Chapter 1
It was just me and Mom, Linda, now. Dad was already gone for the night, working late at the office like he always did. Mom was in the living room, meticulously rearranging the throw pillows on the couch. Even after a day of hosting her gossiping group, she was fussing about the presentation. She still had that perfectly coiffed blonde bob, the one that makes heads turn even in this sleepy suburb. A hotness, even at her age (39), a bit overbearing sometimes. Turns out motherhood couldn't completely crush that vivacious spirit of hers. Mom had basically been my moon, rotating its gravity around my study habits and anxieties ever since she'd decided that an Ivy League education was the only measure of my success.
"Ethan," she called out, her voice laced with that familiar mixture of concern and authority. "Are you going to study or stand there daydreaming?"
My mom, always the picture of efficiency, started moving around the kitchen with a purpose. She set out plates, silverware, napkins -- everything laid out perfectly, like a miniature still life. She hummed along to some pop song she'd caught on the radio, her blonde hair shimmering under the kitchen lights. Even the way she made a simple gesture like pouring water felt almost choreographed. It was like watching a performance, and she, the star, was captivating in her own way.
"Mom," I said, finally tearing my gaze away from the way the sunlight caught the curve of her neck, "I've been studying all day. Maybe I could use a break?"
"You'll break down from stress if you don't keep at it," she shot back without missing a beat, placing the well prepared plate in front of me. "Have it in your mind that this exam is the key to your future. You can't afford to relax."
I glanced at the food, but I lacked the appetite she seemed to have. "I know, mom, I know. But even prodigies need a break every now and then."
I hated how she'd always reduced everything to 'prodigies', pushing me to be the perfect son, the academic overachiever. I was tired. Tired of the pressure, tired of living up to her expectations.
"Just one hour," I pleaded.
Silence fell over the room for a moment, fractured only by the chirping of crickets outside. It was quiet before the storm. That's how it always felt with Mom, like I was always tiptoeing around a hurricane.
Finally, she sighed, a weary sound that somehow didn't diminish her aura of control. "Fine," she said, folding her hands on the table. "One hour. And you better use it wisely."
I nodded, my limbs suddenly too heavy to move. My mom was never one to give ground easily, so I knew this was a hard-won victory, even though I hadn't felt anything remotely close to victory today.
But that hour of reprieve wasn't for me. It was about my physical freedom, about getting my mind off my mother, and off the SATs. I had a plan, a dangerous, reckless idea brewing in the recesses of my mind.
Mom was a force of nature, controlling every corner of our lives. Designed everything to be perfect: the way the house looked, the food she cooked, even my future. But right now, my perfect future felt more like a gilded cage, a trap of her making. Those anxieties, that pressure, they were strangling me. I needed to break free, to even the score. Tonight, I was taking back my life, my agency, however twisted it might seem.
"I'm going to my room, Mom," I said, pushing away the untouched meal.
I could feel her eyes on me as I walked away, calculating, dissecting. "Don't waste it," she called after me, her voice sharp.
I slammed my bedroom door shut. That hour felt enormous, the weight of my plan heavy on my chest. It was reckless, insane even. But her constant scrutiny, her suffocating control, had pushed me to the edge. The air in my room felt thick, the heat of the late summer afternoon making the silence feel oppressive.
I paced to and fro, counting down the minutes until I could put my plan into action. The tension coiled in my stomach, a mix of fear and excitement.I needed a distraction, something to take my mind off what I was about to do. My hand hovered over a lone game disc on my desk, a forgotten escape route from reality.
Mom appeared at the door, her expression back to default -- a mix of maternal concern and disapproval. "You're staying in your room?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost questioning.
"Yeah," I mumbled, eyes fixed on the disc. It was a dinosaur game -- ridiculous, childish even.
"Don't waste your time," she said, her voice clipped, then followed up with a soft, bewildered, "I really don't understand why you aren't more excited about your future."
She stood there a moment longer, watching me, before stepping back into the hall, the door closing with a soft click.
Finally, I was alone.
This was it.
I stepped off the edge of the bed, the silence amplifying the beating of my heart. The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on me, a heavy cloak of uncertainty mixed with adrenaline. I knew what I had to do, I'd thought this through, but that didn't make it any easier.
I broke out in a sweat, palms slick as I reached for my phone. My finger hovered over Mom's number. I was about to call her, to lure her into my plan, to finally turn the tables.
My trembling hand swung around and slammed shut the offending compartment.
Instead of calling her, I hid the phone, coldly. Slapped it onto the bed. It was a stupid move, sure.
I needed to think clearly. I moved, almost robotically, towards the mirror in my room. I needed to see myself, assess. My reflection stared back, a pale shadow of the person I pretended to be. An awkward, boyish face stared back at me. My eyes were wide with a frenzied energy. I shook my head as if trying to clear the fog. My higher brain told me I was crazy, off the rails. I gave myself a few seconds of reprieve, a necessary battleground in my mind.
I needed to do this.
I needed to be someone else tonight, someone in control, someone who could finally make my mom see. And if that meant blurring the lines of right and wrong, then that's what I would do.
The weight of my plan pressed down on me, an oppressive cloak. Her voice, her name for me, it all came back in a rush. Mom. Linda. She didn't say it often, Ethan son. It was more of a scientific term, like a specimen under observation.
The urge to get up, flee, vanished. It was the lure of the impossible, the only option that felt something like free, something like revenge. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it was twisted, insane. But in my head, that rational part was just a tiny voice drowned out by the storm.
