Smolder

                                                                     ***

It was the sort of dark that made contrasting shades impossible; no structure, no movement. He shook inside, not being able to recount a time when he felt so cold. Sitting up in bed, he reached blindly in every direction for relief from the chill that was frosting his insides.

         A robe covered his boxers while he opened the bedroom door. He stopped right before the hinge creaked in the familiar way it always did on nights like this. On nights like this when the screech would ripple through the silence of his house, reminding him of the way a summer’s heat would smudge the edges of a horizon. That noise had always made him uneasy.

         Coming through the open doorway, he squinted at the slice of light. Silent tears now soothed the dusted dry of his eyes, still hopeful for more sleep.

         He tiptoed past his parent’s room, dodging another series of groans strategically placed within the worn floor boards.

         Their door was open, and he peeked in.

         The room was silent but for his father’s mighty snore; his heaving muffled by the blankets. He wasn’t surprised to see only half the bed was occupied, the other half was flat and untouched.

         Turning away, he walked on down the hallway. Led not by the light, but by memory.

         He smelt her before he saw her, as usual.

        Vomit laced with the stench of alcohol while he approached.

        His nose scrunched, his stomach flipped, his hands shot to his mouth to control the stinging bile threatening to shoot up his throat. He swallowed with a heavy heart.

         His mother leaned back into the living room corner, her knees drawn to her chin. Her arms wrapped around her legs protectively, both hands holding the neck of an empty bottle. She was humming, a drunken melody he had grown up getting used to. Noticing his presence, she looked to him, her heavy eyes opened with a lazed smirk.

He bent down to pick her up and carried her like a newborn to the couch.

         The fire, ablaze with a combination of yellows and reds, overheating the room. The only sound he wanted to process was the sound of the popping logs, rather than the snicker of his inebriated mother.

        Beads of sweat rolled from his forehead in militias, and he noticed the weight of his robe. It was the fire that pulled him toward the sink in the kitchen. He ran cool water, splashing its miracle over his face and closed eyes while he longed for the frost of his bedroom.

         Her giggle overtook his subconscious, and he remembered his purpose. He wet a washcloth with the chilled water, ringing it and sulking back to the furnace he called a living room.

         Her exhales pushed hot against his skin while he pulled her hair back, running the rag along her face.

        She appeared weak, her skin reminding him of tissue paper on glass, her hair resembling that of the oceans white foam. Without color, she appeared barren of life.  Experience had drained his mother of that color; of that nectar, and replaced it with another.

        The cool of the rag became her only therapy.

         She opened her eyes; dilated pupils stared into his. She slurred her words while she mumbled; her head nodding with a sort of rhythm. He leaned in closer to understand.

         “You were always a good boy.” She whispered to his ear. “I could always rely on that.” She giggled, obviously pleased with what she was about to say.

        “But I just can’t help but hate every,” She lifted a finger, meaning to place it on his nose, but missed. Her smile was staggering, complete and full with dementia. The words spilled, and he was silent- not silent, but speechless.

        “Single, little, thing about you.” She giggled some more, leaning into the pillow to stifle the sound before looking back to him with rolling eyes and a creased forehead. It was right now that he began to notice the way she was wrinkled in all the wrong places.

      “You’ll never bring home a nice girl, or give me a grandbaby.”

      “Your just so,” She struggled at this, perhaps searching for the right word. “Or-din-ary; so boring.”

        He was half expecting these words. He knew they would come eventually, he felt it every time he looked at her. She continued.

      “You know, I didn’t even want to keep you. But no, no, no. Your father wouldn’t have gossip; didn’t want people talking.” Her fingers formed quotation marks at that last notion. She brought up an index finger, sloppily motioning him toward her. Nearly comatose with her own laughter, she giggled "gossip" a few more times, popping the p. She went on while he continued to run the rag along her cheekbone.

      “I think about killing you sometimes.” She shook the couch, heaving for breath, holding herself at the torso in search for some type of control.

        His jaw did not drop; his heart did not break; his eyes did not tear. He took in these words with silence, sitting back on his knees now, a lame means of acceptance.

        “Such a waste, my boy is. Such a squander, so very worthless, you are.” She kissed each tip of her fingers, and placed them on his cheeks, his forehead, his heavy eye lids.

        He turned to the fire. Her hot breath made the hairs of the back of his neck stand erect; while he slid into the comfort of his thoughts. Nothing would avert his eyes from that fire. Nothing would distract his mind from the way scorching blue warped and curdled into red, into orange.

        His mother was laughing still behind him. He listened for a few minutes before finally; thankfully, she fell silent; muttering pointless words in her sleep.

        He thought of what to say, of how to react, who to tell, but he found no reason why any of it would matter. He could storm out of the room and wake up his father. He could tell him the entire story, but no matter what he would do or say or ask or cry; he knew that his father would only mutter something under heavy breath and fall back to sleep. He could scold his mother for being so irresponsible. He could scold her for being so unfair. He could scream at the top of his lungs about how unfair this all really was. He could beat on the walls and throw the bottles, begging her to change. It wouldn't matter; she would not remember this in the morning. He could wait for tomorrow, make her breakfast, then sit down and talk about what she said and why she said it. She would deny it, telling him that she loved him with her heart and soul, that she was sorry he had to hear such blasphemy. But still, even then, her feelings would remain the same and he knew it. This was the truth, the bleak truth; he could do nothing to change it.

      Her words would haunt him forever on quiet nights in the future, the black of his room wrapped around him. Her words would keep him awake. They would change his outlook; slowly erode his ability to trust, perhaps even his ability to love.

      Her words left him with no choices, and no chances.

      The smoke was black; funneled into the chimney above by the howling winds that waited at the brim to lug hazed grays away into the evening wind. He glared while the soiled fog twisted; its pattern, translucent in its intricacy, hypnotized the smolder beneath his eyes, nearly as scalding hot as the fire itself.