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He didn't pick up.
The robotic female voice repeating "the subscriber you dialed…" grates on my nerves.
I hang up and hail a cab.
The door was ajar when I got home.
I thought he'd come back and almost called his name — but the words froze in my throat.
The apartment was a mess, everything knocked over.
I was about to call the police when a woman came down the stairwell and we caught each other's eyes.
It was my mother, whom I hadn't seen in ages.
She had a picture frame in her hand.
She froze upon seeing me, then raised the frame and hurled it at me.
The glass shattered at my feet, glass scattering everywhere.
She lunged and grabbed my hair, her fists raining down.
Her voice was scrambled and incoherent, repeating the same venomous phrases:
"You want to get married?"
"Do you deserve it?"
"You killed your sister!!"
"You're going to hell!"
"You don't deserve—"
"You don't deserve to be happy!"
"Why—"
"Why wasn't it you who died?!"
I couldn't hit back, just covered my head as she vented, each venomous word a knife to my heart.
The weight of it nearly crushed me. I clamped my hands over my ears and murmured to myself.
I cannot die. I promised her.
