I'll Take You Away From Him

Chapter 20

Returning home, I first rejoice that my mother is still not there. After taking a shower, I treat the wound on my shoulder, cover it with a fresh band-aid, change clothes, have dinner, after which something urges me to go to the garage.

For the first few seconds, I blink, staring at the empty space. Maybe I forgot to roll the bike in…

With this naive thought, I walk around the house and make sure my motorcycle is nowhere to be found. At first, confusion and despair washed over me. But there’s also a glimmer of hope that maybe Mom just hid it.

I dash to my room to check if the keys are there, and as a result, I find out that Mom has been rummaging through my things too!

The keys are also missing, and some items are definitely not where I left them. Instead of feeling offended and wanting to cry, anger flares up.

She had no right. Dad gave me that bike.

And I have a right to personal space. Was it not enough for her to block my card? She intrudes into my life, deciding to cope with her difficulties at my expense. I understand problems, but is this the price to pay for them? She literally sold me!

After this, the desire arises to pack a few necessary items and escape somewhere. Just get as far away from her as possible!

Waiting for my mother’s return, I can’t find a place for myself, contemplating the upcoming conversation, managing to slide back into despair a few times, getting angry again, eventually breathing out, and then starting the cycle all over again.

When my mother finally returns home, I am once again engulfed in anger over the terrible injustices concerning me as a daughter and life in general.

“Where’s my bike?” is the first thing I say as soon as she steps into the house.

“Good evening to you too, Aurelia,” she mutters, casting me a disapproving glance. “I see chatting with friends is doing wonders for you.”

“What’s good for me is understanding that my own mother not only sold me like some… cow! But also takes away from me what she never gave! You were snooping through my things! What right do you have? And the bike…”

“Shut your damn mouth.” At my mother’s steely tone, my skin prickles but I stubbornly hold my chin high.

After she has disregarded my pleas, my begging, and my entreaties, and on top of that wants to lock me up, taking everything away, I can’t communicate with her politely anymore.

Although I regret my tone, I’m not used to fighting with my own mother, but she left me no choice.

“I will shut it, for sure,” my own unexpectedly hoarse voice loses its previous emotionality. “But only after you return what belongs to me. My bike. A gift from Dad.”

“I’ve already sold it,” sounds like a verdict in her indifferent voice.

“You couldn’t. You couldn’t! Without my permission… I didn’t sign anything. It’s registered in my name!” Feelings swing from outrage to confusion, since the documents are in my name, how is this so?

“You’ll sign it. Spencer agreed to write off part of the debt for the motorcycle, which his son really liked. Furthermore, the amount is greater than what a new one costs. So you will sign. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to take a shower and finally eat, rather than standing in the doorway of my own house.”

And with that mother walked away while I stood there, trying to understand if I really got everything right.

Spencer? The same Spencer? Not a namesake? We owe them something as well?

Realizing that there can’t be a mistake, I groan in despair. What kind of punishment is this? Mikey, damn it, is now going to be tearing up the streets on my — my! — bike? This is definitely some sort of twisted joke of fate.

What have you gotten yourself into, Dad? Where did these debts even come from? Everything was fine!

A little shaken, assessing the situation, I think that I am not going to sign anything! I won’t give him my bike so he has even more reasons to bother me later. But how am I going to get it back now? Maybe I should report it to the police?

I can only imagine Mikey’s face if they come to him with a report that he stole my bike. But of course, I won’t do that to avoid embarrassing my mother. She gave it away without my permission; let her figure out how to get it back.

A bit calmed down, deciding I will just stick to my guns, I return to my room. I start studying, placing my phone beside me and constantly glancing at it, waiting for messages from Will.

Ultimately, with all the chaotic thoughts in my head, I can't manage to focus on the project we were assigned. There are still a few days for preparation, so I set it aside and decided to watch a movie to distract myself. I’m caught up in this activity when my mother finds me.

She enters the room, approaches the table, and carelessly throws some papers onto the keyboard. And she stands silently over me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A sale’s contract. Put your signature right here,” her perfectly manicured finger points to a line where my name is written.

“I’m not going to sign anything. You have to return it,” I lean back in my chair, cross my arms over my chest, and look at her defiantly. “Sell your car if you want, but you have no right to deal with my property.”

“Oh, you ungrateful brat! Your property? Yours? And did you earn it?”

“Just like you did! My dad earned that! Not you! And you have no right!”

“And he racked up a whole pile of debts! Did you not think about that? Or are the debts mine, but the property is for you? No, dear, it won’t work like that. I’m not going to bear all this on my own, and you will have to put in some effort too. Sign it, right now!”

She presses on, burning with rage, but I’m not about to give in either. I hold her furious gaze.

I understand everything, but just not to take away from me what was a symbol of Dad's love for me, a memory of him.

“No.”

“Then get out of my house!” my mother grabs me by the forearm and yanks me upwards, making me scream in pain. Her finger lands precisely on the wound on my shoulder, which seemed to be bothering me only if touched.

I don’t know if she doesn’t realize that she’s hurting me, blinded by rage, or if she simply doesn’t care, but my mother drags me toward the exit, ignoring the fact that tears are streaming down my face.

She continues to lament how ungrateful I am, how she cares about my future, while all I think about is myself. And if I don’t want to empathize or meet her halfway, then I should find out right now what life awaits me so that I can reassess my priorities.

As a result, after shoving me into the yard, she slams the door shut. Swallowing my tears, I stand there, looking with pain and hatred at the locked door. After a few minutes of fruitless tears, an emptiness unfolds inside me.

No emotions, no thoughts, just a dead end.

She won’t open it. Of course, I could settle down in the pavilion; the nights are quite warm. I suppose that’s what my mother is counting on.

But I don’t want to. A complete apathy sets in. Casting one last indifferent glance at the house, I turn away and shuffle toward the exit from the yard.

In ballet flats, home shorts, and a t-shirt. With neither money nor a phone on me, nearly in the middle of the night.