Chapter 12 Mama
“See you at work tomorrow, Jasmine,” I murmured.
She slid her hand into mine.
I didn’t hesitate.
I lifted her hand to my lips and pressed gentle kisses against her knuckles, never breaking eye contact.
Her breath hitched. Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink.
I released her hand slowly, watching her walk away with her uncle, her hips swaying unconsciously with every step.
“You’re mine,” I said aloud, uncaring who heard.
Jasmine Scott was mine.
And this was only the beginning.
~
I yawned softly as consciousness dragged me out of sleep, my body heavy and uncooperative as I pushed myself upright in bed. My limbs felt sluggish, my head fuzzy, like I hadn’t rested at all. For a moment, I just sat there, blinking slowly, trying to orient myself.
Where’s mum?
The thought came unbidden, instinctive, the way it always did in moments like this. I rubbed at my eyes as I slid off the bed and padded out of my room, my steps slow and unsteady. The house felt quiet—too quiet—but I didn’t question it. Not yet.
I started down the flight of stairs, my vision slightly blurred, the banister cool beneath my fingertips. Halfway down, I squinted as a bright light spilled from the kitchen, warm and inviting.
Mum must be making cookies.
A small smile tugged at my lips, faint but genuine. Her chocolate chip cookies were legendary—crispy on the edges, soft in the middle, always smelling like home. My steps quickened, anticipation bubbling in my chest as I followed the light toward the kitchen.
And then I stopped.
Dead in my tracks.
All the breath was knocked clean out of my lungs, like I’d been punched straight through the chest. My heart stuttered violently as the world tilted on its axis. The light no longer felt warm—it was harsh, exposing, cruel.
Mum was lying on the floor.
No.
No, no, no.
She was sprawled unnaturally on the cold tiles, her body twisted at an angle that made my stomach churn. A pool of dark, sticky blood surrounded her, staining the floor, creeping outward like it was alive. The smell hit me next—metallic, thick, suffocating.
All the blood drained from my face.
My knees buckled beneath me, and I collapsed onto the floor with a dull thud, my eyes never leaving her. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t blink.
“M-m-mum…” I whispered, her name breaking apart on my tongue.
My voice sounded foreign, distant, like it didn’t belong to me. I didn’t dare move closer. I was frozen in place, terror rooting me to the spot.
Her face was ghostly pale, almost gray. Her lips were blue, tinged with a color that didn’t belong to the living. Her eyes—those soft blue eyes that used to light up whenever she smiled at me—were wide open and lifeless, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Not moving.
Not blinking.
Not seeing.
My world shattered in silence.
It felt like something inside my chest cracked open, splintering beyond repair. My breathing became erratic, shallow gasps tearing in and out of my lungs. I waited for tears to come—for screaming, for something—but nothing happened.
I just stared.
Time stretched, warped, became meaningless. I sat there for what felt like forever, staring at my mother’s lifeless body, silently begging her to move.
To sit up. To laugh softly and tell me everything was okay.
Waiting for her to say, “It’ll be fine, my booboo will heal.”
But she didn’t get up.
“Come on, mama,” I whispered desperately, crawling closer now, my hands shaking violently. I grabbed cotton wool from somewhere—I didn’t even remember getting it—and tried to wipe the blood from her face, my movements clumsy and frantic.
“Please get up,” I begged, my voice breaking. “Please…”
I sat beside her, wiping and wiping, waiting patiently like a foolish child, convinced that if I just waited long enough, she would open her eyes.
She never did.
“Mother!”
I jolted upright with a scream, my heart slamming painfully against my ribs. My breathing was wild, uncontrollable, as I looked around frantically.
My bedroom.
Dark. Silent.
Safe.
I ran a hand through my untamed hair, my fingers trembling as I dragged in shaky breaths. My chest burned like I’d been running for miles.
It was just a dream.
I hadn’t had those nightmares in months. Not since therapy started to actually work.
But seeing Uncle Tom again… hearing he was back… it must have dragged the memories to the surface.
I thought I was past this.
Apparently, I was wrong.
Tears streamed down my face unchecked as I wiped at my cheeks, my skin damp with both sweat and fear. My forehead was slick, my nightshirt clinging uncomfortably to my back.
“Breathe, Jasmine,” I whispered to myself. “Just breathe.”
Slowly, painfully, I forced my lungs to cooperate. In. Out. In. Out.
When my hands finally stopped shaking, I turned to the clock on my wall.
7:00 a.m.
My eyes widened.
“Shit!”
The curse flew out of my mouth as I threw the covers aside and scrambled out of bed.
I can’t be late.
Not today.
Not my first day.
God only knew what Damien’s reaction would be.
Ugh!
I sprinted into the bathroom, nearly slipping on the tiles as I flicked on the light. I stripped quickly and jumped into the shower, turning the water on hot and stepping beneath the spray.
I scrubbed myself thoroughly, forcing my body to wake up, careful not to rush too much and end up smelling terrible.
I lathered my hair with shampoo, massaging my scalp as the familiar scent calmed me just a little, then rinsed it out quickly.
Time was not on my side.
I hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it securely around my small frame before rushing back into my room.
I blow-dried my hair—a rare indulgence since I usually let it air-dry—but today called for extra effort.
Then came the hardest part.
“What to wear?” I groaned.
I yanked open my closet and began tossing clothes onto the bed in frustration.
Too casual.
Too tight.
Too boring.
Too much.
Perfect timing to have nothing to wear.
I was on the verge of giving up when my eyes landed on an outfit hanging quietly at the back of the closet.
Perfect.
I pulled it out and dressed quickly, smoothing the fabric over my body and adjusting it until it sat just right. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting myself.
Not too revealing.
Not too boring.
Just… me.
I tied my now-dry hair into a low ponytail, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face. No curls, no over-the-top styling. I wasn’t dressing to impress—I was dressing to work.
I sat at my vanity, studying my reflection.
Do I need makeup?
I hesitated, then shrugged.
“Oh, what the heck.”
A light layer of pink lip gloss, some eyeliner, mascara—nothing dramatic. Just enough to look awake. I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the apartment, locking the door behind me.
“I’m so late!”