JT Johnson

It was the tone an older sibling might take with a younger one to make them cry.

I swear to Christ, you were the dumbest baby.

What baby can't even say Mona?

She snorted, a shadow falling over her eyes.

I started down the hallway, intent on waking Nona when Mom stepped in front of me, eyes wild like a dog backed into a corner.

She was mumbling.

I could catch bits of it, money, the dumb bitch I only wanted a little.

They were strung together on cavity-coated breath, her cheeks flushing into a feverish red.

The hallway, from what I could see, was packed with dirty laundry and food wrappers.

There was a smell reaching up from the floor reminiscent of roach droppings.

And now that new odor.

Mice.

Let me say goodbye to Nona.

I drove all this way.

I was aware, vaguely, of the strange situation I had fallen into.

I reached behind me, patting the phone in my back pocket once for reassurance, before taking another step towards the hallway, towards Mom's unmoving but twitching stance.

She's a real bitch.

Mom's voice was low, eyes narrowing.

You know she kept all that money for herself.

Did you know that?