The worst fight they ever had happened about a year after the government had begun to restrict our freedom. The Bastard, the man who’d decided to do all this to us, came to visit our house, and he spent at least an hour trying to find out what was so damn special about me. Surprise, surprise, my parents didn’t tell him a thing, and I guess they convinced him that there was nothing too interesting about me after all, because he seemed disappointed when he left. Mom was scared shitless, though, and that really fueled her explosion that night. She really flew off the handle, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors had heard her screaming at Dad. And Dad just took it. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even interrupt her until he realized I was listening in. And when he said she was scaring me, it was the first time she’d frozen mid-rant. Looking back on it, I think that was more terrifying than the words she didn’t get to say. Because whatever it was, it was bad enough for Mom to keep it a secret.
See, my Mom was always honest, way more honest than anyone could ever want their parents to be. When I asked a question, she answered with the truth. She never hesitated to show me the dark side of the world. When I asked why kids weren’t supposed to watch R-rated movies, she answered by letting me watch one, alone, in the dead of night. I had to see a doctor afterwards because I had turned into a paranoid insomniac. She went to extremes with me all the time, and yet she was terrified of letting me hear the truth about what I am. She did tell me eventually, of course, but for four years after that night I couldn’t help but think that I was some kind of horrible monster.
Maybe that’s why I focused so hard on my studies. Mom said that as long as we stayed hidden and kept busy, everything would be okay, and I believed it. It worked, too, until Mom got sick. It felt like I was always in school, always studying, always learning, and I loved it. It was easier to think about history or art than it was to think about everything I’d left behind. My vacations were the long weeks we would spend as wolves, roaming the vast wilderness of Yellowstone Park. It was all I ever needed.
Occasionally the truth of my life would catch up with me, and there were a few days where I could hardly stop crying. When it happened, my mother would discard her tough outer shell and sit with me in her arms, holding me close and whispering soft reassurances as she slowly broke down herself. She always sounded so strong, but whenever I looked at her face, I could see tears. It’s kinda weird, but it was always reassuring to see her crying. It made me remember that she missed home just as much as I did, and as long as I remembered that, I didn’t feel so alone.
These difficult days usually led to our rare calls home to talk to Dad. I loved these calls so much, but I could never really ask my dad for advice the way I wanted to. Not if I wanted Mom to be in a good mood afterwards. Still, it was great hearing my dad’s voice, and if there was someone else at the house, I’d get to talk to them, too. I wish it could have happened more often, but I guess I should be happy that we got away with it for as long as we did.
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