Page 34 of This for That (The Edge of Retaliation 1)
Any more sympathy.
I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.
Even if it is made of razors and broken pieces.
“HOW ARE YOU?” MY MOTHER asks, staring at me like something is going to rub off from me onto her, as if this place is full of disease and horror. She’s looking at me like she’s never seen something so horrendous in her life, let alone had to call it her daughter.
She doesn’t care. I’m not stupid.
She’s visited me twice since I’ve been here, this being the second time. The first time she told me she was going to get a lawyer to look into the case again. I didn’t hear from her after that until now; nor did I hear from a lawyer. I’m not stupid. I know she’s not going to do anything to help me. Somewhere, deep in her mind, I’m sure she thinks I deserve this punishment.
I shouldn’t have stolen her car; that’s what she has told me a million times over.
If I had done as I were told, if I’d just listened and followed her guidance, none of this would have happened.
As if I haven’t thought of that a thousand times over in my head.
I cry myself to sleep every night thinking about all the things I could have done differently, right down to not taking the damned car, not having alcohol in it, not taking my friends, not taking my stupid eyes off that road, not even for a second. I’ve gone over all these things; she doesn’t need to remind me. I’ll live in this nightmare forever. She gets to continue with her life.
“Fine,” I mutter, answering her question. “I’m fine.”
She studies me, narrowing her eyes as if she has a million things to ask me, but isn’t going to. What could she possibly want to know? Am I being abused in here? Yes. Is it hell? Yes. Am I wishing every single day for something different? Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“You don’t look fine. What happened to your hand?”
“I broke my fingers.”
“How?”
“A girl stood on them, and broke them, then she stabbed me with a broken plate. Any other questions, Mother? You didn’t think I was going to have a wonderful time in here, did you? You didn’t think it would be all roses and long walks?”
My mother’s face twists in a scowl, and she snaps, “I don’t need your sarcasm. You’re not the only one suffering, Callie.”
“Oh.” I laugh bitterly. “You’re barely hanging on? Imagine how I feel, being locked in this hellhole for the next six years because you refused a plea deal. Sometimes I wonder if you hoped I’d get longer, and that’s why you didn’t take it.”
“Do not accuse me of such things!” she gasps. “I’m your mother, and I love you. I can’t believe you’d assume anything less.”
“If you loved me, you’d be visiting more often. If you loved me, you would have shown concern for the fact that my fingers are broken, and that I have stab wounds in my side. Don’t insult the word love, Mother. You wouldn’t know the meaning of it.”
Her mouth drops open, then closes again, then opens. “You think I don’t care? I’ll be speaking to the head of this place in regards to your treatment. I won’t have my daughter being abused.”
I roll my eyes, because honestly, what else is there to do? She’s acting like she has any sort of power, like her words mean anything. They’ll just laugh at her and move along. She’s simply saying what she thinks I want her to say, so she looks like the trophy mother instead of the useless one she comes across as more often than not.
“Don’t bother,” I mutter. “There is no point.”
“I won’t have you being treated like this.”
I exhale. “How is Max?”
“He’s fine. He’s working hard and making something of himself. He’s all I have left now.”
“I’m in detention, not dead,” I growl. “Stop speaking as if I am.”
“The way things are for me and Max right now, you might as well be. We’re struggling with the aftermath of your mistake.”
My mistake.
My. Mistake.
“I’m done here,” I say, standing and placing my hands on the table, looking over at her. “Don’t bother visiting me if you’re just going to make it worse. I know what I’ve done. I know exactly where I went wrong, I don’t need your constant reminders. If you want to come again, do so with love and appreciation for your damned daughter, or don’t bother at all.”
I turn to walk out, leaving her fanning herself and sobbing as if I’ve just ripped her heart out.
I haven’t.
She’ll step out of this place, bring a tissue to her eye, dab away her fake tears, and get in her expensive car and go home.
I won’t cross her mind again.
