The trouble with drugs is that no matter how much pain and misery they put you through, they become a part of you. And you will always want to go crawling back.
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e y e f o r a n e y e
It had to be the drugs.
That's the only logical explanation as to why she said what she said. Mark must have given her something. Or maybe the years of constant drug abuse had finally damaged her state of mind. Her head must not be screwed on correctly- like, there has to be something wrong in there. What kind of mother would turn away from her loving daughter? What kind of mother would comfort that evil, sadistic, poor excuse of a man?
What if she was protecting me by hurting me? Saying the most hurtful things to drive me away so that I won't come back? I know that my mother could be low, but not as low as him. I can't give up on her; she's my mom.
Or maybe I should. She gave up on me.
Matt drove us while the others took a separate car. I couldn't handle a fourth person, and neither could they. Aaron and I were sat in the back seat. I was still wearing his jacket, but now the right arm was damp from wiping my eyes. I took it off and used it as a makeshift blanket.
"You cold, baby?" Aaron asked me tiredly. I didn't get a chance to answer but he told Matt to turn down the air conditioning anyway.
Aaron pressed a bloody hand on the cut to try and slow the moderate bleeding. He winced whenever Matt hit a bump on the road. It was my first time witnessing him in genuine pain and I couldn't help but think that this was somehow my fault. I kept my shameful eyes low and lifted his palm to see where the blade had cut him. It wasn't deep enough to see bone, but it wasn't exactly a paper cut either. Aaron lost a good amount of blood, but aside from the occasional grunt, he had no evidence of alarm in his expression.
"Does it hurt really bad? Like, excruciating?"
"No."
Unwanted sickness and guilt twisted in my gut. "I'm so, so sorry that this happened. I should've listened to -"
"Shít, there was nothing you coulda done."
Something about his tone bothered me and I almost apologized again, but I kept it to myself.
When we finally reached the beach house, I offered Aaron a hand. He turned away as if he didn't notice. I cleared my throat, "Give me your hand."
"Nah, I'm good." He said stubbornly, gripping the chair tightly as he leaned on a trembling arm.
"Aaron, let me-"
"I said I don't need your help, Elizabeth." Aaron told me assertively, managing to step out. I stood and watched quietly as he took his belongings out of the car and slammed the door.
While Matt tended Aaron's stitches upstairs, I told his people to set my stuff down in my new room. They were all scary looking, like how Matt seemed to me before I met him properly. They didn't look like the ignorant "thugs" who sagged their pants and shot at people for lounging on their territory, like bloods or crips. They looked like the ones who laid low and never got caught, no matter what awful crime they committed; those are the ones you should fear the most. They were tall, wore all black with deep, rough voices, gold in their teeth and ink on their skin. If we were walking down the street, I'd cross the sidewalk to avoid them.
