𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐨𝐧𝐞 | 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝

This story will have mature themes and is not for the fainthearted. Read on at your own risk. This is not meant to romanticize or idolize yandere behavior. Do not try and seek out or emulate this behavior in real life: it is dangerous, toxic, and disgusting.

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The first time you met Yates, it was another night on the pier. Jen's vomit stained the front of your shirt a sickly orange, some of it dribbling down the laces criss crossing over your chest. Even in the clear night air, the party seemed to stick to your skin like a faint film: it came off of your fingers in glitter and sweat. Your head throbbed as you walked, the strobe lights flickered in your peripheral vision like far-away fireworks, and the bass still echoed as the aftershock.

In the silent darkness of Southport, you felt out of place: an interruption in the seamy dark of the night.

As you walked—barefoot, shoes in hand—you looked around, as you did often. You watched people, your surroundings, and the way the waves rose and fell; you saw the way Jen turned ever so slightly at the mention of her ex; you saw how every time your mother came back from the doctor, her hands would shake just a little bit more.

Today was another one of those days. You were managing the quaint restaurant you and your mother co-owned in her absence. You picked at the cheesy blue apron plastered on your midriff as the bells on the door tinkled, announcing the arrival of another customer. Your lips tipped into an automated smile, pearly whites on full display as you turned to greet the customer. A 'hello' died on your lips as you glimpsed your mother's ashy skin and tight fists strangling a cream envelope, dropping it into the trashcan as she turned to you.

"Hey baby," she had said, and you had known right then: she was getting sicker.

After learning of your mother's cancer, her boyfriend had left the two of you stranded in northern Pennsylvania with a mortgage to pay off and your dreams of going to UPenn dashed. You then sold your old house for much less than it was worth and your mother quickly paid off any remaining debts before moving the two of you to Southport when it was still a new town. You still recall the feeling of your mother's breath on your cheek and the scraping of the harsh blankets of the motel you stayed at, watching her drift away amidst the rattling storm outside.

The sky was similar that night, clouds rearing up for a relentless barrage of rain. It was supposed to be a full moon. As you looked up—neck straining and eyes shifting, you only caught the barest glimpses of it before the clouds covered it up, leaving you with a blurry silhouette and no stars to gaze at. You walked up the steep steps of the pier, feeling wood scratch insistently at the soles of your feet. The pier had stories to tell, but that night, you wouldn't hear them. Now, trapped in your gilded cage, you wish you had listened.

That night, you had been on the dock for a few minutes, hands gripping the wood so hard that it etched grooves into your palm. You and your mother had another argument, a letter from your dream college in one hand, your mother's medical bills in the other. The two of you didn't argue through yells or muffled sobs; the volume of your mother's disappointment is usually exacerbated by the burnt toast she gave you for breakfast, your anger voiced by the slam of the front door at three in the morning. The two of distance yourselves, picking apart the silence.

That night was different. Something in you snapped, like twine that's been strung too tight. You were trying to appeal your college choices to your mother until she guilted you. The woman that you've lived your whole life with, the one with too many men and not enough that loved her, the one who would always make you dinner no matter how tired she was, the one you watched wither away day after day. There wasn't enough money, there was never enough, and you despised it. You despised that sickly green color but it was everywhere, staining your mother's fingernails, on the bills you had to deal everyday.