Breathe

Chapter 17

Cian

Our contemporary style home was always eerie without the light of day, but this time, this night, was different. The air felt heavier, the darkness more profound, the silence more solemn. When I parked my car and the headlights flickered off, I let my eyes trail the white brick exterior, a dimmer gray in the moonlight, and sighed to myself. Despite the fact I knew Lucie was with him, worrying about Vinny was still something I couldn't keep myself from doing—yet I was just as worried about Mom.

I hopped out of the car and began to clear the front walk, my mind wandering. She'd been acting different, lately. Less like Alyssa Horne and more like my mom. Less like an image and more like a person. I still remembered the way she'd ruffled my hair earlier this week, the tears in her eyes as she'd told me about Vinny. She was so exposed, so vulnerable, and she'd never been like that. What happened to the grip on my arms that morning of my seventeenth birthday, her hissing at me to stop my crying?

That woman seemed to be fading, and though I should have been okay with that, it signaled to me that something else was wrong. That some other part of the Horne façade was crumbling, an empire's final fall.

When I came in through the front door, the foyer was dim. One light shone through all the dark house, however: a parlor lamp, antique yellow in a sea of black. I didn't bother to call for her, instead just flicked my hood back from my face and ambled into the room.

She was seated on the burgundy loveseat, her toes tapping at the oriental rug, her fingers at the filled wine glass in her hand. She'd fixed her hair and makeup, and was clothed in her most expensive pajama set and robe. My throat clenched a little. I'd almost think she was putting up her usual mask, if not for the vacant way in which her eyes seemed to stare at nothing. They didn't move towards me, even, until I'd sat down right in front of her. "Hey," I greeted softly.

"How's Vincent?" she croaked. Her voice sounded as if she had a sore throat, though I knew the only thing sore about her was her heart. "Is he doing well?"

I nodded, offering a grin. "He's holding on. He should be let out tomorrow, I think. Just has to get past a psychiatrist consultation."

I thought she'd laugh at that, or at least smile, since we both knew Vinny was in no need of a shrink—he, after all, had not done this to himself of his own volition. Nevertheless, my mother's face remained still. In the light of the lamp, the color around her pupils was flooded with gold, shimmering like a sunrise. Vinny did look an awful lot like her, I realized—they both had the sharp jawlines and defined cheekbones, their hair and eyes undoubtedly the same hue.

Choking on the silence yet again, I managed, "So, uh, where's Dad—"

"I have yet to be able to contact your father," Mom responded tiredly. She took a sip of her wine as if speaking was a daunting task, and lowered her gaze to the floor; I had begun to get a strange, hollow feeling inside of my chest. "Now I'm not sure if I want to."

My eyes broadened. "Mom?"

"He comes home late, never calls me anymore, doesn't come to the hospital when his own son nearly died, and for the second time," she said. Her eyes lifted to meet mine with a haunting gravity. "It appears he's found other priorities, and if that's so, I don't know what to do with him."

"Other priorities?" I questioned, and again, saw flashes of his disheveled appearance the night I'd seen him come in late. A cold realization began rising within me; I closed my eyes and leaned back against my seat. "Mom. You can't be serious."

"I'd always known he'd get bored of me. I just didn't know it would be so soon."

"Mom—"