You never had the struggles he had, and neither does Lucas. I told you, he’s hurting.”
“So was I!” He could feel the veins spreading along his neck as he screamed. He felt as if he were leaving his body, as if watching himself fall apart from the sidelines. “I was hurting! I was in pain! Confused! I was many things. My father told me to always be a man, to not cry and look fear in the eye. My mother was telling me the opposite! I was torn. I didn’t know who I was half the time. My childhood was strange, beautiful, painful. I paved the way, Lucas did a final clean up, so that Tomas didn’t have to deal with any of that shit! The coast was clear for his entitled ass. I am sick of our family having to revolve around Tomas!” He stared at his mother, neither he’d had him of them blinking.
This discussion was long overdue. King typically kept quiet when his mother broached the subject, or he’d reluctantly honor her request, just to alleviate her worries. Tonight, he simply didn’t have the patience. Money was on his mind, old memories haunted him, and now he found himself being pushed, once again, to be the savior to an ungrateful little brother who wouldn’t shed one tear if he were dead.
“All of my children are different,” she finally said, calmer this time around.
“Okay, then.” He threw up his hands. “Be happy about that. Look, you gave birth to three sons. One and a half outta three ain’t bad, but for some reason, you have this obsession with Tomas. You’re tryna make him be somebody he isn’t. Lucas is the male version of you. Nice. Quiet. Helpful. I’m like my father, much to your dismay.”
“It was never to my dismay, King.” Her eyes watered.
“Yeah it was, and that’s okay, Mom. I know you still love me despite that Irish blood running through me, the iron hot temper, like my father’s.” He smiled sadly. “I understand that about myself. I own it. I’m not perfect, but I know for a fact I’m better than most of the people I walk past in the street because nobody gives a fuck about anybody out here.” He pointed towards the front door. “I refuse to be like them, but we have to recognize our enemies. The truth is the truth, no matter who is saying it. You told me I am the most honest person you know. I can’t help that. I don’t have a big circle of friends because of it. I don’t deal with many people because I can smell ulterior motives a mile away. I don’t like people, Mom. I just don’t.
“We’re a shell of what we could be. I refuse to pretend with people, and that includes you. As much as I love you, I can’t do that. Mom, the city, the country, the world is all sorts of fucked up. I learned that the hard way. You know I did.” She dropped her gaze. “Bunch of killers, rapists, thieves, liars everywhere you look. I don’t live in fear. I live in disgust. There’s no love out here. That’s what my art is for! You were in here laughing about buttholes just ten minutes ago. My art gave you that deep, belly rumble shit! That’s medicine, and you needed it. Why? Because this place is sickening. My art shows, my storage studio, that little corner in my apartment is a hospital, Mãe! For me, and for you. The real world hits you, and it sucks.
“It’s always a sucker punch when you least expect it. This is family. This is what we are. I am your child. I came from you. I’m the oldest. Your love child. You left your country to come here and make your husband at the time happy. You wanted to give me a better life than what you experienced in poverty, in Brazil. I love you more than I could ever explain.” His voice cracked as she started to cry quiet tears. “I never caused you any big problems, just the typical teenage stuff when I was younger. I’m my own person and do what I want so we bumped heads sometimes. But Tomas?” He chuckled dismally.
“He’s what I detest most. Selfish. Willfully ignorant. Just like most of the people around here. He’s a product of the outside, not the inside. Inside this house lives love. ’Cause you’re in it, Mom! Tough love at