more than two minutes.

My mother cleared her throat. “I figured that your father wanted to tell you the truth. He wanted to make peace with you. The others, they were easy to confess too, but for the little girl that despised him; it took a lot longer than the other two.”

“It was because of you that I had such hatred for him.”

“I know.” My mother replied, coolly. “But if I knew it was to turn out this way; with my children disliking me, things would have been different—”