The Probability of Violet & Luke (The Coincidence 4)

Seth opens his mouth to argue, but I turn away from him and walk out the door. Luckily school’s within walking distance otherwise I’d have to ask Seth for a ride. It’s a decent day and I attempt to focus on that fact as I make the way to school. But then I hear my phone ring from inside my pocket, a familiar tune, and the possibility of having a good day diminishes. Even though I don’t want to answer it and talk to her, I want to hear what she has to say—I always do—but only because I hope that she’ll finally let something slip that will help the investigation lead to her arrest.

“What do you want?” I snap into the receiver after three rings as I stumble up the sidewalk.

“Hey Luke,” my mom singsongs, either delusional or high—it’s hard to tell anymore. “How’s my little boy doing?”

“I’m not your little boy.” I make my way across the street, stumbling over the curb in the process. “So stop calling me that.”

“Oh, you’ll always be my little boy,” she replies as I approach the other side of the street and then start down the sidewalk. “When are you coming home?”

Rage burns inside me, a violent fire in my chest, as I think about everything she’s ever done to me in that hellhole she calls home. How she’s always acted like it meant nothing—that everything she did to me and to my sister Amy meant nothing. How she managed to ruin my life even when I wasn’t living at home. How she might have f**king killed someone, or at least been a part of it. All the harm she’s done. All the lives she’s ruined.

“I’m never f**king coming home,” I snap at her, causing a guy walking down the street to sidestep and put space between us, like I’m the crazy one. “I have a life now. Here. Away from you and everything you did and do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She sounds hurt, just like the day she called me up and asked me why I’d told the police she might have been part of a murder that happened almost fourteen years ago. I told her the truth, that I knew what she did and called them. She denied everything; the song, the night where she came home with blood on her clothes, even though I saw her. And by our next phone call, she was already denying I’d told the police anything. Like she thinks if she pretends it didn’t happened than it didn’t. But it did. She ruined a life. She stole lives. She did things that she needs to pay for and that I’ll always pay for being her child.

“You know what it means,” I say. “So stop playing stupid.”

“No I don’t,” she lies. Or maybe she’s not lying. Or this is all a game to her. Maybe she’s ill. Needs help. I honestly don’t know but I’ve wondered it most of my life. If maybe there’s something wrong with her head. Regardless, she needs to be locked up somewhere, where she can’t hurt anyone.

“Have you talked to the police lately?” I cut across the lawn in front of someone’s house and ungracefully hop the fence, taking a short cut down a narrow alley.

“No, not since that night I called you about a week ago… why?”

“Just wondering if you were still in trouble,” I say flatly, grabbing onto a fence when I get a killer head rush and the world starts to spin. “Or if you finally admitted what you did.”

“I was never in trouble. They told me they had the wrong person and that it was all over and that the person that called was never going to call again.” She pauses. “Lukey, please come home. I’m lonely. Remember how Amy left me—left us. I need you. Don’t be like her—don’t leave me.”

“I’m not coming home ever.” When I reach the end of the alley, I jog across the street to the campus yard, filled with trees, green grass, and people going to and from the parking lot.

“You have to,” she whines. “I can’t take this empty house anymore… being alone… it makes me think about doing bad things.”

I pause on the sidewalk right before I step onto the lawn, fear and anger blasting through me that she’s doing this again. “Knock that shit off, mother.”

“You need to come home before something bad happens.”

I hate her even more. I didn’t think it was possible, but apparently it is, feeling the anger simmering inside me, possessing me. “I’m never coming home. That’s where all the bad shit happens!”

“Yes, you are! You are!” She starts to sob hysterically and with each sob my hatred for her expands and I grow even angrier until I’m drowning in it, struggling to get above the red blinding me. Finally I can’t take it anymore and hang up on her. But the anger still burns under my skin, simmering, festering, killing me.

I take a deep breath then another and finally reach for my bag to take out the Vodka. I chug the remainder of it, knowing I’m going to push my body to the brim of being able to function, but I need the numbness more than I need air. I need to erase this hatred stirring inside me.

After I finish it off, I discard the empty bottle into a nearby garbage can and cut across the grass of the campus yard, bumping people out of my way, sometimes accidentally and sometimes intentionally, but none of them utter a word to me. By the time I arrive at the main entrance of the campus, the trees and brick buildings are starting to become blurry and all I can see is red. Anger. Red. Hatred. More anger. I seriously almost turn around and walk back home, deciding I’ve overdid it and it’d probably be best to just go back and let myself pass out. Then I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. A beat up grey Cadillac pulling up at the curb just in front of the main building.

Violet.

It’d be okay—in fact I’d welcome it—except for the fact that Preston the f**king ass**le is dropping her off. The guy’s a creepy old pervert, who sells drugs and also has Violet sell drugs for him. Not to mention he’s hit her before. I still can’t believe she went back to him when she took off. Just thinking of them under the same roof makes my skin crawl like it’s full of infected wounds. I tried to get a hold of her when I found out she’d moved back in with him, but she would never answer her phone or return my messages. When I finally did see her again on my first day of school, she pretended like I didn’t exist and it’s been that way every damn day.

I stop near the trees and watch her as she climbs out of the car. She’s wearing tight black pants, a vest, and a purple shirt that’s just short enough that I can see a speck of her side that I know is covered with a tattoo, patterns of curves and flowers inking up her ribcage. Her black and red hair is down and I can’t help but remember the few times where I ran my fingers through it and pulled on it and she moaned in response.