Itâs midday, broad daylight, but the house is still dark.
Oh, who is he kidding? The house is always fucking dark, it has been for thirteen years, and thatâs something unlikely to change. Still, John steps over the threshold, making a valiant attempt to juggle the paper bags in his arms while he fumbles to locate a light switch. Itâs a noisy attempt, even more-so when he blindly bumps his shin against the ugly ceramic dog thatâs always stood guard in the hallway and curses under his breath. He imagines that quiet swear is what summoned her: the tiny silhouette that appears from the living room, brandishing a weapon.
âWho is it? Whoâs there?â
âMama, Jesus Christ, itâs me! Iâm the only other person in town thatâs got a key, put that-â he stops, squinting through the gloom at the 'weaponâ sheâs wielding like a baseball bat. âIs that the remote? What were you gonna do with that? Change my channel?â
At last his mother relaxes, the set of her shoulders sagging in obvious relief upon realising the intruder is her son. She still smacks him though, her bony little hand connecting sharply with the thick muscle of his biceps. âYou watch your blaspheminâ in my house, John-boy. I know I raised y'all better than that.â True to form, she completely ignores the fact that she was apparently prepared to knock his block off only minutes ago.
âHuh, I see how it is, I bring you groceries and all you wanna do is beat on me. Real nice.â He doesnât mean it though, ducking down to press a kiss to her cheek as he heads in the direction of the kitchen. He hadnât missed the way sheâd recoiled at his choice of words, and anger fizzles through him like the damp fuse on a firework. Itâs their fault his mother is so afraid, but what can he do now? No point, no point. Nothingâs gonna change. Only thugs throw their weight around, and youâre no thug, John Valentine.
The curtains in his parentsâ house have been drawn since he was seventeen, and he gave up trying to open them a long time ago. Mama hasnât left the house properly since then either. John supposes finding your husbandâs bleeding body draped over your nice white fence will do that to you. At this point the front room is basically a chapel with a TV - devout as she is, she wonât go to church any more, not with those people there. John often wonders how she can still believe in God, after everything thatâs happened to her, to them. He knows he doesnât. Not after so much death⊠death that follows him around as surely as his own shadow.
When John starts getting fearful about his so-called curse, he takes out his frustrations on God - lord knows he canât do it anywhere else, lest his mother end up with another prayer candle on her coffee table. If someone had been looking out for him up there, none of this wouldâve happened. Heâd be far away by now, maybe with Casey, and heâd be free. Fuck the curse, and fuck God too.
âBaby?â His motherâs voice brings him out of his thoughts as he settles the groceries on the kitchen counter. âYou alright?â
He smiles for her, and if the expression doesnât reach his eyes, she doesnât say so. âJust fine, Mama. Just fine.â
