CHAPTER ELEVEN: WINTER
"Winter,you'resobeautiful, my baby," my mother says. A smile crosses her lips as she wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a firm hug.
I let out a sob, rubbing at my eyes. "But the kids at school," I try to get out before another sob wracks my body, my eyes burning. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself as my mother runs a hand along my back, soothing me.
"It's okay, baby, I know," she says.
But she wasn't there on the playground as the other girls picked at me, telling me my hair was nappy and my skin burnt. She wasn't there as the boys joined in on the laughter. She wasn't there as the teacher pretended not to hear the mean things the kids were saying.
"Why do I have to be so ugly?" I ask her.
She pulls away from me, taking her warmth with her and the frown on her face is miles from her usual smile. She squats until we're eye level, and I wipe at the tears clouding my vision to see her better.
"Baby, you're not ugly. You're beautiful and you're unique. Your hair," she runs her fingers through the curls, "is all yours. The texture that you have, people pay hundreds of dollars to get fake hair like it. Your skin color," her fingers dance a path along the inside of my wrist, "some sit out in the sun all day, just to try to get close to it." She uses both hands to push my hair away from my face, planting a kiss on my forehead. "You're absolutely gorgeous, inside and out, Winter. And you want to know why?"
"Why?" I ask, sniffling.
She smiles lightly. "Because you have the most beautiful soul, and it shines through your pretty brown eyes. Don't ever let anyone take that shine. Okay, baby?"
I nod, leaning into her for another hug and absorbing the feel of her squeezing me tightly. "Okay, mommy."
I close my eyes.
I wrap my fingers in her hair, enjoying the feel of the texture, similar to mine. Mommy is the prettiest person I know and if she says I'm pretty too, it must be true.
I continue to enjoy her comfort, flinching when her hair falls from between my fingers, the rough texture giving way to something slicker, something wet. Her warmth is now gone, replaced by a nasty coolness and the smell in the air isn't right.
It's sharp and metallic, it doesn't resemble the sweet perfume my mom always uses.
I open my eyes, blinking slowly.
My mother is no longer kneeling in front of me. Now she's laying in our tub, her eyes wide open but not looking at me. Instead, they stare at the ceiling, and she doesn't blink, not even once. Her hair is pooling into the water, the ends floating on the surface. And the color of the water isn't right.
It's not clear or purple from the lavender bath bombs mom likes.
No, the water is red and the smell in the air...
I step back, a sob leaving my lips. I cry out as my leg slides under me and a squeak moves through the room. I slip, hitting the ground with a thud. Wetness soaks my bottom and when I look down, I find the red water under me, pouring from the sides of the tub.
I try to get up but I can't, my palms slipping through the liquid every time I try. My heart is racing in my chest and I can't escape, no matter how hard I try. My gaze never leaves mommy's lifeless body.
I sit up sharply, my heart pounding in my chest as the nightmare fades away, and yet I can still see my mother's dead body.
I place a hand to my chest, looking around the dark room. Something isn't right, and I tell myself it's just nerves from the nightmare until my eyes land on the door and find it open, a dark figure standing inside.
The form is tall, their hands placed on either side of the doorframe and a silent scream rises in my throat as my hands fling around wildly, looking for a weapon. The form steps further into the room and I go still as the moonlight hits them.
Maximo.
I should have known from the height and the fact that no one loves creeping around in the darkness more than him, but it's been well over a week since I last saw him.
His face is taut, his lips pressed into a hard line. His right eye is swollen, a black bruise formed around it and his lip looks like it's been busted, but it's already starting to heal. Yet, these aren't the wounds from the night of the shooting. They are newer, fresher.
He closes the door behind him without saying a word and I remain still as we stare at each other.
When he takes a small step forward, I allow my gaze to briefly drop from his face to his bare abdomen. He's only wearing a pair of loose-fitting sweats and the bruises paint his skin like a fucked up Van Gogh. There's some old cuts and scars, and a wound that even I can recognize as a bullet wound just below his right pec. And along his abs, there's a fiery red cut. A few old ones are not too far from it.
He moves closer and my gaze jerks back to his face as I scoot back against the headboard. "Don't scream," he warns, his voice rougher than usual.