Trapped With A Killer

Chapter Nineteen

I looked at the water bottle that had rolled towards me. I was so thirsty... but I didn't deserve that water. I sicced a psychopath on my own mother. Now she was going to die, and it was all my fault! I never should have tried to run away!

I curled up and tucked my knees under my chin and glanced over again at the water bottle. It looked so good. Maybe just a sip? I reached out for it with a shaky hand before snatching it up and quickly trying to break the seal. As I tipped it up and felt the cool water travel down my throat I moaned in relief. But I forced myself to stop. If I drank too much all at once I was liable to throw it back up.

I was a weak willed coward. Who was I kidding? Did I really have the guts to complete suicide? No, I couldn't even manage to just sit here and wait for death. I was too much of a wimp to die. But what was I even living for? If my mom dies, I have no one in this world but Quinn. Even if I miraculously survive this ordeal, I'll have nothing to come home to. If my mother had to die, why wouldn't I die with her?

Wheaton was a monster that I had pushed too far. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that he was capable of murdering my mother in cold blood. But I could do nothing but sit and wait until he came back. The waiting, I hated it. I kept working myself up into a state of panic, picturing what he was doing to her right now. My poor, dear mom.

After my father died, my mom could barely hold it together. She managed to keep her job, but whenever she was home all she would do was sit and drink. I was left almost entirely to my own devices. Don't get me wrong, I don't hold any resentment towards her for that. Maybe I should, but honestly I just kind of accepted that this was the way my mom was. It was her way of dealing with my dad's death.

My Aunt Carol was my father's sister, and her and her husband lived about five hours away. When they would come to visit they would always get into fights with my mother. My aunt said that my mother should stop drinking, and that she should take better care of me. She threatened to get social services involved several times, but my mother would just break down, beg her, and promise to change.

My aunt would always take me to visit my father's grave, as this was something my mother refused to do for the first several years after my dad's death. She would hold my hand as I looked into that shiny, carved stone.

"You know, you could come and live with us," my aunt would say. But I couldn't leave my mom. She needed me. Who else would tuck her in when she fell asleep on the couch? Who would make her microwave dinners and make sure she ate? Who would be there to watch her spiral into deep depression? She was suffering, and I wanted to help. My father had left us alone, and I couldn't bear to leave her too.

The night of the anniversary of my father's death, I woke up in the middle of the night needing to use the bathroom. I could see that the light was on through the crack at the bottom of the door. Thinking my mother must have just left the light on by accident, I opened it.

She was laying there with her arms draped into the tub full of water, bleeding from several gashes on her arms. I immediately bolted to her and tried to shake her awake, and she lifted her head and groaned.

"R-Reyna," she rasped.

"Mom! Mom, I'm here!" I cried as I yanked her arms out of the water. "I'm going to go call for help."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she wept as I raced to the phone and immediately dialed 911. I was shaking, but my head was clear. Maybe it was all those gruesome shows that I had watched, but the blood didn't faze me much. I sat with my mother and held a towel against her cuts until the ambulance arrived. I was only nine years old.

My aunt and uncle rushed down to us and stayed with me while my mom was in the hospital, and Aunt Carol was more insistent than ever about taking custody of me.