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Damon likes to think that mother’s passing changed dad.
For worse, of course; No amount of words nor rhymes will ever convey in pen the crystalized fragments of grief that bloom in the corners of their rotting apartment, festering, like mold.
For worse, of course. Dad wasn’t this way before. Probably? Most likely.
Damon used to lie awake at night, indulging in sleepless reveries, wondering childishly of a life where she was still alive.
Everything would be better, he’d tell himself, imagining her cold hands pushing him on the swingset at the park where he witnessed so many mothers do the same.
“Oh, sweetheart, are you lost?” A lady would tell him while he waited for dad once, “Where is your mother?” she asks.
“Dead,” he would respond easily.
There was a long silence, and the lady, making an expression Damon can't discern, simply walks away as she utters disgraces she thinks the child doesn’t hear.
He was seven years old when he met her.
Mother’s replacement, allegedly. One of many beforehand. They didn’t stick around long enough for Damon to ever care to learn their names, but she became the sole exception: María. She somehow stuck around enough for him to have learned it.
Where the others were usually blonde, like Mother, she had a cascade of browns that made the child wonder how annoying maintaining it must be.
She didn't immediately despise Damon for his sole existence, the only downside of a seemingly nice-man decent-income deal, so she won a small bit of preference in the endless line of faceless one-night-stands by the virtue of her indifference.
Conversation was a bit obtuse, he learned while saying hello; She spoke funny, which made it a bit clunky to establish small-talk. He learned why a few years later, not consciously, but more like a fact by virtue of active cognition— she had an accent.
She taught him Spanish. Or, well. She gave him a reason to learn Spanish; Choose whichever phrasing of the statement you’d prefer. The technicalities are irrelevant either way.
Some days, if she was feeling like it, she would help him with his chemistry homework.
Most other days, communication was merely passing ‘hey’s along the halls.
Damon is writing an essay as usual. He’s good at words, but not imaginative for fictitious narratives, so he weaves theses of incongruent themes for the sake of passing time.
He clutches the brick phone with his teeth, careful with his grasp, hands busy in pen and eraser.
Dad’s old phone proves decent enough for his endeavors. Anything with a flashlight suffices, really; The closet is too dark for him to write on his own otherwise. Father forgot the thing’s existence a while ago, so its use is entirely safe as long as he maintains it concealed.
He doesn’t flinch when the sound of shattering glass resonates through the apartment.
He weaves. He vows.
“Romeo and Juliet is an avoidable fate.”
“Where is she?” Damon asks disinterestedly, as he puts the groceries into their designated places. He has everything from the list, except Father’s whiskey.
Usually, she buys it. She has sworn that the second he turns eighteen, he will be tasked with providing the alcohol. She meant it as a joke, probably, because she laughed after the fact.
“Left.” Dad uttered, and that’s the end of it.
The mold grew, and the world moved on.