The Light at the End

3: That 1/100 Chance

"Mom?" My body is humming, anxiety buzzing through me like zaps of electricity but it's not until I literally start to bounce on the edge of the bed that Mom presses her fingers hard into the bruise on my chin she's supposed to be covering up.

"Stop," she hisses, her eyes narrowing. "You're gonna make me mess up."

"But Mom..."I try again, this time containing the nervous energy in my wringing hands. My fingers twist over eachother, joints popping, aching when I tug too hard. "I can't go, Mom. I feel sick."

"You're so full of shit, Riley," she shakes her head, squirting out more liquid makeup on the applicator sponge she's spent the past ten minutes pressing to the deep violet bruise that's bloomed on my jaw since Harold left it there last night. "I can tell you don't have a fever and you've been eating like a little pig all day."

"Mom, I just can't go. I can't go with him." I say, but when she asks why I don't give it to her. I can't, it's too heavy, too shameful to pull off my skin and hand to her. Then I'd have to tell her how he touched me, where he touched me. And she wouldn't believe me "because who wants to touch a whiny, needy little liar like you?"

She said that about Vincent, after she'd first received the phonecall about the video.

"I was stupid and lonely, and very drunk when I got with your father and you, son, look exactly like him, so don't expect much from anyone."
That she'd said later, a different time that I can't even remember, but both memories serve the same purpose. To sear into my brain that even if I told her about Harold, perfect, tall, wealthy Harold touching me I'd probably only get a laugh as a response.

"Done," Mom finally says, leaning back to admire her work, the bruise marring my jaw now fully disappeared behind a thick layer of foundation a shade too dark for my skin. "Now what do you say?"

"Thanks," I mutter, my voice betraying my irritation. The only reason I came in here to ask if she'd cover the bruise was so she'd notice me. That I'm beat up and shaking and scared, that sending me out alone with Harold is a bad idea. Instead she just clicked her teeth, reminded me that she has little patience for my "bad attitude" and dragged me her make up counter.

For a second we just stand there, her eyes burning holes into the side of my head as I watch the floor. I can't tell her. I just can't let it happen again.

"You're allowed to have fun tonight, you know. You don't have to sulk," Mom lectures, gripping my bruised chin to make me look at her. "Are you even listening to me?"

I force myself not to wince, to meet her eyes. The same green-brown hazel eyes that I have. "I'll be good, I won't sulk, I promise," I say, surprised when she smiles back at me.

"That's my boy." She releases my chin to pat my shoulder, her lips still twisted into the nicest look she's given me in I don't know how long and I can't help but smile back. Then she pats my shoulder again, the moment is gone, evaporated into the AC blowing down from the ceiling, like it never happened and now she wants me to leave. So I do, silent, letting my feet take me back down the hall to my own room, knowing my one chance to get out of this is blown, completely wasted.

I try not to think about it as I wait in my room for Harold, my ass halfway on the edge of the bed, fingers still twisting together. After a couple minutes I give up on staying calm on my own, flipping out my phone to scroll through Instagram. There's so little of me on here; my last posted photo is from this past summer after sophomore year let out. In the picture I'm standing shirtless, showing off the muscle I built up during basketball season. A girl stands beside me, her index fingers pointed at my abs, face poised in mock surprise.