Lies, Justice, Ice and Chaser
My mother believed the Church was the answer to everything. It could solve your problems, save your soul, and repair your life - unless you wouldn’t let it. If you were a sinner, if you didn’t repent, then to hell with you in every sense of the phrase. That’s what she said, anyway, but unless there’s a patron saint at the bottom of a bottle, she never found the one true savior she was looking for. Not that anybody who really knew her thought she wanted to be saved. Every week, she’d go in and confess - I have no fucking idea what she thought it accomplished, because she wasn’t sorry for a damn thing she did, not then, not ever. She could cry with the best of them, sob out apologies, but by the first time I stepped in to mumble a lie to a priest about sins I didn’t repent, I knew exactly how much that crap was worth.
As for beating the fear of God into me, that didn’t work either. I have no idea why - trust me, I didn’t like bouncing off the walls or meeting the back of her hand. Hell, I think she started my hair thinning, the way she used to haul me up by the roots of it. Maybe she was right, and the devil had hold of me, but I doubt it. That came later, thanks to her.
When she was really blasted, she’d cry. She’d say I wanted her dead, that I hated her, my own mother. I think I was supposed to react like my dad did - he’d break down, even if he’d just given her the backhand, sobbing like she’d cut his heart out, even if she’d been clawing at his eyes and damning him seconds before. Me? The taste of blood in my mouth made it impossible for me to do much more than mumble a few pathetic denials, and if she hadn’t been blind drunk on booze and self pity, she’d have heard the hate under them. I know she did, somehow, because the next time she was into a bottle, at the start of another round, I’d see it in the glint of her eyes, right before she took the first swing.
She was right; I wanted to kill her. I really did. I never took the swing, never looked for my dad’s gun - turns out he had a sense of self-preservation; it stayed safe in the station - I even bought her her precious fucking booze on demand, knowing what she’d be like after a few. Turns out the one thing I did for her ended up killing her - and when she laid in that hospital bed, her liver rotted out, we both knew it. Am I sorry? She used to say if there was any justice in the world, she wouldn't be stuck with us - I guess her God finally heard her. When I said she tore my dad's heart out? That's what finally did him, years after she went. I'd laugh, but it's not even close to funny, especially when I've had a few, and it tastes more bitter than usual. Justice doesn't add to the flavor, and there sure isn't any mercy in the bottom of the glass; not for her, not for him, not for me.
As for beating the fear of God into me, that didn’t work either. I have no idea why - trust me, I didn’t like bouncing off the walls or meeting the back of her hand. Hell, I think she started my hair thinning, the way she used to haul me up by the roots of it. Maybe she was right, and the devil had hold of me, but I doubt it. That came later, thanks to her.
When she was really blasted, she’d cry. She’d say I wanted her dead, that I hated her, my own mother. I think I was supposed to react like my dad did - he’d break down, even if he’d just given her the backhand, sobbing like she’d cut his heart out, even if she’d been clawing at his eyes and damning him seconds before. Me? The taste of blood in my mouth made it impossible for me to do much more than mumble a few pathetic denials, and if she hadn’t been blind drunk on booze and self pity, she’d have heard the hate under them. I know she did, somehow, because the next time she was into a bottle, at the start of another round, I’d see it in the glint of her eyes, right before she took the first swing.
She was right; I wanted to kill her. I really did. I never took the swing, never looked for my dad’s gun - turns out he had a sense of self-preservation; it stayed safe in the station - I even bought her her precious fucking booze on demand, knowing what she’d be like after a few. Turns out the one thing I did for her ended up killing her - and when she laid in that hospital bed, her liver rotted out, we both knew it. Am I sorry? She used to say if there was any justice in the world, she wouldn't be stuck with us - I guess her God finally heard her. When I said she tore my dad's heart out? That's what finally did him, years after she went. I'd laugh, but it's not even close to funny, especially when I've had a few, and it tastes more bitter than usual. Justice doesn't add to the flavor, and there sure isn't any mercy in the bottom of the glass; not for her, not for him, not for me.