Mikannie one-shots

The Liquor Cabinet

TW: this chapter contains HEAVY themes of domestic abuse and abuse of a minor. Please be careful reading!

I place the violets down on the flat ground before her tombstone. They were her favorite. She said they reminded her of her childhood. They remind me of mine, too. They remind me of her.

My mother was beautiful. She was sweet, and gentle, and kind. Her hands would stroke my hair, her arms would wrap around me, and cocoon me in her body, and she would sing to me, slow and sweet.

She was smart, too. She knew the answer to all my questions. She grew basil in the backyard, and climbed to the very tops of trees to grab the best fruit, and let me sit on her lap to watch her draw. She told me tales of dragons, and knights, princes, queens. Of fantastical romance, adventure, great collisions between good and evil. She told me stories of loss, heartbreak, and will. She said one day, I would find my prince. And they would sweep me off my feet and carry me through the realms, to conquer the beasts that threatened civilians.

On nights when the air was cold, and the moon didn't show, she would hold me close, and make me feel safe. And on days where dad emptied his liquor cabinet, she told me everything would be alright. She's one of two people, that truly, ever really loved me.

But one night, when the liquor cabinet sat baren, and the air was cold, and the moon didn't show, I heard my moms voice, louder than ever before.

I heard glass break, I heard a shriek. I pulled the covers up over my face, chest weighed down like something was tugging on my lungs. My body remained static, eyes locked onto the door that separated me from the yelling.

My mother, she stumbled into my room. She held a kitchen knife in her hand, and shards of glass drawing blood from her forehead. She was shaking like there was an earthquake.

She looked stunned, our eyes locked for what felt like minutes, before she spun around and slammed the door shut and locked it. She ran to me, pressing her hands to my cheeks. I could feel the hot blood stamp my freezing skin.

The door cracked, chips of paint falling off. Rhythmic, loud pounds shook it, as pieces of wood splintered and flew out at me.

She pulled me onto her back and dove out the window. Stumbling over the ground she ran into the forest, shaking like crazy. The scent of blood wafted into my nose, and her reddened hair buried my face. She ran for so long, so long. Tree branches slapped her face, she shook and stumbled. When blues just started raising over the hills, bleeding into the black, my mom fell, flat on her cheek. She pushed me off of her and sat up, half her face covered with blood, the other half with dirt.

"Annie, sweetie," she panted, desperation and fear stinging her words. "run, go run, run, run, as fast as you, as fast as you can, and don't go back. It's gonna be okay sweetie, it's gonna be okay."

She pulled a ring from her pocket and slid it onto my finger.

I didn't move. "Mommy? What's going on"

"Just go," she yelled at me and shoved me away from her. "Go!"

So I ran, and ran, and ran. And when I couldn't run any farther, I scaled a tree, just like she had taught me.

My dad found me just a few days later. He told me come down, and when I didn't, he raised his crossbow right to my face, and shot an arrow next to my eye. "Come down" he told me. "I won't hurt you" he told me. I shouldn't have believed him.

We got home, he told me I was to train until dusk. And when I said no, he took out his crossbow. So I did.

The days from then on were bleak, and cold, and tired. I was cold and tired.

Every night, I asked my father what happened to my mom. Every day he said, nothing, she's just on a trip. But I made the mistake of asking him on one of the wrong nights.

The liquor cabinet has gone through its cycle of being replenished, then emptied. I sat at the kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of old paper. "What happened to mom?" I asked. My father was silent for quite a long while, and then, he smacked me square in the face. Right where my mom placed her hands the night she made me run.

Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes, and I dropped my graphite to the floor.

"Your moms gone!" He barked at me. "And it's your fault." He gently brushed hair from my face. "I hate you for it"he said. And I hated the way he said it, slurring the word hate so it was loose and drippy, like slush, or watered down oil paint. "You remind me of her though" He pinned me to the ground, the scent of alcohol and puke caught around his jaw. "You little bitch" that's what he said to me. His face came closer to mine and...

The next eight years were awful. Duh. But at least it was consistent. No surprises. Dawn to dusk, train, every day. Monday through Friday we eat porridge for breakfast. When the liquor cabinet is empty, I know what happens.

To this day, those memories fade, and mix together, and come back, and then fade again. They swirl around, they take from each other. I start to forget the bland taste of porridge, or how the basil plant shriveled up and died without anyone's care, or the fear that came, when the liquor cabinet was empty.

But I never forget my mothers last words. They weren't, "it's okay" or "good luck" or even "I love you", it was just the first, and last time, she every rose her voice at me. Go. Run.

Most of the memories are no longer painful. They're just bland as porridge, dead as that basil plant, and leave me empty as my fathers liquor cabinet.

A/N Wow. That was a hard one to write. Sorry this wasn't actually published on Mother's Day, I had a lot of editing to do. Also sorry this wasn't really Mikannie despite the several things about Annie's mom that make it so painfully clear Annie has mommy issues.

I'm going to rewrite this one and make it like 3000 words longer