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His mother talked to him for the first time in three years today.
Neuro stands in front of the bathroom mirror in nothing but a towel that has been wrapped around his waist. His wet hair falls down his back and clings down his damp skin, letting slow drips of water run down his collarbone. He should feel cold, but he doesn’t. He feels numb, empty. Nothing.
He saw her at the front door and then he was transported into his past, feeling like a small child preparing for her hurtful blows. She didn’t have to hit him, though. She knew how to hurt him in other ways.
Madge is sitting on the toilet seat, more interested in running the toilet paper roll than she is in him. Neuro will have to fix that eventually. Right now, he doesn’t care. Madge finally finishes unrolling the toilet paper and jumps to the floor, weaving through his legs.
Her voice was cold and devoid of emotion. One would think that seeing her only son would derive more of a response. She folded her arms and glared at him. He kept his voice as even as he possibly could, refusing to let her see that she got to him.
Madge meows loudly, rubbing her paws on his thigh to get his attention. Neuro reaches down and scratches her head. It should help. It doesn't.
“Look at you!” she sneered. Not even a hello. “Look at how you’ve let yourself go! How messy your face is! Would your father be happy to see you like this? See what you've become?”
Weren’t mothers supposed to love their children?
There was no love in her eyes. Cold and empty. Soulless. Like staring into a void. How he wished the void would swallow him whole right now.
Neuro runs his other hand across his chin, feeling the stubble. His eyes look tired, dark circles sitting underneath his drooping pupils. The wrinkles on his face are prominent, making him feel older than he really is. His hair looks whiter than it normally is.
“Mother!” He finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you have any actual reason to show up here, or are you just gonna keep belittling me until I slam the door in your face?”
He supposes he could use a shave.
“I’m dying, Neuro.”
The world freezes. His words wilt on his tongue.
It can’t be true, can it?
He pulls the razor from the drawer. He uncaps the bottle of the shaving cream sitting next to the sink. Madge finally scampers off, looking for more interesting things to do. The bathroom feels colder now that he’s alone. He's used to being alone, he muses. Not many people are interested in hanging out with a psychic and he's always been rather introverted and quiet.
Doesn't mean he has to like being alone.
“Have you no shame!? I come to you unsure of when my life will end and this is how you treat me!? I didn’t raise my son to be so disrespectful.”
“I think you need to leave.”
“How dare you! Turning your own mother away!”
“You’re not my mother.”
“Excuse me!?”
“A mother cares for her son unconditionally. You don’t get to come begging for my love when it’s advantageous for you. Not when you’ve done anything to earn it.”
The razor feels wrong against his skin. There are tears in his eyes. His hand shakes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, just that everything feels so wrong.
“I hope you know how it feels someday. To be hurt and unloved and alone. Think about that before you turn your mother away. The last relative you have who cares about you.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ll take my love with me, and then you’ll realize what you’ve done. Don’t come begging for my forgiveness, because you don’t deserve it. Pathetic child, after all I’ve ever done for you.”
He grips the razor tightly and squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to forget. How does he forget? How can he, when she’s so insistent on making him remember?
She spat on the ground before she left.
Suddenly, there’s a stinging pain on his chin. Everything hurts.
Neuro drops his razor and it lands in the sink. He glances into the mirror and sees a small trickle of blood run down his jaw, right where the pain emits. It flows down the side of his face and droplet by droplet, red now stains the porcelain sink.
“Fuck,” Neuro says to nobody in particular. He's bleeding. He didn't mean it though.
But he doesn’t do anything to stop it either.
He just stares at himself in the mirror. The uneven stubble on his chin, the bags under his eyes, the dash of red standing up sorely against his skin. He wishes he could feel something about it. He still feels nothing. It hurts, of course it does; cutting yourself open is never painless.
It doesn’t hurt as much as his mother’s words. Nothing will. That is a completely different kind of pain, built up over years of abandonment and neglect and just never being good enough.
He has a horrid thought.
He could cut himself open further, let the physical pain override the scars of having a parent who never truly loved you. He could do it. What’s wrong with giving into the urge every once in a while? What’s wrong with being consumed by such dark thoughts? What’s left to lose anyways?
He picks up the razor, telling himself he needs to finish the shave, pretending to cut the hairs when all he really wants to do is rip the skin from his face. Neuro holds the razor to his jaw, gaze never pulling away from his reflection, and he tries to ignore the tears forming in the corners of his eyes once more. He's so fucking tired. There are noises coming from the open window. The razor blade presses against his skin and he thinks for a moment he could-
Somewhere, Madge meows.
That seems to almost snap Neuro out of his trance. He puts the razor down and cleans himself up with a face towel. Then he rummages under the sink for some cream and some bandages. He focuses too much on the stickiness of the band-aid’s adhesive as he smooths it out over the cut. Pretend it’s not there. Don’t give in.
Neuro grips the sink. “You’re stronger than this,” he tells the man staring back at him. “Stronger than her. Don’t ever let her see that she hurt you.”
It’s shoddy advice, but if it’s what keeps him sane right now, then so be it. Neuro turns off the bathroom lights and shuts the door as he leaves. He can finish his shave tomorrow.