My mother is a crazy cat lady, just without all of the cats.
She has a dog instead.
Killer is small mutt she picked up from the side of the road when I was sixteen, the day we moved to Watertown. I don't know what he's mixed with, his fur a tangled mix of gold and dingy white, his ears floppy and eyes unnaturally big. He's as passive as a dog gets—slobbery and loving, downright lazy when it comes down to it. His name is ironic, considering he wouldn't hurt a fly.
Literally. Won't even hurt flies.
Despite the lack of cats, my mother shows all the classic symptoms of a slightly neurotic woman, lacking friends and drowning in paranoia, a quirky hermit pulled right off the pages of something Tim Burton dreamed up. Her hair is a tangled, untamed wave that she lets hang loose, her brown eyes shielded by a pair of glasses with thick black frames.
Her flower shop is not far from the bus station in Watertown, about a mile trek near sundown. I drag my bag behind me as I walk, wanting to surprise her. The shop is a little white barn shaped building with a hand painted sign above it simply reading 'flowers'.
She never even gave the place a name.
I don't know how she gets any business. It astounds me that she makes enough money to pay the bills.
A bell above the door chimes when I step inside, everything brightly lit and sweet smelling. Arrangements of flowers are set up all around, the old cash register on the counter right in front of me with nobody manning it. Killer is curled up on the floor with a chewed up tennis ball. He lifts his head the same time a pair of eyes peeks out from the back room.
"Kissimmee!" My mother bounds out, sprinting right for me, and damn near trips over the dog. She wraps her arms around me as Killer jumps up and down around us, barking excitedly.
"Hey, Mom," I say, hugging her back, before leaning down and rubbing Killer's head. "Hey, buddy."
Killer licks my hand in greeting.
"Did you walk here?" Mom asks, prying my bag from my hand and setting it aside as she assesses me, smoothing my hair and fixing my clothes and downright fussing over me until I push her hands away. "You should've told me. I would've picked you up!"
"It's fine," I say. "It's not that far."
"Still, honey, it's getting late, so you shouldn't be walking alone. You never know what—"
"Mom," I say pointedly, cutting her off before she can launch into her usual lecture on safety. "I'm fine. Really. I've still got all my fingers and toes, my head's still on my shoulders, and I've got no broken bones. No harm done."
She gazes at me skeptically, her expression softening as she smiles. She pulls me back into a hug. "I've missed you. How long are you here for?"
"Just the weekend," I say. "I have to be back for class on Tuesday, but I'm all yours until then."
"Great, great." She pulls away and starts flitting around the shop, putting things away. "As soon as I clean up, we'll get out of here."
Killer runs over and grabs his ball, bringing it to me. He nudges my hand, staring up at me. I yank the ball from his mouth as I back up to the door. "We'll wait outside."
She starts to object but I ignore her, opening the door for the dog to run outside. Patches of grass surround the shop, so I lead Killer around the side of the building, tossing the ball toward the back of the lot for him to retrieve. He barks enthusiastically, bringing it back to me over and over again.
It only takes my mother a few minutes to step out, locking the door as she lugs my bag with her. "Come on, guys!"
She drives a beat up Jeep Grand Wagoneer, the only car I've ever known her to own. It's older than me, large and rumbly, a beast of a vehicle filled to the brim with memories. My things have been boxed up and crammed into the back at least a dozen times, routinely taking me to a new life, a fresh start, in another city, so much I'm surprised I even know who I am.
Mom tosses my bag in the backseat, and Killer jumps in with it, as we climb up front. She lives ten minutes from Watertown, outside the city limits, in a small place called Dexter. The house is tucked in among some trees in the middle of nowhere, along a river, the land overrun with flowers and plants.
I was just here a few months ago for Christmas, but it feels different now—smaller, more secluded, not as cheerful as I remember it being. The paint is chipping, white flakes coating the front porch.
She has more locks on the front door now, so many it takes her a good minute of fumbling to get it unlocked. Concern stirs up inside of me as I wait for her to open the door, but I don't say anything.
I think it, though. She's getting bad again. The signs are there, signs I remember from when I was younger. Heavily locked doors and barred windows, nights with no sleep as she paces around, listening to the howl of the wind and thinking it's out to get her. She'd be fine for weeks or months, sometimes even a year, before she started acting like the walls were closing in on her, the world pressing upon her.
I hoped she finally found a place where she felt at peace, where she felt at home, but all of those locks make me uneasy. Locks are supposed to keep you safe. Locks, with her, are a sign of vulnerability.
My old room is just how I left it, smaller than even the dorm. It's suffocating. I drop my bag right inside the room before venturing into the kitchen as my mother starts making dinner. I pause by the window and gaze out into the vast overgrown backyard, watching as Killer runs through the trees in the distance.
He won't go far. He never does. I think that's why my mother treasures him so much. He never leaves her, never wanders from her side for too long.
When he plops down in the yard, my gaze shifts from the pane of glass down to the windowsill, noting the thick nails sticking out of the old wood, indiscriminately hammered in.
She nailed the windows shut recently.
"Everything going okay here, Mom?"
"Sure," she says. "Same as ever."
She doesn't sound very convincing.
The night flies by as we catch up. She seems relaxed, happy even. It eases my worries a bit.
Maybe I'm just overreacting.
Murder is premeditated killing of innocent...
…wrong because it's just not right to kill...
…considered immoral by society because...
…what I seem to be doing to this fucking essay.
I'm murdering it.
Sighing, I scribble out the words on the paper. I lean back in the old wooden chair, my feet propped up on the counter as I sit behind the register at the flower shop. My mother is scanning through the plants, smelling the bouquets and fixing the arrangements. She's had a total of two customers all day, making a whopping thirty bucks.