Born Sick

word of warning! possibly the only one I'll give you. I dunno yet. this will be a VERY dark work. in this story, I will be exploring religion, homophobia, maybe a bit of sexism, in addition to violence and toxic relationships. if any of these topics turn you off, then this book isn't for you.

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You thought about that kiss every day for a week afterwards. You would even close your eyes and press your fingertips to your lips to relive it to the best of your abilities, wondering all the while if She did the same in every private moment.

Your mom caught you doing this once when she was driving and immediately pulled your arm down so it was back in your lap.

"Stop biting your nails," she snapped.

"I wasn't," you protested.

"Then stop picking at your lips."

"I wasn't!"

"Just don't touch your face! It's unsanitary!"

Whereas you were flying high, she had been down in the dumps since last Sunday.

She was just hunky-dory when she left for church early that morning. She woke you up with a kiss at the crack of dawn and asked you if you wanted to go, like always, despite the fact you hadn't agreed to go since she started giving you a choice.

You went back to sleep but awoke again later to her slamming the front door shut. You remembered dragging yourself out of bed and asking her if something happened, but she just said she didn't want to talk about it. She didn't even look at you, simply shut herself up inside her room.

You didn't see much of her for almost a week. She had work, you had school. You weren't a child... You could take care of yourself. But she would usually at least make an effort to spend time with you in the evenings, even on nights she decided not to cook dinner. Now it seemed she couldn't be bothered.

Until today, the first day of the weekend. As soon as you woke up that afternoon, she was there waiting for you in the kitchen, coffee in hand. "We're going shopping," she said. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Which brought you back to this exact moment, driving down the freeway in silence, all your attempts to make conversation thwarted. Even something as simple as you touching your face was enough to set her off.

Still, you did your best not to provoke her, just waited for the foul mood to pass or for its cause to present itself.

To your surprise, the car swerved into a little brick and mortar outlet rather than continuing to the mall less than a mile away. You looked at your mom, trying to read her intent from her expression, but she was stone-faced as a concrete angel. She simply parked the vehicle, turned the keys, and pressed her forehead to the steering wheel.

"Mom?" You asked, voice wavering. You sounded scared to your own ears. That was ridiculous, though. This was your mom! You had nothing to be afraid of.

It was so quiet that you could hear the cars passing by on the road outside. This silence continued for a long minute before she finally sighed and said, "We need to talk." Before you could say anything, she sat upright once more and turned to you suddenly. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

You paused for a second, wracked your brain for anything you could have done to upset her, but came up empty-handed. "Um, no?"

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Not that I can remember." That obviously wasn't what she wanted to hear, judging by the derisive snort she let out. Despite that, you continued, "Why are we here?"

"We're here to buy you a uniform," she said curtly.

"For school?" You hadn't heard anything about your school requiring uniforms next year. Surely the student body would have complained and fought against it at some point.

Your mom reached in the backseat to grab her purse, set it in her lap, and stared out the windshield as if she were still driving and had to watch the road. "No, not for school. For camp. I'm sending you to summer camp."

"Summer camp?" You asked in disbelief. "Aren't I old enough to be a counselor?"

She shook her head. "This is a special religious retreat for troubled girls... Like you."

"So you're sending me to a bible camp for crazies?!" Her silence was telling. "Why?"

"I know, Y/N... I know about that- that- that hussy!"

Your heart leapt into your throat as your stomach sank. Was she... Talking about Her? Your first instinct was to defend Her, but you managed to suppress it. It wouldn't get you anywhere. "How...? How do you know?"

"SHE confessed to Pastor Jim, who then told me and Her parents."

Fury rose in you like floodwaters. You didn't have to be religious to know what was said in confession was supposed to stay between the pastor and the confessor. "He's lying."

"The pastor is a man of God. He does not lie."

"Well, I'm your daughter and I'm saying he's lying."

"I don't believe you." There was a double meaning to her words. I don't believe you're telling the truth. I can't believe you did this. "I'm not angry, Y/N. I'm just... Disappointed."

Your mom still wouldn't even look at you. But you were her child, and she had to love you no matter what... So you reached out to hug her over the console, whimpering, "Mooom! Don't make me go!"

Where she usually would have leaned into your embrace, she suddenly reeled back. Her nose was wrinkled, her upper lip raised and protruding.

That's when you realized... She wasn't angry, wasn't even disappointed like she said. She was disgusted.

This was the woman who, when you were a baby, changed your dirty diapers and wiped dribble from your chin without complaint. And now, because of an innocent kiss, she was disgusted by you.

You didn't bother to disguise the hurt on your face. She had to be blind not to see it. Still, she didn't do or say anything to comfort you. Bereft of a friendly word or gesture, the hurt in you turned to anger.

She dismissed you as a sinner...? What a hypocrite.

"Last time I checked, the Bible didn't say anything explicit about homosexuality, Mom. It has a lot to say about divorce, though, doesn't it?"

That's when she hit you. She slapped you right across the face, hard enough to immediately bring tears to your eyes.

You recoiled in pain, cradling your injured cheek. It stung and burned in equal measures. For the longest time, you just stared at her. You were speechless, in shock.

She had never hit you before in your life, never even spanked you. Nothing prepared you for this sense of utter betrayal.

She glared down at you, teeth clenched and bared. She looked like she wanted to do more, wanted to absolutely throttle you. But she didn't. Instead, she just screamed at you.

"Don't you ever take that tone of voice with me again! Do you understand me? Don't you dare try to pin this on me, say I'm a bad mother! You want to know why your father and I never settled on joint custody? It's not because he wasn't eligible. It's because he didn't want it, didn't want visitation, didn't want you."

Horror weighed heavily down on you as you processed her words. You bit down on your lower lip to cease its trembling, didn't blink for fear tears would fall. You weren't about to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

As if she hadn't done enough, hadn't said enough, she continued, now in a whisper, "I may not have been the perfect mother, but I did all I could with the hand I was dealt. Sometimes you're just given a dud."

Maybe there the two of you could come to an agreement. You didn't kiss a girl because of childhood trauma, abuse, or bad parenting. You were born like this. Born sick, commanded to be well.

"I don't want to go," you croaked. That much hadn't changed, even if your entire view of her had.

"You're either going or you're no longer living under my roof. Make your choice," she simply stated, before opening the driver's side door, climbing out of the car, and slamming the door behind her.