“We came up with multiple different conclusions, but-,” Brian started before Mason cut him off.
“I didn’t call upon you, Mr. Weller. Get ahold of your tongue or you can leave my classroom.”
My eyes widened in shock as I stared down at Mason. I’d said I wasn’t sure how I’d get through the class and it seemed Mason was going to make it as difficult as possible. Maybe I should see about switching out. I wanted to learn from the best, but the best was turning out to be a complete asshole.
Chapter 22
Mason – Twelve years old
Pain.
It was all I ever felt. The ache in my chest never went away. I didn’t know how to go on without my mom. The images of that night played over and over in my mind. Nightmares plagued my sleep and there was nothing I could do about it.
My guidance counselor at school asked me if I needed sessions, but I’d declined. There was nothing she could do to help me. I just kept to myself. The only person I ever let in was Luke because we’d been friends for so long, and he was the only one I trusted.
I knew I shouldn’t still be haunted by that night. I should have been able to move on, but I couldn’t. I just wanted it to all disappear, but I didn’t know how to make that happen. Luke suggested I just focus on school. It was really the only thing I had to keep my mind occupied, anyway. I didn’t play sports and I wasn’t in any clubs, so studying was the only thing I had. And he was right; it did help take my mind off things, but it only worked for a certain amount of time. There was only so much I could study and there were hours in the day where I did nothing at all.
Those were the times I became a shell of myself. I was lonely and felt like I had no one, which was true. My cheerleader in life was gone.
John ceased to exist in my life, which was how I’d rather have it. The words he spoke that night still haunted me.
‘Mason took care of it for me.’ ‘She wasn’t your mother anyway.’
I didn’t know how to process all of it. At the time, they were just words, but as the days went by I knew what he was saying. I’d started to wonder how long I would have had with her before he would have killed her or even me.
He was the bad guy in our situation, not me.
As for the comments he’d said about her not being my mother? I had no idea what he meant by that. She was my mom in every way possible. She was the one who took care of me, who tucked me in at night. She was the one who made sure my homework was done and I ate all of my dinner. As far as I was concerned, if I had to claim one of them wasn’t my true parent, it was John. He was never there for me. I never saw him.
I hated him.
I hated that I was his son. I hated life itself.
How could someone so sweet and good be taken from the Earth, leaving the cold-hearted bastards to run the world?
I sat up in bed and stared out the window. It was a sunny day, but I could feel the chill in the air as the temperature began to drop outside. Snow would fall soon. Just another season Mom wouldn’t be there to enjoy.
The dream I’d just woken from was still playing in my mind and I stared at the notebook on my side table, debating on whether or not I’d write it down. I’d learned that writing it out sometimes helped the memories to fade away, but that wasn’t always a guarantee.
The dream had built sadness and rage in my chest to the point where I just wanted to cry. I hated feeling that way. I hated waking up every day feeling nothing and everything all at the same time. I wished she were there so I wouldn’t have to continue hurting. There were times I wished I’d fallen down the stairs with her.
Death was better than the life I had. Better than being the son of John Cline.
Reaching for my side table drawer, I opened it and peered inside. Sitting all alone in the drawer was my switchblade. I’d debated so many times on using it, but never had the guts.
I clasped it into my hand, the metal and woodwork cold to the touch. I stared at it and pondered the significance it would bring to kill myself with a weapon John had given me. Maybe that was meant to be. Maybe he’d given it to me to tempt me. I didn’t necessarily think that was the reason, but it wouldn’t surprise me either way. Not with John.
Flipping the blade up, I brought it down to my wrist. I didn’t hesitate. There was no room for second-guessing myself. I either had to finish it or continue to live in my Hell. Those were my only choices
Pushing down on the blade, I ran it across my wrist. I hissed and bit my lip, holding back a cry of pain. I didn’t cut as deep as I’d intended, but as soon as I pulled the blade away, the pain diminished. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt freeing to make the choice all on my own.
I watched as the blood rivulets ran down my hand and between my fingers. The blood that gave me life.
John’s blood.