24. BEFORE
There was something about home that no amount of luxury or grandeur could ever replace. Yes home was small and unheard of – practically in the middle of nowhere – and the internet connection here was terrible but he loved it. And he'd fucking missed it like hell.
Mammy was already at the door when his car drew up at the front of the house. He could see the driver trying not to look too surprised at the derelict state of it– when he was younger, this would've mortified him. Appearances were everything, after all. But now he could only breathe a sigh of relief because nothing had changed about Yieldfarm, not even his house which had brought so much shame to him in his earlier years. He'd dealt badly with change when he'd been set off to private school in London. All those snooty boys and the rules and the fanciness of everything. And no Adam by his side. Yes, that had perhaps been the worst of it all.
"James, oh, Jamie," Mammy whispered once he had gotten out of the car and found himself quite suddenly wrapped up in her familiar embrace. He flinched at the contact, at first, because how long had it been since his mother had hugged him like that? Or hugged him at all? But then, and perhaps this was more his heart urging him than his mind, he buried his face into Mammy's chestnut-brown hair and inhaled sharply, like how he used to when he was only a child who'd come running to her after a particularly bad thrashing from Herod.
"I've cooked your favourite tonight," she said when all of his suitcases were all neatly stacked together in his bedroom, where they belonged. "Chicken pasta."
At this, he smiled. James had spent the last five years in a posh private school eating fine dishes for lunch; glistening turkeys and chocolate strudels that tasted something akin to heaven itself. But chicken pasta? Well, that was on a completely different level of delicious.
"I can't believe your uncle's only letting you stay for a month!" Mammy sniffed quite suddenly in the middle of James's meal. He looked at her and shrugged sheepishly.
"Better than nothing," he mumbled and he quickly looked back down at his food, feeling Mammy's stare burning right through him.
"You're my son," she argued. I know, James wanted to say, I know goddammit! I've missed you too! But I'm not safe with you.
It'd taken him a while after Uncle Jonathan had taken him away from Yieldfarm, all the way to London, before James realized what his uncle had done was save him from a premature death – a tragedy, as the news would've called it – because his parents were, to put it simply, fucked up people.
He'd always known that but what child wants to believe their parents aren't good people? Herod was the one who started it all, of course, and Mammy had simply been influenced by it. Coerced, even. But Herod had died just over two years ago. His father was gone for good and now Mammy could make decisions for herself. She truly loved James – she wanted to change for him, he knew that. And wasn't she a changed woman now? Didn't she take her medication on time? Wasn't she in a stable job?
"Mum," James said – he never called her Mammy aloud because that was a childhood habit of his, one that he didn't want her to know was permanently stuck. "It's not that simple. I want to come back home for good, just as much as you do but – but –"
"The bastard's threatened you, hasn't he?" Her eyes narrowed into little slits and James felt his heart clench in fear. She won't hit you now, James, he reassured himself as his hands turned to nervous little fists under the table. She loves you. She's changed. And you've had all those defence lessons at school, his mind added which eased his discomfort a little.
"He hasn't," James argued, perhaps a little too meekly than he should've sounded. "Uncle just thinks it's better if I – if I stay with him until I'm eighteen. Then he says I can decide for myself what I want to do."
