Takes place somewhere around the middle of "Curtain Call." Warning: These next couple scenes are a little on the grim side, but some lighter scenes will come later. Hopefully this isn't riddled with typos — yes, I'm posting at 2 AM again! Hope it's readable.

—-

More than any other morning, Aaron dreaded getting up. The only sleep he'd gotten all night came when he passed out from exhaustion every few hours. The rest of the time, talons of pain ripped into every muscle and joint. He writhed in the mess of rags on the concrete, unable to get comfortable even for a minute.

He couldn't remember ever seeing his mother so furious before. More than once last evening, Aaron truly feared for his life. He couldn't defend himself, he couldn't run; he could only scream, completely at the mercy of his mother's volatile whims. Briefly, he managed to reach for the blinds and catch a glimpse of the quiet street outside. He saw the windows light up over at a neighbor's house and hoped someone would come. For once, he didn't care about the police getting involved. All he thought about was surviving from one blow to the next.

But nobody came. The lights across the street soon went out. Aaron braced himself, and over the next several minutes, he almost got his left arm and both scapulas broken. Thankfully, nothing shattered besides the bulb in the living room lamp, plus about a half dozen bottles.

He didn't know how much longer he could live like this.

And getting up early in the morning was sheer agony. Aaron's head and limbs felt like burning lead as he dragged himself upstairs. He knew Mother would be waiting for him in the kitchen, and he knew her rage couldn't possibly be resolved yet. Not after an outburst like last night's.

What choice did he have? He needed to go to school, and he needed breakfast.

He walked like a cripple — hunched uncomfortably, leaning awkwardly, stiffening suddenly. By the time he hobbled into the kitchen. involuntary tears had broken free from Aaron's eyes, forced out by pain alone.

He stopped in the doorway and stared. Mother sat alone at the table with a bowl of milky cereal in front of her. Aaron quickly scanned the room for anything within her reach that might be used to hurt him. Ladel. Telephone. Saucepan. Loose towel rack. It wouldn't take more than a split-second offense or misstep to make him guilty. She would then grab the nearest object and with lightning ferocity beat him into a huddled, pleading ball in the corner. Aaron started to back out of the kitchen.

Mother looked up suddenly. "Good morning, Aaron."

Aaron stopped with one hand on the doorframe. He hadn't heard those words in over a year. He stiffly nodded his reply.

"Come sit down," said Mother. "I've prepared breakfast for you." With that, she slid the bowl across the tabletop in his direction. Aaron could see that the milk had made everything soggy, and he briefly wondered how long it had been sitting there soaking.

"No, thanks," he murmured, knowing not to fall for any of her tricks. This was a new one for sure. "I'll just get to school."

Mother rose to her feet, and Aaron moved closer to the doorframe at his side. His knuckles whitened from his grip on the wood.

Mother held out a hand. She looked hungover, but she managed to stay steady and advance with some clarity. "Whatever happened..." she said, shaking her head. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, Aaron. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Now he stared at his mother, unsure if she was teasing him somehow. He wanted to return to the basement, lock himself in.

Mother took his hand. "Well, sit down," she urged. "You need your breakfast."

Aaron didn't move, but his jaw became slack.

"If you hurry up, I can drive you to school. It'll save you having to walk." With that, she smiled at him.

Aaron struggled to breathe. "You're scaring me, Mom."

"Don't say that." Mother looked offended, and for a second she seemed about to hit him. Then the second passed, and she squeezed his hand warmly. "I just want what's best for you."

Aaron couldn't escape. With every muscle screaming at him to run, he reluctantly allowed himself to be guided to the table. Mother pulled out a chair and handed him a spoon. He sat down and stared at the cereal.

"Eat up," said Mother, hovering nearby.

What's in it? Aaron wanted to ask. His heart kicked against his chest.

Mother sat down across from him. "Aren't you hungry?"

He was starving. The spoon shook in his hand, and Aaron noticed how pale his skin had become. His forehead felt clammy but he didn't wipe it. He scooped a bite of cereal into his mouth, but he didn't chew it. The flakes just sat idly on his tongue, the milk dripped over his gums, and the taste was divine. As famished as he was, Aaron didn't know if it was even safe to swallow.

Soon his hunger got the better of him. Aaron began eating, all the while keeping his gaze down. He couldn't look at Mother's face now and see her abnormal smile.

"That's it," she said, as if encouraging a baby to swallow his oatmeal. "Need more?"

Aaron cleaned the bowl. Of course he needed more, but saying yes wasn't safe.

Mother took the bowl and dropped it in the sink. The abrupt clatter made Aaron jump.

He started to get up, but Mother turned back to him and he froze. "Stay there," she said. "Let me get a better look at you."

Aaron wrung his hands under the table as Mother approached. She lifted his chin with her fingers and looked into his face, then ran a hand slowly through his hair, studying it.

Mother sighed. "I can't have you go to school like this. When did you last have a decent haircut?"

"I... I cut it myself. Last month."

"That won't do. There's no need for you to do something like that if you've got your mother here to help. Stay put. I'll give you a neat trim."

She turned back to the counter and lifted a pair of scissors from a drawer.

Aaron felt dizzy. "Please don't. It's okay. I have to go to school."

"Not until you're ready." Mother grabbed a hand towel and draped it around his shoulders. All Aaron could see now was the shiny double blade of the scissors.

"Please..." he whispered. Mother wasn't listening. Aaron squeezed his eyes shut.

—- —- —-

Mrs. Hotchner filled a plastic cup under the tap and then trickled some water over Aaron's head. Her son gasped at the cold splash, and Mrs. Hotchner grabbed another towel to wipe the runaway droplets down his neck. She paused, seeing the bruises on the back of his neck. Then she covered the bruises with her towel, pressing it firmly against his skin until he was dry.

Mrs. Hotchner dropped the towel on the counter and looked back at Aaron's neck. The droplets were gone, but the marks remained. She felt an odd squeezing in her chest.

She slipped a lock of wet hair between two fingers and held it fast. Then she brought the scissors up to the top of Aaron's head. She waited.

"Stop shaking, Aaron."

"I can't."

The sound of her son's voice was like the cry of an injured bird. Mrs. Hotchner wanted to silence it. He sounded so hurt, and that in turn hurt her.

She thought about last night. Arguing with Charles again. Bottle after bottle. Aaron trying to go unnoticed. She caught him anyway— "Your father would never have let this happen to us. But you—!"

It was the first time she actually feared she might kill him.

The blades came together with a snap, and a lock of dark hair wafted down to Aaron's shoulder. Mrs. Hotchner wiped it off to the floor.

"You're very lucky to be alive," she said soothingly. "You're lucky I care so much."

"Yes, Mom."

She snipped another lock of hair, and the boy flinched.

"Trust me, Aaron," said Mrs. Hotchner. "I won't hurt you."

Aaron sat perfectly still, eyes trained forward. He sniffled, and Mrs. Hotchner handed him her hanky.

"We're starting over fresh," said Mrs. Hotchner. "I want to be your mother, one you can trust and love in return."

She must have hit him with everything in the room. He cowered beneath the window with his arms around his head and his knees in broken glass. Blood ran in thin streams down his back and arms where his shirt had been torn. He shattered her life, she would shatter his.

Mrs. Hotchner pinched the hair just above her son's neck. How could she possibly prevent another night like last night?

She didn't know if she could. All she saw was this moment, where she once again held her son's life in her hands, and she chose to spare it. Aaron was the perfect release for all her anger and frustration, but she had to be careful. Killing him wouldn't bring back her husband.

More than anything, she wished the anger would go away and Aaron wouldn't suffer for what had happened. Every time she had an outburst, she looked back at her boy and wondered if she should apologize. I don't know how to stop. Please understand.

As much to distract herself from her thoughts as to make the situation brighter, Mrs. Hotchner began humming an old tune called "All the Pretty Little Horses." It was a tune that she remembered her own mother singing to her, so many years ago, and the haunting melody often came up in her dreams. It reminded her of the strict old lady who could sing like an angel but made everything else in life as dull as her gray hair. Mrs. Hotchner wished she had had a funner mother. The least she could do now was make sure Aaron had a mother who put his best interests first.

Humming eerily as she worked, Mrs. Hotchner moved around Aaron, examining and trimming his hair from every angle. She saw that Aaron had tightly closed his eyes, and he seemed to be holding his breath.

Mrs. Hotchner closed the blades on another tuft of hair just half an inch from his temple. "Breathe, Aaron."

He opened his eyes to see the sharp edge of the scissor nearby. Mrs. Hotchner placed her hand on his head and felt for any uneven hairs. She had missed a lock in the back. Quickly she snipped it and caught it in her palm.

Feeling like she had to find some small way to hold onto the boy she desperately wanted to love, Mrs. Hotchner slipped the lock of dark hair into her breast pocket, over her heart. She would save it forever, just like she did his baby hair.

She was finished with the haircut, but she didn't tell Aaron. She just stood behind him, gazing at the back of his head, thinking. She had to stop blaming this boy for her pain. She had to find a way out. But how? Right now, that sounded just fine, but already she craved a drink, and she knew she would forget her every resolution once she drank herself into oblivion. She tried to convince herself she could stop this cycle. Maybe this really was a fresh start. She would throw out all her bottles, finally get over her husband's death, and welcome Aaron home after school with comforting arms. They would be a happy family at last.

Mrs. Hotchner found her pocket mirror and held it open for Aaron. "What do you think, honey?"

She could glimpse Aaron's eyes in the mirror gazing back at himself with wide-eyed terror. His hair looked much shorter, much neater now. He gave a quick nod. "Thanks, Mom."

She wanted to keep him here all day, maybe talk through their differences and make up for whatever had happened between them. Maybe that would be best. But Aaron kept trying to stand up, eager to leave her alone in the house with only the baby for company.

He really does hate me. He'll never want to fix things with me.

The desire for a drink clenched Mrs. Hotchner's mind. She touched Aaron's hair again and brought her face close enough to kiss it, just like she did on his first day of school.

What have I become?

Aaron looked up at the clock on the wall. "Can I go now? Please?"

Mrs. Hotchner pulled the towel off his shoulders. Anger was building anew. "Alright. Fine."

Aaron got up much too quickly and backed away from his mother.

She wiped her eyes. Then she reached across the counter and slapped a paper bag containing a peanut butter sandwich into Aaron's hands. "Now get out of here before I lose it again."

Not giving her a second to change her mind, Aaron scrambled from the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.

The scissors in Mrs. Hotchner's hand dropped limply to her side. Her head bowed, and she looked down at the clips of hair scattered on the linoleum.

She wanted her son back.

Why didn't he want his mother?