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inko’s son comes home late at night.
she knows this because she never sees him come home, and she never sees him go out, but she hears him. hears shuffling and the sound of his feet. hears his heavy breaths. she smells the residue of alcohol and cigarette smoke from the parts he forgets to shower in sweet-smelling perfume.
she worries for him. she worries, but she’s never awake when he comes home. when she hears him move she’s always half asleep, half aware, rung to her bed.
she knows that by technicality he’s an adult now, which means he can do whatever he wants now, but he’s still her baby. he lives in her house because housing is expansive and jobs are ruthless upon the quirkless. she’s okay with that. he doesn’t have to move out at eighteen like she did. circumstances are much, much different for him. she’s okay with that, she’s willing to let him stay for as long as he needs. she loves him still, that despite the fact he’s no longer four she still views him as the same squishy-cheeked child she held in her arms that fateful night in july 15.
he’s matured now, he’s matured and he can move on. he doesn’t need her anymore, and she can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.
still, she worries. it’s in her nature. she doesn’t see him anymore, and she wishes too. she’s lived alone with him for over 18 years. her heart aches to just... see him again.
but, even as she aches, she wonders if she could handle the sight at all. if the lingering smells of coffee, smoke, and whiskey tell anything of his adventures, he doesn’t fair as she’d hoped.
still, she wonders if maybe she could... help. she hates to think it, but she really is the only one left in his life. after his dreams of heroism failed, he closed off and away, but at least then she saw him. she’s run her hands through his hair as he slept through the day, going to a school he didn’t care for with no friends he spoke of. although, he didn’t speak much at all.
inko could never afford therapy.
she hoped she was enough, but he never wanted to talk. sometimes, he’d lean on her, silently requesting her affection, and she’d give it. for she loved him. she loved him so much, it made it hurt even more when he drifted further and further away from her as time went on.
she’s always cared too much, and so has he. she recognizes the perfume he uses to cover up the smell he leaves when he drags himself into the house late at night. it hurts her. she wants him to talk to her, but he never does.
he had a tendency to do that, to suffer in silence. alone, believing he was saving those from worry or pain in his regard.
he didn’t realize he did the opposite.
she goes throughout her days in silence. in the quiet moments her eyes drift to the door just as her mind drifts to her son. she hopes that maybe he’ll step in and smile up at her, so that she can run up and hug him before he goes and disappears again.
she texts him, but he never answers. calls ring away, but don’t get picked up.
she worries for him. she worries for him with every second.
please, she thinks one night, i just want to see my son again. can i see him at least once?
the universe granted her gift the next morning, as she choked on the scents of alcohol, cigarettes, and other such things she didn’t like. it smelt of sweat and regret, of oil-washed skin and sorrow. of heartache and loss, a hopelessness.
smelt like sickness in its truest, most emotional form.
she followed it towards the bathroom, struggling to breathe through the scents. she hopes that maybe, she’ll discover him there. she’ll see him again, sitting there, and she’ll hug him. they’ll hug, and maybe, just maybe, he can tell her about what he’s been going through.
but when she presses open the door, the first thing she smells is the familiar tang of blood.
and the first thing she sees is the little boy she loved, thin and destroyed, sprawled out in the crystalline bathroom, with a note by his side and blood spilling down his wrists. his chest doesn’t move, he doesn’t make a sound.
a dead body lays in her bathtub.
and inko is finally, truly, alone.