Agonium

"You're not my mom!"

It's late. I've lost track of time again. Apparently, so has he.

Leo's staring at me with those blue eyes, and his lips are tugging down into a sneer. His hands are still clutching the system's controller; his game has been reluctantly paused.

"I said, go to bed." This is the third time I've repeated that phrase, and I don't think that I can say it again. He has to listen to me, he just has to.

He shakes his head, "I don't want to. Dad said I don't have to." He turns back to the tv, and a smile, soft and bitter, curls on his lips. Leo thinks that's it. He thinks that he's struck a raw nerve by mentioning Dad.

He couldn't be more wrong.

My chest feels tight as I walk towards the boy. Breathe, I remind myself, you have to breathe. My hands are shaking, and I force myself to bite down on my cheek. It's late; I don't want to wake Dad. It's better not to scream.

I don't do anything drastic, even though I want to. All I do is pull the cord and watch the tv quickly drain of light and color. Leo jumps back, a protest already on his tongue, but I speak first. "It's time for bed." My voice is final, hard with no hint of emotion. I sound like his mother.

I might as well be.

Leo's standing now. Tears are welling in his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to slap him, the spoiled brat. He blinks at me, watching to see what I'm going to do next, but I don't move; I just stare at him. He hurries off to his area.

Smart boy.

Something uncoils in my stomach as I drag myself to the kitchen. The clock reads 3:34 a.m. I better clean the house before he wakes up.

The house will never be clean. Not while they're living here.

I understand perfectly how I have failed raising Leo, but understanding that doesn't hurt my ego any less.

I remember Leo being a little boy. He'd run around the house, bare feet smacking the clean, cool tile. His red hair would always be in a mess of curls, and my mother loved it that way. I did too. He'd look up at me, hand me his favorite toy, and cry out, "Lovely!" While he was a toddler, that's all he called me. Lovely. His inability to say my name always warmed my heart, made me proud to be his sister.

I'm an euphemism for a bitch now.

He was a happy baby. We were a happy family. Mom made it that way. She kept us strong; she kept us together. She made sure that Dad came nowhere near us. I liked it better that way.

But, times have changed.