[12:45 PM]
[Monday] [December 14, 2024]
[Inside Kal's mother's car, on the way home from school]
{|×××ו××××|}
The car speeds through the neighborhood streets, trees and houses blurring past the windshield. The low hum of the engine fills the silence between us.
"So... that's the story," I say flatly, my voice devoid of emotion. I had just finished explaining today's encounter with Adrien and his lackeys.
"Just a guess, but it's likely the school will call either you or Dad in to discuss my case tomorrow. Of course, it'll have to be you. Dad's in prison, after all." I rest my head against my palm, my tone as indifferent as ever.
It's not that I don't feel anything—this is just how I talk to my mother. Straight to the point. No sugarcoating.
She stays quiet as she turns into our driveway, the tires crunching against the gravel. The car rolls to a stop, and she pulls the handbrake before shifting in her seat to face me.
"Kal, before I say anything..." Her voice is slow, deliberate. Then, finally, she meets my eyes. "Do you regret it?"
Her brown eyes, normally warm, seem duller now—fading to gray under the weight of the conversation. They contrast starkly against the world outside, and somehow, that contrast seeps into me.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye before fully turning to face her.
"Yes," I say, honest but unaffected. "But only because of the consequences. Not because they got hurt."
She studies me for a long moment before leaning in slightly, her gaze sharp.
"You act just like your father," she murmurs. "Apathetic. Even when your world is falling apart."
Her voice is calm, but there's something beneath it—something searching, something desperate.
"Kal," she presses, eyes locked onto mine. "Do you even care about how other people feel?"
"I understand them." I tilt my head slightly. "But I don't care."
Her expression hardens, but I keep going. "People don't give a shit about your feelings, Mom. They only care about what benefits them—emotionally, mentally, academically, financially. Like a bitch fucking someone for money."
She recoils slightly, her face a mix of disappointment and something I can't quite place.
"I hate it when you act like your father," she mutters, voice tight. "But I hate it even more when you think like me."
The words settle between us.
"Do you even love your family?" she asks, stepping out of the car. The door swings open, and she stands there, staring down at me, one hand gripping the frame.
"Yes," I say simply. "But one day, I'll leave. Besides, it's not like I was ever really attached to you or anyone else. Things are clear, Mom. It is what it is."
I step out, shutting the door behind me. As I reach the house, I pause at the entrance, glancing back just enough for her to hear my next words.
"I love you, Mom. But I don't care." I hold her gaze for a moment. "You gave birth to a fucking killing machine."
Then I step inside without looking back.
Since when did you care, anyway?
I drop my bag to the floor, stripping off my uniform and tossing it into the washing machine before heading straight for the shower. The sound of running water drowns out everything else
{|×××ו××××|}
[7:12 PM]
[Monday] [December 14, 2024]
[In Kal's Room]
{|×××ו××××|}
The slow, dying rain drums softly against the rooftop, a rhythmic clatter that fades into the evening air. Outside my window, the sky is a muted blend of deep blue and orange, the sun dipping lower behind the horizon.
I sit across from my worn-out table, its thick plastic tablecloth stapled down at the edges, peeling slightly at the corners. Stacks of novels are piled neatly, one on top of the other. My smart TV sits turned off, pushed against the wall to make space for the clutter of schoolwork and scattered papers.
The only sound-aside from my parents' distant arguing downstairs—is the low hum of the air conditioner.
My gaze settles on a half-finished sketch of a cabinet in front of me. The isometric lines remain visible beneath the layers of erased and redrawn strokes, the page worn thin from constant revisions. The mess behind the precise, carefully drawn furniture is obvious—eraser shavings litter the surface, and the faint traces of old mistakes remain.
A message notification lights up my phone, which sits on a smaller table pushed against the wall beneath my window.
"Yo."
7:13 PM ✓✓
It's Wafiq.
I glance at the screen but don't move. If he has something to say, he'll say it.
"So... you good?"
7:13 PM ✓✓
I sigh, staring at the message. The obvious concern sits there on my lock screen, unanswered. I don't bother opening it. If I do, the ticks will turn blue, and I don't want to deal with a conversation I already know the outcome of.
Because what can he really do? If I said no, what would happen? Nothing. He doesn't actually care. Even if he did, he couldn't help me.
So instead, I swipe down, tap Do Not Disturb, and get back to work.
{|×××ו××××|}
[7:19 PM]
[Monday] [December 14, 2024]
[In Kal's Room]
The paper tears.
I freeze, staring at the ruined sketch beneath my eraser. I'd pressed too hard, rubbed too much. A thin gash runs through the detailed cabinet I'd spent the last hour working on.
"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand down my face.
It was almost done. And now I have to start over.
With a sigh, I push back my chair and stand up. My throat feels dry. I need a drink.
Halfway down the staircase, I hear my mother sigh—deep, tired.
I pause.
Peeking through the railings, I see her at the dining table, sorting through a small stack of bills and banknotes, neatly categorized. Her fingers move tensely as she counts, her lips moving silently, working through the numbers.
"Adam's school fees... $35... Miqael's... Kayla's... Hayqal's... all $35 each," she murmurs, her voice growing more anxious. "Thirty-five times four is..." She stops suddenly, eyes widening. Then, she presses her elbows onto the table and buries her face in her hands.
"One hundred and forty... I only have one hundred and twenty... Where the hell am I going to find the other twenty dollars?"
She sighs again, and for a moment, she just sits there, staring at the numbers like they might magically change.
I lean against the railing, resting my cheek against it, watching her in silence.
If I could help you, I would, Mom.
But all I'd do is become another burden.
She keeps murmuring to herself, listing out solutions-loaning, asking for help, cutting down on something else-but I already know.
None of them will work.