Blood On Her Milan Rug Chapter 2

Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I pulled the zipper shut on my mother’s bag.

"Mom," I said quietly, "we're leaving right now."

My mother blinked, glancing hesitantly at Cecilia. "Can't we wait until morning, Louis? You just got discharged; your body hasn't healed..."

"I'm coming with you," I cut in, my voice unwavering. "We don't need to stay here and be humiliated."

Hearing this, Cecilia’s brow arched, and she rose from the sofa. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To find a hotel," I said, guiding my mother toward the foyer. "Since this house can't accommodate the two of us, we’ll both leave."

Cecilia moved quickly, stepping in front of the door and pressing her hand down firmly on the luggage handle.

"Louis, stop. Don't go."

There was an edge of urgency in her voice—so sharp that my traitorous heart gave a pathetic, instinctive flutter.

Ten years together.

Even now, a pathetic, dying corner of my soul still wondered if she was terrified of losing me.

A heavy silence hung between us before Cecilia’s tone softened, adopting that reasonable, persuasive cadence she used on difficult clients. "You just checked out of the hospital. You're still weak. Don't throw a tantrum."

My throat felt parched. I was on the verge of asking her if she still cared about me, when she glanced over her shoulder at Felix.

"Felix has a chronic stomach condition," Cecilia continued smoothly. "He can't stomach the takeout or the housekeeper's cooking. Since he's staying here for the next few weeks, I need you to stay and cook his meals."

I stood frozen in the hallway, as if the air had been violently sucked from my lungs.

I looked at her, searching her face for any trace of shame, but found none. "You're blocking the door... just to make me his personal chef?"

"Why do you have to use such dramatic words?" Cecilia frowned, irritation creeping back into her voice. "You cook every day anyway. It's just adding one more plate to the table. Felix just closed a major account for the firm, and his immune system is low. What's the big deal about looking after him for a few days?"

A violent cramp seized my abdomen, the phantom pain of my ulcer flaring up so violently that my teeth clicked together.

"That account," I rasped, every word trembling with suppressed fury, "was negotiated across three dinners where I drank myself into an ambulance. What did he do?"

Cecilia opened her mouth to argue, but the facts trapped her. Her jaw set stubbornly. "Felix was the one who signed the final paperwork. Without his closing pitch, all that drinking you did wouldn't have amounted to anything."

The contract I had nearly died for was, in Cecilia’s eyes, worth less than Felix showing up with a pen.

I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white, unable to speak.

From the sofa, Felix spoke up, his voice dripping with soft, performative gentleness. "Cecilia, please don't fight with Louis because of me. He just got out of the hospital; he needs to rest. I can manage. I'll just order plain broth or eat instant noodles in my room."

He turned his gaze toward my mother, offering a patronizing, sympathetic smile.

"Auntie doesn't have to leave, either. I know people from rural towns can sometimes track in dust mites or bedbugs, but if we just have the cleaning crew deep-sanitize the apartment twice a day, it'll be fine. I'm really not that fussy."

My mother’s face flushed a deep, burning crimson.

Her fingers knotted into the hem of her worn cardigan. She wanted to tell him that she was clean, that she had bathed before getting on the bus, but looking down at her mud-splattered socks, she could only lower her head in utter shame.

Cecilia looked at me, the disappointment in her eyes curdling into disdain.

"Look at Felix. He’s the guest here, yet he's the one making compromises and defending you," Cecilia said coldly. "And look at you—packing up and running away over nothing. Louis, when did you become so petty and childish?"

She was the one who had left an old woman stranded in the cold.

Yet I was the one branded as unreasonable.

In this home, which had long ceased to be mine, everything my mother and I did was an offense.

"If he's so noble," I said, my voice dead and hollow, "then let your precious Felix stay here and take care of you. My mother and I are moving out."

I grabbed the duffel bag and tried to push past her.

Cecilia’s expression turned venomous. She lunged forward, grabbing my wrist with bruising force and yanking me backward. "Louis, I said stop being ridiculous!"

The sudden pull sent a sharp, tearing agony through my stomach lining. My knees buckled, and I stumbled toward the hardwood floor.

"Louis!"

My mother cried out in terror. Forgetting her own battered body, she lunged between us, throwing her arms around me to break my fall.

"Please, let's just talk!" my mother pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. She reached into her coat and thrust the handmade insoles toward Cecilia, like a peasant offering tribute to an angry queen. "These were Louis's idea... he asked me to make them for you. He cares about you so much, Cecilia, he's just too stubborn to say it out loud..."

My mother was trying to swallow her dignity to save my marriage.

But Cecilia was entirely consumed by rage. Without even looking at the cloth in my mother’s hands, she shoved her away in pure frustration. "Get out of my way!"

My mother lost her footing on the slick hardwood. She stumbled backward, her heels catching the edge of the rug.

"Crack."

The back of her head slammed hard against the sharp, beveled marble edge of the heavy coffee table.

The living room fell into an instantaneous, terrifying silence.

My mother lay crumpled on the floor, motionless.

A thick, dark crimson liquid began to seep slowly through her graying hair, pooling onto the floorboards.

Beside her limp hand lay the quilted insoles, embroidered with crude, uneven stitching.

Drop by drop, the white fabric soaked up the blood, turning violently red.