Lauren's POV
"You never told me how the rest of the night went despite having heard this story several times," Natalie says, her pen tapping her full lip.
I pinch the top of my nose to run the memories away. It's like I can still smell her. The stench of her cigarette smoke on her clothes. And what I now understand is body odor. With the recitation of the memory comes the flood of sensations that remind me of my mother.
"She left me to play with the little girl. A few hours later, she came back. I'd just snuggled under the blanket with the girl and she was showing me the baby doll she got. Mama said she had to work and dragged me out of there. She was in such a hurry, I forgot to grab my socks."
Bitter tears well in my eyes and I shake my head to force the memory away. I'd been so upset and begged to go back. Mama slapped me and told me to shut up. She had important things to do. That night, she fucked that stupid Santa in his car while I sat on the curb watching his metal can of money. I ate every single one of his candy canes and when I realized I couldn't get the money out of the can, I pissed inside of it.
"It's not your fault, Lauren."
Natalie's calm voice drags me to the present. Of course it isn't my fault. I was a naïve little brat who worshipped his unfit mother.
"Well, it's been real fun, Doc, but I have work to do. Thanks for making me feel worse than before."
She frowns. Natalie is pretty for her fifty-something years of age. Long blonde hair tied into a sleek bun and donning a fitted suit. But she's not my type. Too put together. Too refined. Not trashy enough. I've never pushed for anything more than friendship and she's never had the balls to come on to me. Despite me being younger, she's always been attracted to me. It's obvious but neither of us act on it.
Ignoring me, she cuts to the chase. "Do you think your new 'guest' is causing you to think about your mother more? Is that why you favor her? You think you can really fix her this time?"
I slam my eyes closed and think about Bunny. When she all but inhaled that banana on the day I picked her up, I felt empathetic toward her hunger. When she shivered from being cold, I wanted to warm her. When Trevor tried to hurt her, I wanted to protect her.
But Bunny doesn't remind me of my mother.
In fact, a toy named Kitten—one of the first toys I took on—reminded me the most of my mom. Despite being off all the drugs, Kitten still found ways to smuggle in cigarettes and hide them all over the house. That woman craved nicotine and no matter how much Cartier cleaned her up, she always reminded me of her. And with her, I was the harshest. With Kitten, I scarred her body and her mind. I enjoyed every fucking second. It wasn't about reforming her—it was about punishing her. Boy did she suffer.
Bunny is different though.
Bunny reminds me of the cold, hungry, feisty little boy who hid in the closet all those years while Mama fucked her johns. Bunny reminds me of me.
And that changes everything.
