"Amaro!" yelled Giovanna. 

I avoided thinking of her as 'my mother.' Whatever she was... she wasn't that.

"Get the fuck over here!" she cried. I could here the drunken slur in her voice.

I stood, and I hated that I was at her beck and call like this. I hated that I had to live with this woman. But she didn't let me work. She didn't let me have a bank account. She didn't let me drive. And it's not like I could ask anyone I knew for help. I was a nobody. I couldn't ask favors from people who had good lives. I couldn't ask them to ruin their lives for me.

So I had to put up with her and her anger.

To think... two years ago I practically worshiped her. She was my world. I thought she loved me. She would spank me when I did wrong. Sometimes she did more than that, touched me in ways I hated and felt disgusted at.

She'd always tell me that those hits and slaps and fondles were just love, her way of showing me what I did wrong and making sure I wouldn't do it again. Abuse was 'love.' She'd tell me it was our secret, that Dad wouldn't understand.

And I believed that woman. From when I was seven to then, as a 15 year old boy, even as a teenager I was old enough to know better, I still believed her. Because I'd been told that since I was seven. It was a part of my daily life.

And she'd been my mother. Why wouldn't I have trusted her?

And then, after my father's death, when I was 15, two years ago, the beast came to light. I could make the connection. What Giovanna did had never been love. After Dad died, she didn't smile and tell me it was a secret. She just did disgusting things to me and hurt me when I didn't comply. I was plenty strong enough to stop her from doing those things.

But that didn't matter, because she was the only one of us who worked. She never allowed me to. She said if I tried to work or run away she would rape me and stage my suicide. 

She said I was too soft to hurt her, too.

And I believed Giovanna. I didn't have the guts to hurt her.

I did whatever she wanted, because I knew if I didn't she would do something terrible to me.

"Go to the kitchen, you waste of space," she growled, staggering drunkenly toward me. "Make me dinner."

I gulped and nodded. We were in the hallway, and she was between me and the kitchen. I would have to push past her to get there, and I was terrified of being near her.

I gingerly walked toward her and then around her as carefully as I could. She turned and grabbed my arm tightly, saying, "Bring it to my room."

I held back the tears, nodding. She let go and I ran. A terrible idea because the floor was wet with whatever alcoholic drink was dripping from the bottle Giovanna was holding carelessly. It was strong, I could smell it.

"Clean it up!" she called back at me. "But make dinner first!"

I carefully walked into the kitchen across the alcohol, and as usual, the first thing I saw was the knife lying on the cutting board. Every time I saw the knife I always contemplated cutting flesh with it. Cutting my arm to let out the pain. Cutting my eyes so I didn't have to see her. Plunging it into my chest, or her chest, or doing something terrible with it so I could be free from her, whether through my death or hers.

But I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I was too soft. 

My hand trembled as I grabbed the lighter. Our stove didn't turn on by itself. The lighter was needed.

The flame danced, its hue yellowish atop and dark blue nearer the barrel of the lighter.

I stared at it. It looked so trapped. The fire couldn't expand past the lighter. It danced and flickered, as if trying to break free of an invisible force. 

I looked at the floor, and my heart began to pound when I realized that whatever my mother had been drinking, it was probably strong enough to carry the fire.

I didn't know if I could do it. Light the alcohol and burn the house down with the two of us in it. 

It would be simple. Just drop the lighter. The fire would spread along the trail of alcohol and it would consume my mother just like it consumed me. Wouldn't it?

I mean, the fire department in our area wasn't great.

I turned and lit the stove. 

I couldn't do it.

The fire flared in the stove and I watched it dance, rising and falling... 

I grabbed spaghetti from the pantry and turned back to the stove. 

I froze when I realized the fire had spread from the stove and caught on a towel lying near the stove. I hadn't realized it was there because its color was too similar to the counter.

My eyes widened as the towel began slipping off the counter. 

If it hit the floor, all that alcohol would light up.

I had two choices: stop the towel from falling into the alcohol and get a bit burned in the process, or let it fall and most likely die from the flame. 

Both were simple enough to do.

I did nothing. 

The towel fell.

I smiled as the flames consumed me.