A/N: I'm making this my last chapter. I don't think the fandom can handle another female original character, even if it is a mother.


The young boy hissed as the high-concentrated alcohol was dabbed onto the cut with a small cotton ball. His mouth twitched, and his fingers clutched the table he was seated upon, so that he could be at the young woman's eye-level. And at that level, he could see the worry and sympathy in her eyes, while she almost reluctantly inched the cotton towards the wound on his head. Something about that gaze comforted him. Even though she was about to cause him more pain, she would be doing so with good intentions.

He shut his eyes and cringed as the young woman took away the cleansing tuft of soft material soaked with tangy, transparent liquid. In her soft, calm tone, she explained how sorry she was, and how her next action would be far less painful.

The soft tissue was pressed tightly against the wound, secured by a long gauze strip, which went over the boy's head a number of times before the end of it was tucked into one of the layers. The woman did not admire her handiwork. She knew how the boy fidgeted in his sleep, having frequent night terrors that would leave him confused, scared, or in some cases, curled up under his bed for fear of falling asleep. And even if those nightmares would not occur, the boy would still toss and turn. The strap would slide off his head no matter how tightly she pressed it on.

The boy's eyes followed her nervously, looking at the locks of her hair bounce and sway when she opened a small drawer of the large wooden armoire, rummaging through its contents as her tongue slipped out of her mouth and her gaze darted to the ceiling, trying to focus on finding the elusive item. His eyelids seemed heavier than usually. There was barely any light in this room, apart from a small, gilded oil lamp that shone a faint glow. There was no moon that night, only pitch-black sky and draftiness. Not even his home seemed pleasant at the moment; a grand villa with a picturesque garden on the outside had the interior of an abandoned lodge cabin.

He barely closed his eyes for a moment, and at that moment, he could see the soft whimper of an older female relative of his, standing at the doorway and not wishing to set foot inside the room, though she wished to, and wished badly.

The young woman took out a small piece of fabric that looked like a small sack with holes in it. She slowly approached the small boy. He examined the item with interest. She showed it to him, raising it up and crumpling the fabric in her pale palms.

"This belonged to your father. He wore it during to war at times, it kept him warm…" she started, trying to familiarize the boy with the alien article.

"And sometimes, it helped as a compressor; to staunch his wounds… it helped them heal quicker."

Seeing the discomfort in the boy's icy-blue eyes, she smiled and placed a tender kiss upon the fabric. The action, no matter how insignificant, seemed to relax him.

The fabric was slipped on him. It was quite big for his head, but the mouth hole was where it should be, though he tugged at the top of it and squinted through the small circular gaps. The thin line of cloth pressed against his nose, which made breathing slightly more difficult. He then knew what it was. It was a makeshift wrap for his wounds. It was a mask. A balaclava.

Quite quickly, he found himself burying his head in the woman's neck, a delightful aroma of green apple shampoo and rain.

He was scooped up quickly, the young woman grunted. She noticed that he was getting heavier, already the height of one of her arms and then some. He looked strange, hidden inside that mask. He was a monster, a freak. There was something that needed to be hidden under the red cloth, a mother's creation at its worst. The two approached the person standing at the door, looking at them with her cigarette lit and dangling in between her fingers. Her mouth moved to speak, but out came a croaky voice and little with it.

It was intended to be an apology.

The young woman nodded, gently putting the boy down on the bare floor. He looked at the two, anxious to listen in or partake in their ensuing argument, though there was little chance of that. He still knew that he would be sent outside, into his bedroom. This did not mean that he wouldn't listen, kneeling at the stairway and picking up every bit of information on the incident concerning the vine-covered balcony.

He never could listen to these grown-up talks, anyway.

"Adrien," the young woman said, trying to act stern; "go upstairs. I will put you to bed in a moment."

He nodded and ran outside, up the stairs and behind a marble column, where the sounds coming from downstairs were most audible.

The young woman sighed, looking at the one in front of her. She was still smoking, her eyes hazy and her voice dry.

"I'm sorry."

The curly-haired woman furrowed her brow at the smoker, her voice hollow.

"There is no excuse for this, mother. There is nothing you can say to solve this."

The woman's head fell on her chest, raising it with a certain reserved grace proved to be quite difficult. She spoke the younger woman's name in a tone a stern schoolmaster would use to address a mischievous student.

"Lorraine…"

"No!" She said, her arms stretching out as soon as she took her first furious pace. "No, there is absolutely nothing you can say at this point! There is nothing I could say at this point!" She suddenly came to an abrupt halt, fury coming out of her eyes. Her voice was strong and unyielding. "Why do you keep doing this to him? Why do you keep doing this to me? I know you couldn't possibly hate him so much, but then…why?"

The woman took a drag from her cigarette as her shoulders dropped in shame. She remained silent for a moment. Merely a moment, and then her voice was barely a timid whisper.

"I… I thought he would bounce."

Eyes widening in disbelief and anguish, Lorraine suddenly felt weak in front of this woman, who she used to call her mother but now couldn't even call her human. Her hand was pressed firmly against her mouth; the other hand was holding her elbow that she laid on her stomach. It took her a moment to steady her breathing. Though her heart was beating quickly, each beat resembling a strong kick to her very core, she forced herself to act calmly. Her voice was stable, though her frame was shaking like the skin of a drum.

"You dropped him."

"He fell…"

"From your arms, mother! What was he even doing up on the balcony? What was he even doing with-?"

She was going to ask what he was doing with her, his mother, but her sense stopped her from saying the vile sentence in the nick of time.

And the woman stood. She simply stood like a mannequin, too shocked to show emotion or too cold to care.

"And what's more…" Lorraine began, seeing that the woman was not going to speak; "the shocking part was not the dropping. As much as it pains me to admit it, it is possible that this was just another accident."

Her fists clenched. An accident. That is how they would end up calling the incident.

"… the accident does not bother me. What bothers me is your reaction."

Their eyes locked, the air seemed electric between the barriers of ice and midnight blue.

"When a child falls, the mother picks it up," the young woman began to explain, mimicking the gesture. The imaginary child in her arms was held up just long enough for her mother to feel another surge of guilt rush through her spine like a cold, steel blade. Her daughter continued; "The mother calls help. The mother does everything in her power to keep the child safe. You know what a mother doesn't do?"

She took a step forward, a motion that was supposed to come off as intimidating. Her mother did not budge.

"A mother does not go back inside the house. A mother does not sit down and have a cigarette! A mother does not wait for her daughter to come home and find her brother covered in dirt and blood, and refuses to tell her what happened!"

"He was only like that for five minutes!" She responded, nudging her head towards the girl. Lorraine was livid, flames bursting through her eyes.

"Are you using that as an excuse!?" She screamed.

The short silence that ensued was decorated with the pitter-patter of small, possibly scared feet that looked for refuge behind a large marble column. The two women both noted the sound, both feeling ashamed and judged.

"I… I was in shock," the woman began to explain.

"In shock? What shock? The same shock you had with the cupboard accident? Or the same shock, possibly, that you had with the stove incident? You have been having a lot of those accidents lately. Right now, I'm in such a position that I feel the need to guard him while you're giving him a bath, hoping that you will not stick his head under the water."

The observation was stated without a hint of irony. The following words were said with even less warmth.

"You know, I thought I understood. I really did, but now… I don't even know."

"It isn't me, Lorraine!" The woman said, clutching her chest. Her own heart was beating, she could hear the blood rushing through her. "I… I don't know what happens. I look at him, I play with him, and suddenly… I'm reminded of your father. He has the same eyes, the same look of disinterest…"

The young woman's eyes wandered off to the mantelpiece above the fireplace that had no fire burning inside of it. She could barely make out the frame of the photographs, but she knew it was there; the image of her departed father, the man who left this bleak world before he could even witness the birth of his son. He stood on the sill, in his military uniform, crisp and olive-green. He always seemed to be facing east, his eyes covered with an oddly silver film. Lorraine loved those eyes of his. Though cold at first sight, she knew they were loving eyes.

Her mother continued, looking at the gray photograph herself.

"It's so hard without him… when he left us, I needed to keep this family together. I worked my fingers to the bone to provide for you and Adrien…" She looked at her freshly-manicured hands, the white tips of her fingernails shining as they were hit with the lamp's faint gleam. She quickly put them away.

"I will never forget the suffering."

Her daughter had heard this speech before. In fact, it seemed to come up more and more frequently. And this time, and this time alone, she had a response that wasn't just a humble apology for her rash behavior.

"Mother," she started, "I know it has been hard. I will forever appreciate what you have done for us, but you know what? Those wounds… they are not exactly fresh."

Her mother nodded, though not in agreement.

"I know you miss him, but at this point, it's past grieving. At this point, it's ridiculous to obsess about him so much! Is it really Adrien that triggers your episodes? Is it really his fault for picking up my father's genetic traits? How long is this going to last? Are you going to keep on torturing him until he is old enough to join the army? Until he has a family of his own?"

"I do not torture him!" The woman said, throwing her cigarette butt into an empty ashtray on the table. "I do not torture him, I love him!"

"If you truly loved him you wouldn't put him through this!" Lorraine exclaimed. "If you really loved him, you wouldn't put him through hell!"

"It's not me! I don't know what triggers those reactions of mine, but it isn't me!"

Her voice was weak, cracking. But this time, it was the daughter who was left unmoved.

"I believed you. I believed that the stress has gotten the better of you, but now I know the problem. It is not the memory of my father haunting you; it is not Adrien being an unruly child. I know now why you purposely endanger your son. It's simple, really…"

The girl walked towards the older woman, until she was close enough to reach out and rip her heart out. And as she spoke the following words, Madame Chaput wished that she had done just that.

"You are a horrible mother."

"…take that back," she said with a lowered brow.

"A bloodhound would make a better mother than you."

"Take it back!" She repeated, becoming red in the face. Her eyes filled with tears that could have been pure rage.

"If you regret him not having a father, don't deny him a mother as well!" She said, pointing her index finger at her. The woman grabbed her hand and pushed it away, sharply and leaving the girl in moderate pain as the shoulder cracked and moved around in its socket.

"I am not denying him a mother! I care for him, I love my son! It's not my fault he doesn't love me back!"

Her eyes twitched as tears poured down her cheek. They left glistening marks in long, uneven strips that travelled all the way down to her neck.

"Every time I hold him in my arms I feel nothing. And I know he feels nothing as well. He moves around and cries, and then I hand him to you and he's… he's… calm."

Saying the words physically hurt her. She fiddled inside her pocket and took out a small lighter. She squeezed it in the palm of her hand. She gasped, holding in her emotion, or at least trying to.

"I really try. I try to be a good mother to him, like I was with you. But then I see him, staring blankly at me…" her eyes filmed over as she gasped; "…and he cries, provoking me, though he knows that I'm tired and trying to please him, he just keeps on crying. And it's not normal crying! It's like I'm tearing off his skin, like I'm choking him… and I just-just… I can't!"

The lighter flew across the air, past Lorraine and into the framed photograph of her husband. Several cracks moved over the glass, and his figure was lost in a milky web.

The girl turned after hearing a sob. Her mother fell on her knees, letting out sobs into her curled-up fist. Her fingers coiled; every now and then she released a long whine, a cracking wail.

And then it was all too clear to her. She was a horrible mother. She did not move as her daughter passed her, not even trying to comfort her. She laid on the cold wooden floor, listening to Lorraine putting her brother to bed, cooing lullabies before slowly creeping out of the room. She was supposed to be the one to do that, she mused as her mind wandered from one dark thought to another. Not the girl.

The girl did not know about suffering. She never will. She will never know about losing a lover and a best friend, she would never know about working to provide for your family until the spirit breaks and the fingers begin to bleed.

She envied her.

That night would be the last night she really spent inside their home. The money she made would still be coming in. She would still visit them after work before going to spend the night somewhere else, building the illusion that the boy still had a mother, a poisonous, cancerous mother she was.

That was the last night she put her baby to bed.


Hush now baby, baby don't you cry.

He looked oddly peaceful that night, like she knew that she was soon going to leave. She dropped her suitcase to her side, looking at the clump under the silk bed covers. She slowly made her way towards him, the floorboards creaking under her numb feet.

Mama's gonna make all of your
nightmares come true…

His chest rose, slowly moving the blanket upwards and downwards. He had no night terrors. He was calm, relaxed, almost unaware of the wound on the back of his head. Maybe the wound caused more damage than she thought it would.

Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you…

Of course she was going to see him again. She had to make sure that he knew who his real mother was, instead of becoming overly attached to that girl. With the corner of her eye, she noticed that his shoulder was slightly uncovered.

Mama's gonna keep you right here
under her wing.
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing…

The fabric was soft and sleek. She tugged at it, placing it gently over his exposed flesh. He exhaled on her hand, his breath seemed smooth and sweet. It brought a tear to her eye. Not being able to resist, she crouched over him and stroked the balaclava, biting down her trembling lip.

Mama will keep baby cozy and warm…

"Adrien," she spoke softly. She sighed.

"It's not your fault mommy became this way."

Her palm moved across his face, and for a second, she thought she had noticed a smile. But that must have been the dark playing evil tricks on her mind, as the smile returned into a contempt frown, the one she had become used to seeing from him. He really did resemble his father.

"It's not your fault…" she repeated.

"Not completely."

Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall…


The hot New Mexican sun burned the sandy ground, dooming every poor man who might have found his way there. He did not mind the heat. He had become numb to it.

He moved away from his little experiment. Of course it had to be that photograph. Of course it had to be. His father in that crisp uniform of his, the surface scratched and stained with tears and cigarette burns. With narrowed eyes, he took a step back. The photograph hung taped to a wooden practice target, the one of himself. The figure's blank eyes reminded him of his own.

The revolver let out four shots, and they all hit the photograph, destroying it. This brought no pleasure to the Spy. He was still furious at her, still despised every speck of her being. The man really did look like him. A strange thought popped into his head. If she really loved the man, why was she so looking forward to destroying one of the few things he left behind? Was she really that insane?

He picked up the bottle of wine that stood near his feet. He had already taken a sip before. He popped open the cork and started draining it down until there was only half of it left. And then, holding onto it like a security blanket, he stumbled into the dessert. He needed to leave, he needed to run away from the memory that fell onto him, like a pile of bricks. Though the secure zone of his mind was now shattered, the debris still managed to fall around him. He stumbled through the bright darkness of the desert, under the burning, white iron sky.

He was imprisoned. His suppressed thoughts now ran free, inside his damaged wall.

Mother, did it need to be so high?