Clothed in our grief

Chapter Fifty Six

Your mother comes home at four in the morning,in the passenger seat of the car she was forced into earlier A blank expression casting over her features, messy (h/c) hair pulled back into a ponytail for convenience. Dark circles under her dull (e/c) eyes, the warm air from the heater isn't even changing the situation for the better. If anything, every small adjustment is putting the woman even more on edge.

The driver, he takes the keys out. She doesn't look at him, keeping him in her view only by the corner of her left eye. Hands folded in her lap, index finger twitching every so often. She's worried, there's no denying that. Is she capable of hiding it? Not anymore. One could possibly view her children as a liability, or something to take advantage of. But she's prepared for that.

"Do you want my advice, Mrs. Constantine?" The gruff voice spoken by the man next to her, he turns to look at her but she doesn't comply. Remaining still in the passenger seat. The only movement she makes is to look out of the tinted window, onto the front door. Half of her expected to see you sitting on the door step asleep or awake, waiting for her to come back. She's glad you stayed inside, to say the least.

"Go to hell." A quiet mutter as she shoves her arms out of her lap, pushing her right hand across and undoing the seat belt. Shoving her thumb into the red button, but her wrist is tightly grabbed.

"Take your children and run. Skip town, don't tell anyone where you're going." He paused, letting go of her wrist.
"I'm not going anywhere without-"
"Your son? What makes you believe the boy even survived?" It's supposed to sound cruel, harsh and mean. Exactly how it goes to her ears.

There's a bit of a silence, it's only shaken apart when he pulls out a notebook from the glove box in front of her Leaning over, and handing her to leather book. She slowly takes it from his hand, only to see newspaper clippings, notes, pictures.

Nicholas Necro. His recent whereabouts being documented.

She wastes no time in yanking off the seat belt across her chest, and swinging the door open. Swiftly making her way into the house, tossing the notebook on the couch before speeding down the hallway. Peeking her nose in Laura's room, seeing the small infant still asleep. Wrapped up in a yellow and pink fuzzy blanket with birds all over it. As much as she wants to smile to herself, the sight of her daughter asleep and peaceful. She knows that it's not going to last, so instead closes the door behind herself once again. Right down the hall is your room.

The door is peaked slightly open, not shut like she had left it. Meaning you had come out at some point during the night.

She deeply inhales, preparing to see you sitting up on your bed just waiting for her. Arms crossed, probably glaring. Dark circles or bags under your eyes. She can't make you forgive her for this, much less what she's about to do. She made you worry like that, and she knows it wasn't okay. She knows a lot of the things she does isn't okay, like lying to you about even herself. Everything you know about her that's connected to your biological father is basically a lie. And you just ate it all up, everything you asked, she gave you an answer. Some of it, true. But you never asked too much, so she never had to explain too much.

Letting out a shaky exhale, closing her (e/c) eyes. Using the tips of her fingers to slightly shove off of Laura's bedroom door, before walking down the hall. Beige carpet that was once vacuumed fine, now having dirt prints from the bottom of her shoes. Trying to think of how to explain things, she opens her eyes again and connects her palm to the cold glass doorknob.

"(Y/n)?" She mumbles, pushing the already open door all the way, standing behind the color difference between the carpet and the linoleum flooring in your room. Hard surface with a soft carpet over it, taking a step in.