I remained silent. I had said those things. And even if my intentions were good, I knew that for someone as proud as Sofia, those words must have been agony.
“Serve me,” she said suddenly, “the way I used to serve you.”
I nodded, went to the bathroom, and prepared a basin of warm water, wringing out a towel.
“Come on, Golden Fingers,” she taunted. “Serve me with the same skills you used on your fat patron.”
I took a deep breath, sat on the edge of the bed, and began to gently wipe her skin. But when my hand reached her arm, she snatched it away.
on’t touch my hand,” she said, her voice like ice.
It was only then that I saw it. On her left wrist, there was a flesh–colored medical tape, concealing something underneath.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
Smack.
She lunged up and slapped me hard across the face. “Get out!” she screamed, pointing at the door.
“Sofia, what’s wrong?” I asked, standing up. She was hiding something from me.
She stared at me, her eyes blazing. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just done playing with you for today. We’ll continue tomorrow. Now get the hell out!”
I sighed, intending to clean up before I left, but another volley of curses sent me fleeing from the room.
After checking out with the manager, I got on my electric scooter and headed home.
“D-
Before I even opened the door to my apartment, I could hear the clacking of poker chips. I pushed the door open to see my mother and three men
playing cards in the living room. The small room was thick with cigarette smoke, the initial wave almost knocked me over.
A bald man with a scar on his lip saw me, and then, right in front of me, he reached out and squeezed my mother’s breast, giving me a provocative
smirk.
“You’re home, son?”
The one who greeted me wasn’t my mother. It was the bald man.
My mother, a cigarette dangling from her lips, laughed a cheap, throaty laugh. “Son, hurry up and say hello to your new dad.
This was my mother. For as long as I could remember, she had been like this. She never cooked, never cleaned, never took care of me. Her days
were a blur of poker and binge drinking. The only reason my father tolerated her was because her money had been the seed capital for his busin-
ess.
I remember her pointing a finger in his face, screaming, “Don’t you dare give me that look. If I hadn’t spread my legs to earn the money for you to
use, do you think you’d be a big boss now?”
Once, when my father was drunk, he even told me he wasn’t sure if I was his son. So when he went bankrupt and ran off with his mistress, I didn’t
even blame him. My mother wasn’t just a terrible wife; she was a terrible mother. Every time she got drunk, she’d find an excuse to beat me. My
body is still a roadmap of scars from her hands.
The only reason I still support her now is to repay the debt of her giving birth to me. As for affection, that died a long time ago
