Cian

Our contemporary style home was always eerie without the light of day, but this time, this night, was different. The air felt heavier, the darkness more profound, the silence more solemn. When I parked my car and the headlights flickered off, I let my eyes trail the white brick exterior, a dimmer gray in the moonlight, and sighed to myself. Despite the fact I knew Lucie was with him, worrying about Vinny was still something I couldn't keep myself from doing—yet I was just as worried about Mom.

I hopped out of the car and began to clear the front walk, my mind wandering. She'd been acting different, lately. Less like Alyssa Horne and more like my mom. Less like an image and more like a person. I still remembered the way she'd ruffled my hair earlier this week, the tears in her eyes as she'd told me about Vinny. She was so exposed, so vulnerable, and she'd never been like that. What happened to the grip on my arms that morning of my seventeenth birthday, her hissing at me to stop my crying?

That woman seemed to be fading, and though I should have been okay with that, it signaled to me that something else was wrong. That some other part of the Horne façade was crumbling, an empire's final fall.

When I came in through the front door, the foyer was dim. One light shone through all the dark house, however: a parlor lamp, antique yellow in a sea of black. I didn't bother to call for her, instead just flicked my hood back from my face and ambled into the room.

She was seated on the burgundy loveseat, her toes tapping at the oriental rug, her fingers at the filled wine glass in her hand. She'd fixed her hair and makeup, and was clothed in her most expensive pajama set and robe. My throat clenched a little. I'd almost think she was putting up her usual mask, if not for the vacant way in which her eyes seemed to stare at nothing. They didn't move towards me, even, until I'd sat down right in front of her. "Hey," I greeted softly.

"How's Vincent?" she croaked. Her voice sounded as if she had a sore throat, though I knew the only thing sore about her was her heart. "Is he doing well?"

I nodded, offering a grin. "He's holding on. He should be let out tomorrow, I think. Just has to get past a psychiatrist consultation."

I thought she'd laugh at that, or at least smile, since we both knew Vinny was in no need of a shrink—he, after all, had not done this to himself of his own volition. Nevertheless, my mother's face remained still. In the light of the lamp, the color around her pupils was flooded with gold, shimmering like a sunrise. Vinny did look an awful lot like her, I realized—they both had the sharp jawlines and defined cheekbones, their hair and eyes undoubtedly the same hue.

Choking on the silence yet again, I managed, "So, uh, where's Dad—"

"I have yet to be able to contact your father," Mom responded tiredly. She took a sip of her wine as if speaking was a daunting task, and lowered her gaze to the floor; I had begun to get a strange, hollow feeling inside of my chest. "Now I'm not sure if I want to."

My eyes broadened. "Mom?"

"He comes home late, never calls me anymore, doesn't come to the hospital when his own son nearly died, and for the second time," she said. Her eyes lifted to meet mine with a haunting gravity. "It appears he's found other priorities, and if that's so, I don't know what to do with him."

"Other priorities?" I questioned, and again, saw flashes of his disheveled appearance the night I'd seen him come in late. A cold realization began rising within me; I closed my eyes and leaned back against my seat. "Mom. You can't be serious."

"I'd always known he'd get bored of me. I just didn't know it would be so soon."

"Mom—"

"After all, kings go through queens like they go through wars, don't they? Bet they don't teach you that in school."

I didn't know what to say, and that wasn't even the worst part of the feeling. The worst part was why I wasn't sure what to say—because I knew, despite my fears, that she was right. My father had never been someone we could trust, but we had anyway.

The front door opened. Mom and I both jolted, my eyes flying to the clock. It was the slightly past the stroke of midnight, and Dad's footsteps thundered through the house for the first time since early this morning.

I wish I could have seen it sooner: the brokenness on my mother's face.

I wish I could have known how close she was to being torn apart.

She bolted.

I'd never seen her move so fast, but she did, got up and sped from the parlor into the foyer, catapulting herself right at Dad. I followed her, found her pounding her dainty little fists against his broad chest, tears in her eyes. Dad was staring down at her, astonished, his shirt half-buttoned and his tie missing. More than one stray hair stuck up on his head like blades of grass.

"Matt, you—" she cut off, wept, hit at him some more. "You son of a bitch! I hope she's worth it; I hope she's damn worth it!"

Dad's eyes were wide, but it was obvious that the surprise on his face was just as fake as every other aspect about him. He said, "Darling, what on earth—"

"Don't act stupid," Mom's voice had frozen over. She stepped back, wiped at her eyes, and sniffled. I reached out to brush her arm, and she merely glimpsed at me, her expression fiery and defiant. "You leave early, you stay out late. And did you forget we share a bank account? I see you buying things at jewelry stores, but you never bring a necklace home to me. Every time you come home, you look like you've just been mauled, and you smell like women's perfume. Not my perfume, Matt."

Dad stared at her. In the dark, his eyes were tar, his mussed hair cascading over his eyebrows in a way that was too messy for a businessman like him. Then he closed his eyes, tipping his head towards the floor. Something inside me seethed. As if he had the right to act ashamed all of a sudden? "I'm sorry," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Lyssa. You should know that you're still important to me."

Mom scoffed. "If that were true," she hissed, "then you wouldn't be spending so much goddamn time in another woman's bed."

I saw Dad flinch. "You shouldn't get so angry with me," he replied, lifting his gaze. He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, then returned his scrutiny to Mom. His tone, too, had suddenly steadied. "We're not the same anymore, and you know that. It's not like it was when we were young; you don't pay attention to me anymore."

Mom stiffened. "What?"

Dad's eyes were ice when he swept them over me yet again. "Now that Vincent's back, you're always spending so much time with him, with Cian here. Well tell you what, Alyssa, they're men. They can handle themselves. Cian, for instance, should have been out of this house a long time ago, but no, you've let him stay here instead of moving on? And Vincent? God, I'm beginning to think we would have been better off if he'd stayed dead."

I felt like hurling a knife at his chest, hurting him as much as he'd hurt me. His words were bullets, burying themselves inside of me and drawing blood from the most vital places. "Vinny deserves the second chance he's been given," I said, stepping forward, even though Mom hissed at me to keep quiet. "Vinny loves me, fights for me, sacrifices for me, all things you've never done. So don't you dare talk about Vinny—your own son, you know—like that."

"The day he died," my father went on, as if I'd said nothing, "is the day we all became freaks. And I can't handle it anymore. So sorry for trying to get my life back to normal again."

Mom sniffled again, but when she spoke, there was nothing but an admirable strength in her tone.

"You want normal?" she taunted. "You can't handle it anymore? Then go, Matthew."

The foyer filled with a heavy tension that could be sliced with a knife. Even my heart palpitated a little; this man had always been a part of my life, even if he hadn't been like other people's dads. He'd been the guy in the suit who brought the money home for the us, the man with the impenetrable smile and priceless gaze that always caught people's attention. He had used to be Mom's prize.

Now, however, looking at him, I realized he had never been Vinny's and my father. He'd just been an authority.

Still, a strange part of me couldn't imagine him gone.

When he didn't move, Mom closed her eyes and spoke again. "Go, Matt. If you don't want me, if you don't care about my kids, then go. I can take care of our—my...my sons. They're not yours anymore."

The cement of Dad's expression cracked, as if he hadn't been expecting that. "Alyssa—"

She stood her ground. "Leave. Go find your normal, you bastard."

He hesitated, then slowly pivoted on his heel. I watched him, every inch of me shivering as I watched him move towards the door. Just as he reached it, however, he stopped. "I did love all of you," he told us. "I did once. I'm sorry."

The door slammed.

Mom exhaled, then wailed, crumbling against me. Her tears stained my shirt; I tried to fight my own. I was not going to cry over a man who'd never cry for me.

"It's just us, Mom," I said. "Just you, Vinny, and me.

"And that's all we need."