“Tea, Sir.” Sebastian brought in Darjeeling with some scones.
“Thank you.”
Sebastian bowed. “Dinner tonight will be salmon with a light wine sauce.”
“Excellent.”
“…Are those her pictures, Sir?”
Mortimer looked up, sadness well written in his eyes. “Yes.” He beckoned Sebastian to come closer. “This is my wife, Bella.”
“…She is beautiful.”
“Yes, and that wretched child looks exactly like her…And, that’s probably why it’s very hard for me to hate her…very hard for me to resist myself from forgiving her…”
Sebastian looked at the stubborn old man. “But, she isn’t Miss Bella…She is Cassandra, your daughter. You must forgive her.”
“…I don’t know what to do, Sebastian.” Mortimer sighed, and closed his eyes while leaning back. “I very much want to forgive her…and let her come live here. But, I am a strong man—a steel man who has established that sense of seriousness in this town. And…and, my motto is that a crime must have its punishment…This is her punishment for that crime of adultery.”
“She is already living this hell for nearly ten years.”
“But, ten years isn’t enough.”
“…I hate to say this, Sir, but if you don’t forgive her now, when will you forgive her?”
Mortimer bit his lip. “Forgive her…Like I said, I want to…I really want to…but, I know I can’t.”
“You can’t…or you won’t?”
“I-I do.” His voice faltered. “…No…actually, somewhere deep inside me, I know I don’t want to forgive her…not because of the name or the fame or anything…it’s because she had hurt me…” Mortimer brought a hand to his forehead. “She angered me…then, hurt me…because she had angered me…disobeyed me…”
Lawrence had been in the study when he heard his mother at the door. He didn’t dare come out—not because he was going to get into trouble with his grandfather, but because he knew he wouldn’t be able to see his mother.
And, he was glad that he didn’t…He wasn’t sure what his expressions would be when she begged to come back into the Goth house. He didn’t want anyone to see that expression—or, whatever expression he knew he was bound to show, even if he didn’t know which one it would be.
And, yet, he kind of knew what might show up. It might even be expected to show up if he had shown his face and saw the equaled desperation—that she had shown in her voice—on her face.
Jealousy.
If she were to come into this house, then his grandfather was bound to forgive her. If she came, David, Miranda, Sabrina, and Lucas also came. It wouldn’t be just him and Alex—it wouldn’t be just him who was his grandfather’s favorite.
Everything would fall. He would fall…and, that wasn’t what he wanted now—not when he had to live on favoritism in order to not think about Nita…or Beau.
Though he knew people would think him weird for being jealous of his own mother, he didn’t find it strange one bit—because, that’s what you get when you abandoned your son to the hands of your own father. That’s what you get when your son has somehow become your brother because your own father thought of his grandson as his own pride and joy. That’s what you get, you bitch.
“Hey.” Alex came into Lawrence’s room. “Dad’s pretty upset. Did you do anything?” Alex had been at the Pleasant house when Cassandra came.
“No.”
“Oh, so did someone break something?”
“No.”
“…Then, are you going to tell me what it is?”
“…Cassandra came today.”
Alex tried to play it cool. “…Oh…I didn’t know that.”
“She came with Lucas and begged Grandpa to take her back in. She’s broke.”
“…Figures.” Completely the opposite of what Alex wanted to say. Instead, he wanted to race downstairs and shake his father for saying no to his own flesh and blood—to Cassandra, who nearly raised him since their mother had been missing…to his second mother; his sister.
“…I think she said she was fired.”
Alex shrugged, but wanted to scream at his father; wanted to punch his father.
“…I-I know you were close to Cassandra…but, is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Well, what else can I say?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not Dad. I can’t change anything. Right now, it’s just a fight between them two—they’re the only ones who can resolve this. No one else should get involve. I don’t think anyone else can have a say in this.”
Lawrence stared at his uncle in disbelief. He had always imagined that Alex and Cassandra were more mother and son than he and his own mother ever was. Was it this easy to leave someone who had taken care of you for your whole life? If Lawrence thought about it, he couldn’t leave or lose the feelings he had for his grandpa who had taken care of him throughout his life.
Alex couldn’t either. But, he would never tell anyone about that.
“This salmon’s good, Sea-Bass,” Lawrence complimented.
“Thank you.”
“What’s dinner tomorrow?” Alex poked at his fish, since he wasn’t really an expert on it. “I hope it isn’t fish.”
“Oh, then pork chops?”
“My favorite,” Alex sarcastically answered. “Guess I’ll just get pizza then.” Though he knew it would be out of his character, he turned to his father. “You’re not talking, for once.”
Mortimer nodded and ate some more.
“That’s it? Not going to ask me about school or anything? Aren’t you even going to complain about Crumplebottom?”
“No.”
“…What’s wrong?” Lawrence kicked him from under the table, but Alex ignored it. “Did you get into a fight?” His tone of voice was that of someone taunting a child.
“No.”
“There’s got to be something wrong. You’ve never been this quiet. Here, want some candy to cheer you up?”
“Alexander.”
Alex smiled. “Lighten up, Dad. It’s not like it’s the end of the world—we still got tomorrow. You can resolve your issues tomorrow, or the next day, or even the next week. But, if you aren’t thinking about resolving it, it’s still going to be there and you’re going to be this sad for the remainder of your life.”
Mortimer looked at his son. “What makes you think that I have an issue?”
“Don’t we all have issues that we’ve got to resolve at one point in our lives?” Alex shrugged. “No one’s perfect, right? You told me that. So, if no one’s perfect, then they must have issues.”
Mortimer’s gaze came back to his plate. “…You’re right, surprisingly.”
“So, are you going to resolve it?”
“…I-I don’t know.”
“Come on, Dad—Ow!”
Lawrence’s eye s burned red.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Alex?” Sebastian came over to him.
Alex didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew that Lawrence was getting mad. “…Nothing. Just some bug bite.”
“Oh, then I’ll probably have a look at it after dinner.”
“Yeah…it’s probably one pesky…no, one very annoying bug that won’t go away until it gets what it wants…Right, Larry?”
Lawrence’s glare deepened. “I hate it when you call me that.”
“Well, I also hate bugs, but I can’t do anything about it.”
Long after anyone should be awake, Lawrence opened his eyes. They were still glaring at an invisible Alex.
Alex had been suggesting that the whole family should come together, even if he wasn’t really saying that.
But, why? Why should they come together? They should hate each other and—God forbid—Mortimer would die and nothing would be left for Cassandra, because she deserved nothing.
That whole lot deserved nothing.
Everything belonged to Lawrence, and only Lawrence.
Yes, he was spoiled, very spoiled. He always got whatever he wanted—anything he wanted. And, he wanted nothing more than to sever ties with his so-called mother and siblings. They meant nothing to him. And, this sever would only bring him benefits.
Because, who wanted a whore for a mother?
The image of his mother didn’t leave him as he tried to get back to sleep. It was impossible. And, the only face she knew how to put on was desperation.
He never saw her smile; he never saw her tears; he never saw her pride in him. No. It was always desperation. She always yearned for something, whenever he saw her.
And, it was the exact image of a whore. A whore who begged for money and not even life.
She would dirty him—having her as his mother dirtied him to no end.
By God, he sometimes wished that she would die. He also convinced himself that he wouldn’t even shed a tear or whimper when she died—it would just be like a flower dying from over-watering. Nothing significant.
Yes, he convinced himself. He convinced himself when he had learned the secrets to thinking for oneself—when he had become self-conscious.
He convinced himself that nothing would please him more than the death of his own mother…because, that was how much hatred he had accumulated for her. He was certain that not even Mortimer hated her that much.
To him, it was only logical that this much hatred would run in his blood—because, like what he had always said, that’s what you get when you leave your son.
“I hate you,” he slowly whispered. “I hate you, Cassandra…why did you leave me?” Like a bitter lover, it came to him. “I wish you would just die…because, you left me, but now you’re coming back to take everything away from me. You’re going to take everything away from me…God, I hate you so much.”
His blood was boiling.
“I wish you would just die...Mom…”
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