Hey guys, time for the Friday update. This will be the one that tides you over until Monday, so I hope you enjoy it. Staying with Bo's POV, which we will be staying in for a good while. Hope you're still reading and with me on it, I know this has been a lot heavier and darker than the story previously, but I really enjoyed seeing the characters in this kind of new vibe with particularly acute stress, especially because they are in a solid relationship place - I enjoyed playing in that space. Alright, enjoy!
At ten minutes until two in the morning Bo stepped back to survey her work, chewing at her bottom lip. It looked…off. The actual paint work was fine; it was neat and even on the wall, no streaks that she could see, at least not in this light. But still…something was…off. Had she grabbed the wrong can of a paint? They had bought a few, maybe this was the one for the bathroom? She tilted the can slightly to see the name. No, this was the right one, she was at least 90% sure. In the store she remembered feeling so certain about it, that the light tone would brighten up this otherwise dark hallway. It was supposed to make the space feel more welcoming, bigger, but as she looked at it now she felt…nauseous? Something was niggling in her mind, but the adrenaline from the day was fading and she couldn't process what it was exactly.
She dropped the roller back gently into the tray and scrubbed a hand down her face, immediately feeling the wet transfer of paint to her cheek. This is wrong, she thought, studying the wall. Why is this wrong? She rested a hand on her hip and squinted, as if that would make the issue appear.
After losing her staring contest with an inanimate object, she heaved a sigh. You're tired, she told herself. You're imagining that something is wrong because today feels wrong. The paint is fine. You're just tired.
Rolling her head from side to side, she felt the slight pop of her neck as her muscles stretched. She needed to go home. She wasn't sure she could sleep yet, but she could envision it as a distant possibility, which at the moment seemed like progress. The first twenty-four hours…in her mind, the ticked back to the call that had begun this, around two the day before.
She rubbed her hands down her legs, loosing the paint as best she could, before reaching for her phone and clicking to wake up the screen. She saw the time. A few more minutes and she would be twenty-four hours out from the call. It seemed fitting in a ghoulish way, like a grim vigil if only in her own mind.
She saw a notification on the screen, a voicemail with no missed call. Shit, Lauren, she thought. She clicked to play the message.
At first, all she heard was a rustling, maybe static. Then, muffled, a voice. It was garbled, hard to understand, and Bo couldn't identify it, or even if it was male or female. Bo pulled the phone back from her ear and looked at the screen. The number displayed was one she didn't recognize, not in her contacts list. So, not Lauren…maybe a wrong number? She heard the edge of a voice and pulled the phone back to her ear.
"…when you were nine and you wanted that Barbie bike? It was the pink one, and it had the streamers on the handlebars and you wanted it so much, and I had to work so hard to get it for you but I didn't mind because I would do anything for you and we didn't have the money for it, we were so broke, and the minimum wage…I just couldn't get hours, and then that bitch, that Linda woman who got me laid off, but I got the bike, and even though you pretended like you didn't want it I got it for you because I loved you so much and I still love you so much and…and, and you're right, you know? You were always so smart and I know I don't have a lot of time left but I want to get better, I want to be the best I can be, and it sucks that this has happened to me, it's all so fucked up, my life has always been, you know, just the, the, the bad luck, I guess, or the wrong people. I always wondered why I couldn't be one of the lucky ones, you know, those people with the charmed lives who don't have problems and I think, you know, I think I can do it, I deserve it because I'm not a bad person, I'm a good person and I deserve more, I deserve a good life, I just need help to get it started. I just need a good break, something in my favor and I'll be fine. Everyone needs that, just that push to get ahead, something to get me going and I know I can, I will, because I am strong, Bo, so fucking strong, no one even knows how strong I am, because I am a survivor and I always have been. I never got a handout, I've had to do it all on my own, but I am a warrior, I always have been, and people don't understand that about me but I'm always a fighter and I'll never give up, I swear, I never will, I just…I just need…I wish you were here with me, Bo, my little girl, I wish we could go back and you could see how strong I am, how strong I've always been. And I'll never stop, not until I'm dead, not until someone forces me to, because people always try to hold down strong people, you know? I won't be beaten. I can't be broken, Bo, and I'll never stop, I'll never stop until I'm not breathing, I won't st—"
The voicemail cut out.
Bo stood in stunned silence, her mother's voice ringing in her ears. After a moment, she pulled the phone back again and looked at the screen. The voicemail noted that it had been left at 12:38. She hadn't heard the phone ring, it must not have had enough signal…she looked at the screen again, confirming the date and time, almost trying to convince herself that somehow it was an old message, a glitch, a misdial…
As she stood dumbfounded, the phone began to vibrate in her hand. She jolted and saw the number from the voicemail displaying on the screen. On autopilot, she accepted the call.
"Hello?" Bo said.
"Hey, baby," the voice was unmistakably the same as the voicemail.
Bo paused for a second, her blood chilling. "What do you want? Why are you calling me at two o'clock in the morning?"
"I knew you'd be awake." Her mother's voice was thick, slow. "You were always a night owl."
I haven't been a night owl in years, Bo corrected in her mind. "It's the middle of the night, Mother."
"Do you remember that Barbie bike?" her mother asked, her voice distant and wistful, ignoring Bo's comment entirely. "You and I used to be so close back then. What happened?"
Bo felt bile edging at the back of her throat, her mind back on the voicemail. "I was six, not nine, and it wasn't a Barbie bike. We weren't close. We weren't pals. I was a child." Bo shuddered as she heard her voice crack, momentarily berating herself for even that hint of weakness.
"You've always been strong, like me," her mother slurred on, as if she hadn't heard Bo's response. "We're fighters, you and me. Us against the world."
"I was a kid. I was supposed to stay a kid. I didn't get that option, though, because I had to be an adult for you. Because one of us had to. Because you wouldn't."
"I remember that time you and me and Kenzi made brownies together, for your bake sale at school. Do you remember that?" At the continuation of her stroll down fake memory lane, Bo began to question if she had even been speaking out loud. "Kenzi wanted to lick the beaters and chocolate got all over the kitchen…"
The memory came back to Bo…the flash of hope she had felt when she thought her mother was going to help her with the bake sale, her mother stumbling in, clearly on something, and attempting to start making the batter. Kenzi reaching for a spoon and her mother lunging forward, the bowl clattering to the floor and splattering chocolate goo over the kitchen. Her mother mumbling that Kenzi was a goddamn bitch, Kenzi shrinking back and crying, Bo screaming at her mother to shut up, leave Kenzi alone, just shut up and start cleaning, because Dad would be back soon and he would freak out when he saw the mess…
"I don't think you can turn those gaslights up any brighter, Mother," Bo said, detesting how quiet her voice was, livid at the lava hot tears at the corners of her eyes.
If her mother caught her comment, she made no indication. "I'll never stop fighting, baby, you know that. I'm strong. I just need a lucky break, you know? Just a little –"
"What do you want?" the words were said harshly as Bo felt rage roiling inside of her.
"Why do you think I want anything?" her mother replied, her voice sounding vaguely affronted, her tone lightly slurred.
"You're using again? Or, should I say, still?"
"Baby, it's not like that this time."
This time. Bo felt the anger and bitterness coursing through her. "Of course it's not," she bit back, sarcastically.
"Baby, I left him."
Bo paused, and her mother seized the opening.
"He's hit me for the last time, Bo, I swear. I left him, and he got really angry. I took his stash."
Bo dropped her eyes closed, her head almost landing on the wet pain of the wall. He's hit me for the last time…what's different this time, Mom? What was so special about this hit? Why not the one before? Why not the one that landed her in the hospital a year or so ago? Why not the one Bo got when Jack slipped on a chocolate covered floor? She didn't say any of this, just sat and waited, knowing that in the end it didn't really matter because it was all bullshit anyway.
"I flushed it!" Her mother added quickly.
"Mom, you're high. I can hear it through the phone." Her voice was tight and tense.
"I'm not, I'm…I flushed…it's all gone! I left him, baby, I really did."
"Why are you calling me?" Bo's voice was cold now as she closed herself off once again, regaining her practiced composure learned over years and years of disappointment.
"I just…I…I left him, and I…I need…"
"You need money," Bo finished for her, without warmth or expression.
"Not much, I swear, just a…just a little, to, you know, get back on my feet, and I'll pay you back. Just a little something to get started."
"I'm not giving you money. You and I both know it would go directly into a vein."
"I'm getting clean!" she exclaimed back. "Why can't you just believe in me for once?"
"You're high right now!" Bo fired back.
"I'm not, I'm not, I swear, I just…I'm putting a few things together, okay? I'm getting it all together I just need a little bit to get me over the hump and then I swear, I swear, it's different this time!"
Bo shook her head, if only to herself. "You know, it's sad. I almost think you believe your own bullshit."
"It isn't bullshit!" her mother shot back, venom coming quickly into her tone. There she is, Bo thought. The real version, the real Mom, surging back. A cornered rabid dog, barring its teeth. "I just need a little goddamn money! Don't you want to me to get better?"
"This isn't on me," Bo answered, her tone ice.
"You're so high and mighty, so superior, you've never wanted me to get well."
Rage seethed in Bo. "Is that so?" she asked, her voice threateningly calm.
"You have the chance to help your own mother and you turn your back on me! All I need is a little money, that's all, just a little bit of money, but you love your money more than you love me. You always have. You'll happily discard me for your girlfriend, for your new life, for whatever you want. You've always hated me."
Bo said nothing.
"All I need is a little something, alright? Goddamn it, it's nothing to you, we both know you have it!"
Bo continued to remain silent.
"What, not going to say anything now? Just going to be a bitch?" he mother spat out. Bo couldn't stop the barely contained rage washing over her, threatening to pull her under. You aren't talking to your mother right now, the logical part of her mind intoned. You're talking to the addiction.
Bo gathered herself. "Are you done?" Bo replied, her voice still and even.
"I just need some help!"
"You do. But not from me."
"So, you just want me to fucking die, is that it? Then you can be rid of me for good. Never mind that I put a roof over your head or kept you fed or gave birth to you, none of that fucking matters I guess, because you have your fucking money and that's more important than your fucking family."
Don't talk to her. Talk to the addiction. It was a mantra Bo had used many times before. "I'm not giving you a dime," Bo answered.
"I hope you remember this when I'm dead in a week and it's your fault. I left him and you don't even care, I guess I should just go back to him. So what if he kills me this time, right?"
The words hit Bo like a physical blow.
"I have no money, Bo, and no options. If I go back to that house, what is going to happen to me, huh? What have you been telling me for years? He'll kill me, right? That's what you always say. But that's where you want me to go. That's what you want to happen. You could help me. You could protect me for once. But you won't."
The wall came back into focus then, that goddamn hallway wall, that wrong wall, and Bo felt the nausea rise again as in her minds eyes she saw it, saw the arc of blood from the crime scene staining it, saw the spray misting into the uppermost corners, saw the rivets making their pilgrimage to the baseboards, turning it into a Jackson Pollock echo from Hell, and she realized what was wrong. She realized it was the color after all. She realized it was the color of the wall at the crime scene. She saw the echoes of viscera and brain matter even here, miles away from the actual wall it was still against.
The mirage stole Bo's breath, taking away her ability to speak, so her mother graciously continued. "When I'm found in a ditch somewhere please don't waste any of your precious money on funeral arrangements, spend it on the party you'll probably have to celebrate that I'm finally fucking dead."
Bo clicked the red button at the bottom of the screen, ending the call, and let her phone drop from her hand onto the floor. She felt a prickling sensation in her hands, like pins and needles. Her face felt thick, numb. Her limbs felt weak, her nerves jittering. She exhaled a shaking breath once, twice, almost a third.
She bent down and lifted the paint tray, carrying it along with the paint can outside of the house, where she dumped both into the grass. She watched them seep into the dirt, contaminating the ground, and it felt…right. Fitting. Another thing destroyed. Another peaceful thing ruined. She then took the now emptied items to a large construction trashcan outside the back door and dropped them in, before leaning over to vomit on top of it.
When the heaving subsided and she was empty, she ran a shaking hand across her mouth and forced out another slow breath. With wobbling legs, she moved back inside, finding a fresh paint tray and roller, and grabbed the grey paint they had planned for the bathroom. She returned to her previous location, and poured the paint into the tray.
Her hands were shaking like mad, but she didn't care. She felt a tear sluice down her cheek, not doubt carrying a trail of paint…the paint of a dead woman's home…down towards her numb lips. Ignoring it, she lifted the roller, and as she had done for her entire life, began attempting to cover what was so clearly wrong.
Review if inclined