I reached for my phone on the nightstand, the screen glowing 10:36 PM, July 25. Tomorrow's the 26th, and my stomach drops. Of all days, my interview with a killer falls on my mother's death anniversary. Papa never acknowledges this date, refusing to mourn the woman he believes paid for abandoning us with her "selfish" choices. But for me, it's a wound that never quite heals.
I collapse onto my back, staring at the ceiling, then close my eyes as memories creep in, sharp and unbidden.I was six, but the fights between Mom and Papa are still vivid, like a half-forgotten dream. Every night, Papa would stumble home, drunk, reeking of whiskey and smoke. Mom would try to reason with him—about the overdue rent, the piling bills, our crumbling life. He'd shout back, slurring that he was doing his best to keep us afloat. She was beautiful, with soft eyes and ginger hair I wished I'd inherited, but her pleas to work, to contribute, were always shot down by his mistrust.
One night, their voices woke me. I'd fallen asleep, tucked in by Mom, but the yelling pulled me from bed. I crept to the door, peering into the living room. Mom stood there, her face a mix of hurt and frustration.
"I can't keep living like this," she said, her voice trembling.
"Coming home to you hammered, never talking about my life, my struggles. I want us to be a normal family, to spend time with my husband and daughter."
"Am I not enough?" Papa snapped, his words thick with alcohol. "I pay the bills, the expenses. What more do you want? To live your life?"
"Then let me work!" she shot back. "It'll keep me busy, so I don't have to see your pathetic self every day."
He scoffed. "I can't let you do that." his insecurities show again.
"Why? Because you don't trust me? You think I'll cheat?" Her voice broke, raw with pain.
"Yes," he admitted, stepping closer, his tone venomous. "You're pretty. The second you see some handsome guy, you'll run."
"How can you even think that? I'm a mother!" She looked shattered, and it twisted something in me. I loved her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she was proud of me. I didn't want her to hurt.Papa grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.
"You didn't even want her in the first place!"His words hit me like a thunderbolt, a sting that burned deep. I couldn't believe it—Mom didn't want me? I was a good kid, always trying to make her proud. My feet moved before I could stop them, drawn toward their voices.
Then Mom's words cut through: "It's true, I didn't want her at first. A child in college, ruining my art career? My parents warned me. But I love her now, more than you ever will. You're too busy drinking to even know her favorite dish."Her words warmed me—she loved me. But they kept fighting, their voices rising. I stepped closer, wanting to stop them.
"I'm going back to painting," Mom declared. "And I'm divorcing you."I didn't know what "divorce" meant, but it sounded like something that'd make her happy, so I wanted it for her. Before I could reach them, Papa shoved her, hard. She stumbled, her back and head slamming against the wooden table. She crumpled to the floor, silent. I ran to her, touching her face, begging her to wake up, but she didn't move. Papa, sobering in an instant, scooped her up and rushed her to the hospital, telling me to be strong and stay home, to lock the door until he returned.Three hours later, he came back, his face ashen, and carried me to the hospital. Mom was alive, breathing, but I was too young to understand the mental toll it took on her. When she recovered, she didn't come home.
Once Mom recovered from the hospital, I clung to the hope she'd walk through our door again, her soft ginger hair catching the sunlight, her warm smile promising everything would be okay. But she didn't come back. Instead, she went to her parents' house, a place I vaguely remembered from childhood visits—full of the scent of lavender from her mother's garden and the creak of an old porch swing. I waited for days, then weeks, staring out our grimy living room window, expecting her to appear with an explanation, maybe even an apology. But she was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night. I later learned she'd remarried within months, to a man I never met, someone who must've offered her the peace Papa couldn't.As a child, I seethed with betrayal. How could she leave me behind? I was her daughter, the one she'd tucked into bed with whispered stories of far-off places, the one she'd praised when I drew clumsy pictures with her old crayons. My anger burned hot, fueled by the sting of Papa's words that night—that she hadn't wanted me at first. I blamed her entirely, too young to see past my own hurt. I didn't think about the weight she carried: the endless fights, Papa's drinking, the suffocation of a life where her dreams of painting were buried under bills and mistrust. I was too wrapped up in my own childish need for her love to consider her as a person, someone with her own pain, her own breaking point.Now, as an adult, I see the cracks in my judgment. Mom wasn't perfect—she left without a goodbye, without a letter to explain why she couldn't stay. But maybe she was fleeing a cage, one built by Papa's insecurities and her own unfulfilled ambitions. I wonder if she stood in her parents' house, staring at her old easel, wrestling with the guilt of leaving me versus the need to save herself. Did she cry for me? Did she paint me in her new life, even if she couldn't face me in this one? My anger has softened, replaced by a quiet ache and a grudging understanding. I still blame her for abandoning me, but I blame myself too—for not seeing her struggle, for letting my hurt harden into resentment instead of reaching out. Maybe if I'd been older, braver, I could've bridged the gap she left behind.
As a kid, I blamed her, my anger blinding me to her pain. Now, I wonder if I'd have done the same in her place, chasing my own happiness. Papa could be a good dad, but he was a terrible husband. Maybe Mom wasn't wrong to leave, but I still ache for the family we might've had—normal, laughing, together.Exhausted by the memories, I drift into a restless sleep.
My head pounds like a drum, each throb echoing the dread churning in my gut. What will he ask me? What does a killer even look like? Will his eyes be cold, predatory, sizing me up like prey the second he opens the door? What if I say something wrong—something that sets him off the moment he sees me? My palms are slick with sweat, the file pressed so tightly against my chest it might as well be fused to my skin, a flimsy shield against whatever nightmare awaits. He's a killer. I don't know what twisted thoughts lurk in his mind. Will he even bother with normal questions—my name, my qualifications? Why would he? I'm just a nobody to him, someone he could eliminate without a second thought, my body left in some dark corner of this house.
The thought sends a shiver racing down my spine, my legs trembling so violently I'm sure they'll buckle.I pace back and forth in front of his door, my sneakers scuffing the pavement, each step a desperate attempt to outrun the panic clawing at my chest. My heart slams against my ribs, so loud I'm convinced he'll hear it through the walls. I'm not just anxious—I'm unraveling. Of course I'm terrified, standing on the doorstep of a murderer. Every instinct screams to run, to bolt back to the safety of my taxi, but I can't. Not with Papa counting on me, not with our fragile life hanging in the balance. My shaking finger hovers over the doorbell, hesitating, as my mind conjures images of blood-streaked knives and cold, unfeeling eyes. I force myself to press the button, the chime echoing like a death knell. I clutch the file tighter, as if it could anchor me to sanity and shield that is protecting from him, as if it holds the key to surviving this monster. My breath hitches, shallow and ragged, and I brace myself for the door to swing open, for the moment my fate collides with his.
Ten agonizing minutes pass before the door creaks open. His silhouette looms in the half-open doorway, one hand gripping the knob, the other resting casually against the frame. He leans forward, and I force myself to stand straight, my face a mask of calm despite the chaos in my body. My knees wobble, my pulse races, and I'm half-convinced I'll collapse from anxiety before he even speaks.When eyes land on him I get it fate's never been kind, and today, it feels like it's laughing cause my own fate never like me.