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“Was it worth it?” Razputin’s mother spares him a blank glance. “Betraying and abandoning your family all so that you could become a psychic?”
“Yes,” He responds, sounding much more confident than he felt.
She turns to give him a long look, her blue eyes piercing into him. After an awkward, pregnant moment, she slowly nods. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
Based on her tone, Razputin doubted it. “Mom—” He starts to say, only to be quickly interrupted.
“Don’t call me that,” She turns away from him. Razputin furrows his eyes, opening his mouth to ask ‘What do you mean?’ but Donatella is quick to beat him to it.
“I stopped being your mother the moment you decided to choose being a fortune teller over your family,” Razputin can’t help a wince at her choice of words. Fortune teller.
“My kid died the night you ran away to that camp.”
Razptuin wants to apologize, to hug his mother and cry and beg for forgiveness until the curse of being born a psychic is washed away, and he can go back to being his mom’s innocent little boy. Instead, he simply nods, the silence in the air deafening, suffocating.
Donatella’s words hang in the air. Just as Raputin was finding the words to respond, he is once again interrupted, his time by his father. The moment is disrupted, the tension elevated, as if completely forgotten about.
“I’m sorry, mom” Raputin whispers to himself, staring up at the ceiling of their cramped caravan. His ears were surrounded by the quiet snoring of his siblings, and the endless chirping of the crickets outside. He glances at his mother’s sleeping form, before lifting his hands above his face, staring up at them, at the blood that stained them.
“I’m sorry for killing your little—
”