Imdalind 01 - Kiss of Fire

liquids down, though. I wouldn’t want you to get too sick.”
    I mumbled something in agreement.
    “You’re just lucky it’s a Friday; that way you have the whole weekend to recover.” She stood and headed to the kitchen of our small apartment. I could hear her banging around in search of cups. My mother spent so much time in the LaRue’s kitchen, she often forgot where things were in our home. I guess that’s why I spent so much time there as well. When I was here, I was always alone. You would think I would be used to it, but it just made me feel more forgotten.
    “Mette had to go out of the town for some family thing,” my Mom yelled from the kitchen. “I have to pick up her shift tomorrow, but Edmund and Ryland will be out tomorrow night, so I should be home early.”
    I shifted my weight and my torso filled with deep tissue pain again. I mumbled at her and rolled over, hearing my phone buzz again.
    “You better get that,” Mom sighed as she sat next to me, my body rolling into her.
    “It’s just Ryland; I’ll see him on Monday.”
    “He’s worried, Joclyn. It’s not like you to avoid him.” The parental scolding was dripping from her voice.
    “Just tell him I’m sick.”
    “You’re not sick, Joclyn.”
    I knew she didn’t believe me.
    “Now are you going to tell him or am I?”
    I didn’t move to the phone. I heard the click as she picked it up and began pressing buttons. I jumped up in anger, my body protesting my sudden movements.
    “Mom!” I shrieked, “Give it back!”
    “Not until you tell me what’s really wrong.” She continued to click buttons, staring me down out of the corner of her eye.
    What could I tell her? I couldn’t tell her the truth; the truth would break her heart. Besides, how does one say “Dad’s gone crazy, thinks I am a witch, referred me to a cult, and sent me a rock that hurt me” without both of us breaking out in tears? Our eyes locked together as my mind scattered around, trying to find something to tell her. She snapped my phone shut, handing it to me as she sat down next to me.
    “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” she asked, draping her arm across my shoulders. I leaned into her, the soft parental contact relaxing me.
    I had to decide what to tell her. I hesitated, a frustrated breath shaking my chest as it left my body. I braced myself for whatever would come: yelling, screaming, crying; and prepared to tell her a limited form of the truth.
    “It’s Dad.” I said. I felt her arm stiffen around my shoulders, her eyes glossed over as she looked straight forward. I sighed, regretting my decision.
    “He came and saw Grandma and Grandpa,” I rushed on, “but he didn’t want to see me.” I knew my voice would betray the lie, but hoped that her stunned silence would cover it.
    My mom’s arm was rigid and stiff against my shoulder; it felt like a dead weight holding me down. I knew I was wrong to say anything, but now that I had begun, I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t know what else to say. We sat in silence for much longer than felt comfortable, my mom’s arm relaxing around me as she came back to herself.
    “At least he’s alive.” She spoke barely above a whisper.
    “What?” I said, loud and accusatory.
    She turned to me, her eyes glistening with threatening tears. I felt my stomach tighten. I had spent the last 24 hours in a paralyzing depression caused by my psychotic father, and here my mother sat crying for his safety. My blood began to rise in a slow boil as frustration mixed with disappointment in a way I had never experienced before.
    “He left us, Mom,” I said. “He doesn’t matter.”
    “Oh, honey.” I could hear the longing in her voice and I shied away from her. “I know it must be so hard for you to understand; you are still so young.”
    “I understand he left us. What more is there?” I could feel my anger rising in me. Most of the time I could squash down my outrage, but this time, I didn’t want to. This time I wanted to feel it; I wanted to yell; and I wanted everything that I had been balling up in me to come crashing out. I needed it to.
    “There is a lot more, sweetheart, more than I think I could ever make you understand.” Her voice was pleading; it only set me off more.
    “Try me,” I growled.
    She hesitated, our eyes locked onto one another in some sort of death match. I could tell she was trying to gauge how much she could tell me and how I would respond, just as I had