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I can’t remember the last time my mother evoked any real emotion in me besides irritation and wanting her to die already.
She calls me a few choice names—and I dutifully ignore her. Her lips tighten around the cigarette and she inhales until it’s nearly depleted. Good. Maybe she’ll die faster.
“I should’ve aborted you,” she mutters, her beady little eyes glaring holes into me. “Oh, look. We can agree on something,” I answer, emotionless as ever...
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not when she has to save her energy for fucking men for drugs.
That’s what everyone always says, right? I’d never let a man hit me. You don’t even realize that’s what has happened until it’s too late.
