Dalaric

Three: "𝙊𝙝 𝙣𝙤."

"But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself."

- Albert Camus

The screams don't end. I can hear- no feel- her nails scratching the bed room door. My eyes shut tightly as I wrap my bleeding arms around myself.

I didn't know me coming home a few minutes later would end up in three long knife cuts.

I didn't know, mama.

"Mayi, honey, open the door." Her voice sounds sick.

I don't recognize my own mothers voice, the same person who sang me to sleep. Her once blonde, lively hair has now turned thin and falls off often. She's balding. Her eyes are bloodshot and lifeless and her skin pales each day.

But she's still my mama.

My mama who worked three jobs to get me through high school. My mama who cut my hair and gave me bear hugs.

But that all changed when papa died.

She blames me. I blame me too. Papa worked in the military and suffered brain damage due to a blast in his district area. When he came back home, he wasn't the same. He was diagnosed with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and couldn't function mentally. Doing the simplest of things would frustrate him.

He had nightmares and manic episodes. That was the worst of it. Especially when he drove a knife in his heart right in front of me.

Mama knows I didn't do it but she blames me for not doing anything to stop it.

"Honey? Are you there? I'm sorry, honey. Mayi, I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought you were going to leave me. You always come home at ten but you didn't and I- you can't leave me. You won't leave me, Mayi. My sweet, sweet baby. Please open the door."

Her meek voice whispers hauntingly on the other side of my bedroom door and I push the chair further under the doorknob to make sure it doesn't let her in.

I look down at my arms and cry harder with my face stuffed on top of my knees.

The two, long jagged lines of red leak with fresh blood. Normally, I try to run. But she caught me off guard this time. It's always on my thighs, the cuts. But she had straddled me, clad in a dirty white night suit that she has been wearing for weeks.

She always used the knife that papa had used. Always. It was my fault.

My cheeks are warm with trails of tears and I try to stop the bleeding but I fail to find any disinfectants. The scratching stops and I hear soft, dragged footsteps make their way down the hallway. I have no doubt that she'll drink herself to sleep.

That's where most of my paycheck goes anyways, to keep her sane so she doesn't hurt me. I try to control my sobs and slowly get off the floor by dragging my back against the door since it hurts too much. My thigh has the same jagged scar except deeper.