Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 127146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
The thing is, I don’t believe him. I don’t trust anyone who works for my father. If it came down to it, they’d throw me under the bus the moment their job was threatened. The money is merely a bonus, a helpful way to remind them to keep their mouth shut.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bill, but I don’t trust anyone, including you, so take the money and consider it a form of assurance.”
He knows the score, yet he says the same thing every time I show up and slip him the money. He wavers only slightly and then quickly shoves the money into his pocket. I smile and wait as he slips out of the guardhouse and quietly opens the gate manually to allow me to slip through.
It's not a perfect system, and it requires several key elements all to coincide, but the effort is always worth it to see the smile on my mother’s face.
I jog up the long driveway and cut through the side yard to the back kitchen steps and the small door there. It’s never locked, as it isn’t today either when I turn the handle and slip inside. If any of the other staff see me, they won't think anything of it. Very few know how tightly my father regulates my visits.
My hands are tacky as I rub them on my jeans, moving quickly. It's been far too long between visits, and I feel like a piece of shit for not seeing her sooner, but with school, football practice, and my commitments to The Mill, it’s been difficult to sneak away.
Guilt chews up my insides as I walk down the long hallway leading to my mother’s suite. The walls are adorned with photos of our family, the three of us. The images portray us to be some big happy family, but I know better. I do my best not to look at them as I pass by. It’s all a sham, a fucking lie. At the end of the hall, I turn left and enter her wing of the house. Since my mother’s illness progressed, my father felt it would be best for her to move to the other side of the house, so now they occupy separate wings. Probably so he can get away with fucking whatever whore it is he brings home.
Anger simmers in my gut, and I tamp it down when I enter her bedroom. I won’t let my thoughts of him become a dark spot on this visit. The nurse glances at me as I enter and gives me a nod before going to the other door across the room to give us some privacy.
I haven’t even reached my mother’s bedside, and she’s speaking. “Andrew Bryan Marshall, you better stop right there and explain why it's been so long since you've visited. I know school and football are important, but I can't exactly come to you. I might be sick, but I’m still your momma, or have you forgotten that?”
The sting of her words makes it difficult for me to feel anything but guilt and shame. I throw myself into the chair next to her bed and reach my hand out to her, intertwining our fingers gently. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to wait so long. It's just been nonstop at school. I haven’t forgotten you. How could I possibly do that?"
I give her a genuine smile, one that I save only for her. As always, without any further prompting, she nods like she forgives me and simply moves on. "What are you studying this year? Besides girls and parties?"
I let out a snort and rearrange my grip on her fingers so I don't hinder the IV on the back of her hand.
"It's not like that. I'm the president of The Mill this year."
Her eyebrows fly up her face, and she gives me a wan smile. Her dark brown hair, threaded with gray, spreads over the pillows in soft waves as she shifts to her side. It’s grown out now at least. That’s a sign we’re headed in the right direction. "Oh don't tell me they’re still doing that wicked hunt in the woods? I never really understood the appeal."
My face heats, and I glance down at my feet for a minute. Nope. Not talking about that shit with her. I love my mom, but I have to draw the line somewhere, and I’m not about to get into a conversation about my fucked-up deviant fantasies.
"Oh, that I’m not sure about. What about you? How do you like the new medications? Do they seem to be helping?"
Her eyes drift closed for a second, and I scan the machines on the other side of her. It’s a full medical suite, gifted to her by my doting father. It makes me sick every time I see it all. He's made the perfect cage for her with no exit. He doesn't give a shit if she actually recovers. In fact, it's in his best interest if she doesn't because then he can continue with his secretaries and his mistresses without any impediment from her. It’s sick and fucked up, and I hate that this is her life.