Delayed, Nathan Kingsly [read aloud txt] 📗

my bag grows tighter as I hear footsteps on the other side. My heart pounds in my ears, and I look around for one last escape. The cabbie that dropped me off is long gone, and now I know it was a mistake to let him leave.

My sneakers peel from the pavement, heavy as cement blocks, as I take a step back, but then the door swings open, and I freeze in place.

Older reflections of my spring eyes look back, my bag thuds, and something shatters at its impact to the ground, but I can't tear my eyes from the tears making tracks in the woman's face before me. She's older, and lines crease around her eyes and mouth that hadn't been there last time. Her blonde hair is grey at the temples. It's pinned up, but that little bit dangling on her forehead is still the same.

My hand, without permission, moves forward and tugs the end of it before pushing it back as my father did for her.

She grabs my hand, and she presses a kiss to my palm, her mouth opens, but only a strangled noise comes out. Her body shakes as her eyes close, and more tears fall from the edges. Her lined hand presses mine to her face, and her body leans in as if trying to curl herself around it, to cradle it.

My voice cracks, her eyes search as I clear my throat. "Mom?"

If it were possible more tears come as she nods, she holds her free arm out, and as if no time has passed, I walk into her embrace.

"My boy, oh, my sweet boy," she whispers as she grips me tighter.

My vision goes blurry. Memories flood and I’m ten again. Small, vulnerable, and know my mother’s arms, the only place I am safe. All those years, not one of them with my gun by my side could compare to this feeling of peace.

"Where have you been?" Her voice cracks as she grips me harder.

Taking a deep breath to tell a version of the truth, I catch the scent of my mother buried deep under the sterile scent of the hospital in her cardigan. Vanilla so warm you could swear she’d been baking. That, however, is farthest from the truth. My mother stopped baking after she burned too many layers of cakes and created too many hockey puck cookies. Yet, she still smells like walking into a bakery.

The truth spills from my lips. “I needed to get as far away as I could and take even fewer reminders with me.”

“Did you succeed?” Even with the proximity, I hardly hear her, the hint of our shared ghost in her tone. Shaking my head, her weight sinks further into me, and I grip her tighter. “Me either, sometimes it’s hard to realize it wasn’t a horrible nightmare, that when my eyes open, I’ll have my life back.”

“I know...I’m…I’m sorry.” The pain splits my chest, and the force of it jolts me from my dazed state since seeing her. Cursing under my breath, I straighten and look around.

Her fingers tangle in my shirt, and I can feel her eyes on my face. “Liam?”

I’ve been an idiot, caught up in the reunion. Not letting go of my mom, I leave my bag and lift her up only enough for her feet to dangle.

"What-" Before she's able to finish her sentence, we are inside the house, the bolt secure behind us. My shoulders ease, and I release her. I take in the twist of her mouth and feel the guilt twisting my stomach.

“I almost let it happen again.” Squeezing my eyes shut, my body already trying to curl inward, but then her hand is there, feeling the curve of my face.

When I open my eyes, her expression isn’t the one I knew from my childhood when I’d been caught doing something bad; instead, there is confusion. Her mouth twists again. As she starts to speak, a gasp has her dropping her hand and turning to look over her shoulder.

My sister stands there at the top of the staircase, her fingers clenched into a fist, her face red and twisted with anger. “You.” The word spit like venom. Her fingers coming up from her side in blame as she starts down the stairs. Her eyes flash when I take a step back; her eagle-sharp eyes catch the movement. My mom stands to my side, glancing between the two of us, looking more confused than before.

“Get out!” she shouts as she charges down the rest of the stairs as quickly as a bull. Then she’s there, closer than she’s been in years, her finger hovering accusingly.  I’m looking down at her, but she’s not looking at me, instead she’s taking in the distance between her finger and my chest. A few inches, that’s all that separates us. Her breath comes out in pants, her shoulders so rigid, but her frame shakes, with what, I don’t know. I lost the privilege of knowing since I left. I no longer recognize the signs between the thin line of anger and joy.

“Mia ...” My mother's voice attempts to be soothing.

“No.” My sister snaps back and shakes her head, making her blonde hair whip around her. “No, I don’t want him here.” Her finger is no longer between us; it’s wrapped under her arm as they cross over her chest.

“I know I’ve been an ass, but don’t talk to mom like that.”

Her head jerks up, and her eyes burn into me. “Oh, after six years of running scared and avoiding all your responsibilities, you’re suddenly the caring son? I don’t think so.” Her jaw ticks. “You left.” She unlocks her arms and flings them out. “We don’t even know where you’ve been living. Wherever it is, it’s got to be a shithole not fit for roaches from how much it must have cost you to cover yourself in tattoos.” She gestures with a slash of a hand like a knife. “The one time you come