Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
She gazes at me skeptically, her expression softening as she smiles. She pulls me back into a hug. "I've missed you. How long are you here for?"
"Just the weekend," I say. "I have to be back for class on Tuesday, but I'm all yours until then."
"Great, great." She pulls away and starts flitting around the shop, putting things away. "As soon as I clean up, we'll get out of here."
Killer runs over and grabs his ball, bringing it to me. He nudges my hand, staring up at me. I yank the ball from his mouth as I back up to the door. "We'll wait outside."
She starts to object but I ignore her, opening the door for the dog to run outside. Patches of grass surround the shop, so I lead Killer around the side of the building, tossing the ball toward the back of the lot for him to retrieve. He barks enthusiastically, bringing it back to me over and over again.
It only takes my mother a few minutes to step out, locking the door as she lugs my bag with her. "Come on, guys!"
She drives a beat up Jeep Grand Wagoneer, the only car I've ever known her to own. It's older than me, large and rumbly, a beast of a vehicle filled to the brim with memories. My things have been boxed up and crammed into the back at least a dozen times, routinely taking me to a new life, a fresh start, in another city, so much I'm surprised I even know who I am.
Mom tosses my bag in the backseat, and Killer jumps in with it, as we climb up front. She lives ten minutes from Watertown, outside the city limits, in a small place called Dexter. The house is tucked in among some trees in the middle of nowhere, along a river, the land overrun with flowers and plants.
I was just here a few months ago for Christmas, but it feels different now—smaller, more secluded, not as cheerful as I remember it being. The paint is chipping, white flakes coating the front porch.
She has more locks on the front door now, so many it takes her a good minute of fumbling to get it unlocked. Concern stirs up inside of me as I wait for her to open the door, but I don't say anything.
I think it, though. She's getting bad again. The signs are there, signs I remember from when I was younger. Heavily locked doors and barred windows, nights with no sleep as she paces around, listening to the howl of the wind and thinking it's out to get her. She'd be fine for weeks or months, sometimes even a year, before she started acting like the walls were closing in on her, the world pressing upon her.
I hoped she finally found a place where she felt at peace, where she felt at home, but all of those locks make me uneasy. Locks are supposed to keep you safe. Locks, with her, are a sign of vulnerability.
My old room is just how I left it, smaller than even the dorm. It's suffocating. I drop my bag right inside the room before venturing into the kitchen as my mother starts making dinner. I pause by the window and gaze out into the vast overgrown backyard, watching as Killer runs through the trees in the distance.
He won't go far. He never does. I think that's why my mother treasures him so much. He never leaves her, never wanders from her side for too long.
When he plops down in the yard, my gaze shifts from the pane of glass down to the windowsill, noting the thick nails sticking out of the old wood, indiscriminately hammered in.
She nailed the windows shut recently.
"Everything going okay here, Mom?"
"Sure," she says. "Same as ever."
She doesn't sound very convincing.
The night flies by as we catch up. She seems relaxed, happy even. It eases my worries a bit.
Maybe I'm just overreacting.
Murder is premeditated killing of innocent...
…wrong because it's just not right to kill...
…considered immoral by society because...
…what I seem to be doing to this fucking essay.
I'm murdering it.
Sighing, I scribble out the words on the paper. I lean back in the old wooden chair, my feet propped up on the counter as I sit behind the register at the flower shop. My mother is scanning through the plants, smelling the bouquets and fixing the arrangements. She's had a total of two customers all day, making a whopping thirty bucks.
I don't know how long she can keep this up.
She doesn't seem bothered or worried at all. Killer lies on the floor near my feet, watching her. It's late afternoon on Saturday, and as much as I love my mother, and am grateful to get the chance to spend some time with her, I'm already bored shitless in this place.
I wonder how Naz is doing. I want to call him, to hear his voice, to see what he's up to, but I resist the urge. My hand absently drifts up to the necklace around my neck, and I tinker with the small pendant he gave me. I wonder if he's thinking about me, too. I wonder if he misses me yet.
"Is that new?"
My mother's voice draws my attention back to her. She's watching me. "Uh, yeah."
"It's pretty," she says, stepping closer. She grasps the necklace, eyeing it. "Where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift from a friend."
Her eyes narrow as she reads the inscription. "Carpe Diem."
"Yeah, it's a Latin saying." Standing up, I switch the subject. "I'm hungry. Is that hot dog place still around the corner? I can grab us some lunch."
"Yeah," she mumbles. "How about I come with you? I'll close up a little early today."
I wait for her to finish what she's doing, crumbling up my pathetic start of an essay and toss it in her trashcan. We head out, strolling down the sidewalk, Killer wandering along right behind us. My mother seems on edge now, eyes darting around nervously. Halfway there she stops abruptly, shoulders squaring, body tensing as she scans the traffic flowing by on Main Street.