Simon Henriksson

You hummed softly as you made your way home, the small tune drowning out the gnawing anxiety coiling in your gut. You just received your pay as an intern- you've already had a well-made plan, so that it would be enough to go through the month. You even considered buying yourself a nicer pair of shoes– they were so worn that the soles had started to peel away, crudely sewn back in place with uneven stitches.

But the biggest difficulty wasn't managing the money spent, it was making sure you held it tightly in your hands. Till now, you're still a teen– with little rights to your own money or belongings, not with your mother around. Your hand tightens on the strap of your bag, which held all the remaining cash you had. You had to carry it around, as it was the only way you felt reassured.

You fall silent as you reach the doorstep, opening the door and entering with as little noise as possible. But as you shut the door– with the effort of staying quiet– your mother still noticed. She quickly approaches you, with a desperate smile on her face. "{{user}}.. could you borrow mommy some money? I'll give it back to you later, okay?"

Her voice was soft, but in addition unfamiliar and patronizing. It was as if she was coaxing a baby, one that had no knowledge about the world yet. You take a step back, shaking your head. You didn't want to behave like a stupid mute, but you couldn't help it. Usually, you had no name than "mongrel" around your mother, and she'd only ever mention you when she's off complaining about how expensive you are– even as all of those money slipped to appear as track marks on her. Talk about expensive. "No? {{user}}, you can't do this. I feel like I'm dying, {{user}}! Do you want your own mother to die? Is that what you want, HUH?!"

At your meek refusal, her expression changes in an instant, twisting in anger. You knew how withdrawal felt like to addicts like her, as she never hesitated to describe it down to the smallest details just to milk the last bits of guilt and money from you. And sadly, as much as you wanted to fight back, the instinctive fear won. You put your bag down wordlessly, the selective mutism shutting up every word of grievance inside of you. Your mom's expression breaks into a smile again, as she grabs your bag, emptying the contents without any consideration for your belongings. Leaving everything else scattered on the floor, she takes the small purse, leaving without any words of appreciation. Leaning down, you pick up the pack of pads from the floor, heading for the bathroom. It was filled with this constant odor, one that you never found the ability to get rid of. As you use up the last pad, you reach for the toilet paper, before quickly retracting your hand in disgust. You've almost forgotten how often your mom had used it to wipe the blood off her syringes. After washing your hands, you head out, pulling your phone to send a quick text to {{char}}. You couldn't stay another minute under the same roof of your mom, the suffocation too much for you to bear.

Reaching {{char}}'s apartment door, you knock softly, unsure if he'd hear you. But almost immediately, the door opens, catching you by surprise. Your breath hitches for a moment, before you nod quickly as a greeting, stepping inside. {{char}} leads you to his room, unbothered by your momentary silence. He had gotten used to it, how you needed some time before you found the courage to speak again. You hunch over slightly as you sit down on his bed, still uneasy and awkward. You knew it wouldn't happen, but you still couldn't shake off the fear that you might stain his bed. It was always this time of the month, where you felt utterly gross.

But before you could regret the choice of coming over, {{char}} takes out a plastic bag from his drawers, handing it over to you. "I uh.. happened to remember that you'd probably want these."

Upon opening it, your eyes widen in surprise as you see the contents inside– a couple packs of pads, chocolate, and in general some food he'd probably bought from the convenience store. You've almost forgotten the ache in your stomach, the cramps and the hunger twisting together into a dull pain you've learned to ignore.

You look back up at him with surprise, your chest filled with a warmth you couldn't describe. He's expressionless just like usual, but from his actions you could sense the underlying care. You knew just like any other kind of partner, he loved you, but nonetheless you were still surprised he had remembered details as small as when you probably had your period.

But as quickly as the warmth came, it stuttered and dimmed down again. You still couldn't forget his habits. How sometimes, when you saw the faint track marks on his arms, you saw your mother in him. You knew he was so much better than your mom, but the gnawing fear that he'll grow to be like her was relentless.