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Analuz knows there is something wrong with her son. He's so different from the shy little boy she remembers, but that's to be expected. He's seventeen now, almost a man. His hair is much too long and there are dark circles under his eyes, but she sees the boy she raised in flashes. That makes the differences all the more stark. He is no longer quite so soft-spoken, more combative, like he thinks every conversation will be a fight. It makes her heart ache for him, wondering who taught him it had to be that way. She knows she can't fix all of it for him, but she can try.
"Here you go," she says, setting out the food. He'd insisted on helping with the cooking, but now he stares at his plate like it's a poisonous snake. "Julio," she prompts, "Eat. We do not waste food in this house."
He jolts, blinking. "Yeah, yeah, sorry, Mama."
Her heart twinges again. Remembering him at a much younger age. "You must be overheating in your jacket," she says, sitting across from him. "It's too warm to wear so many layers."
"I'm fine," Julio says. "Don't worry about it." One hand tugs at his sleeve, pulling it further down his arm.
"I won't be angry if you got a tattoo," she says, half a smile on her face. "If that is why you're dressed in so many layers."
"Ma," he groans, "I'm fine, okay. I just like wearing this."
"Don't take that tone with me," she says. "Now eat. I think there is a rerun of that show you liked when you were a boy, about the fuzzy alien. It is on at eight. We could watch some of that."
"Alf?" he says.
"Yes, that one."
"I'm a little old for that show now, Ma," he mumbles. "And I might just go to bed. I'm kinda tired."
She frowns. "I can tape it, if you want to watch it tomorrow."
He looks down, avoiding her eyes. Shrugs. "If you wanna."
She presses her lips together, a thin line of worry, but says nothing. Men do not like to talk about their emotions, even ones who were as sweet and gentle as her Julio used to be. His father always did want him to toughen up.
He's still a good boy. Does his chores, feeding the chickens even though she can hear him cursing at them. He goes to the store for her, and her heart pangs at the fact that she was not there to help him study to get his drivers license. The thought of how much time she lost with him makes her throat tighten. After the death of his father, there was a power vacuum. She had been beside herself when Julio disappeared, thinking it was someone wanting to use him as leverage. But she got a call from her son, telling her he was in America. That he was safe. That he wasn't coming home, not yet. And it had broken her heart, but she had agreed it was best. The safest option for him, away from the violence, and the fallout of his mutation. Now, though, he moves like a man who has seen death up close, and she wonders if America is so different from home. If she made the right decision. Maybe the joy would still be in his eyes if she had put her foot down and insisted that he come home immediately.
She watches him feed the chickens through the kitchen window and assures herself that God had a plan for him. She just has to have faith. He's dripping with sweat when he comes inside, still dressed in all those layers. She clicks her tongue, handing him a glass of water.
"Enough of this," she decides. "Look at you, you're too hot, I can tell by looking at you. You're making me sweat just by seeing you in all that. Take off your jacket, Julio."
She reaches out for his sleeve and he jerks away from her like he's been burned. "I told you, I'm fine!" he snarls at her, like some sort of cornered animal. The cabinets rattle in their frames, and dust falls from the ceiling.
She stares at him, at his hunched shoulders and defensive air, and decides not to pry. "Go take a shower. You smell."
His shoulders drop. He walks away, up the stairs, and she can hear him moving around. Something cold and fearful coils in her chest. She knows in her gut that something is wrong. Something very bad happened to her son, and she fights the urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he tells her. That would do no good, and he would only resent her for it. She hasn't been here for him, and she knows she should have demanded he come home all those years ago. She thought she was doing the right thing for him. She was a fool.
She doesn't mean to overhear his phone call. She doesn't want to pry, wants him to talk to her when he is ready, but she just happens to pass by his room. The door isn't shut all the way, and she can hear the soft murmur of his voice.
"I can't," he's saying in English. "You're gonna be fine, dude."
A pause, and she hears him sigh. "No, man, I know. I just- I need more time to figure my shit out."
She can faintly hear words on the other end of the call, but can't make out what's actually being said.
"No, you know it's not that. I- It's not 'cause of you. You wanna blame someone, blame the old man. I just can't have people in my head."
Another pause, then Julio laughs. It's short and sharp and joyless. The kind of sound that shouldn't come out of her son's mouth, like he's throwing up broken glass.
"You know exactly why. I don't want anyone knowing about that shit, okay? If they knew-"
She steps forward, leaning in, and the floor squeaks underfoot. Julio's voice stops, and he swears.
"I gotta go. Yeah. Yeah, I know."
She hears bed springs squeak, and then another harsh noise, like someone trying their best not to sob.
"Mama?" Julio calls out, voice tight with what she hopes is not fear. "That you?"
She doesn't say anything. Feels too guilty for spying on him to respond. She just walks quietly down the stairs. Trying to ignore the dread weighing down her every step. What could her son possibly be so afraid of? What secret is he keeping that he thinks is so terrible he had no choice but to come home? She doesn't know. Has no possible idea, but her mind offers increasingly terrible options. It keeps her up that night, and perhaps that's why she hears him crying.
It's quiet, the type of sobs that aren't meant to be heard. She sits up and gets out of bed, the dread becoming heavier with each step she takes towards her son's room. It feels like a physical thing, an anchor looped around her ribs. Perhaps this is the price of motherhood, that dread.
"Julio?" she says softly, pushing his door open.
The light is off, but she can see the silhouette of him in the moonlight curled under the covers. His shoulders are trembling, and she remembers vividly the nightmares he had after his father's death. The choking sounds low in his throat are the same too. Like he needs to scream but can't quite get enough air in his lungs to do it. Like he's being buried alive. The floor underneath her is shaking ever so slightly, the shelves rattling on the walls in a tangible manifestation of her son's distress.
"Oh, mijo," she says, going to his bedside. Heart breaking. "It's okay. It was just a bad dream. You're safe."
She turns on the bedside lamp, hand going to smooth back his hair. He flinches violently away from her touch, and she pulls her hand back with a flicker of hurt. She pushes it away.
"It's just me, Julio," she says, but keeps her hands to herself. The heaviness and dread settling over her again. "What's the matter?"
He makes a high, broken noise, shivering. He has pressed himself against the wall and in the low light of the lamp she can see one of his arms has slipped from under the covers. She can't help but gasp, hands going to her mouth, horrified by the sight of the scars covering his wrists.
"Oh, no no no, my sweet boy," she murmurs, gathering him in her arms, covers and all. He twists, fighting like a wild animal before going limp.
"Don't," he gasps, flailing and fighting against her, "Please."
"No one is going to hurt you," she repeats, heart shattering like glass. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
But even as she says it, she knows she must have already failed. Why else would she be seeing a mess of scars up and down his forearms? She rocks him back and forth, like he's a child again One hand cradling the back of his head, pressing it into the crook of her neck. She holds him even as his entire body shakes so violently that her joints protest. She ignores the pain. What kind of mother is she if she can't hold her own child?
Eventually, he seems to come back to himself a bit. "Mama?" he croaks, and he sounds so painfully young. He's still huddled in her arms, but he's no longer shaking quite so violently. Just a low tremble.
"I'm right here," she says, one hand rubbing firm circles into his back. Stroking his curls with the other.
"Sorry," he mumbles, sniffling.
She makes a noise that feels like it has been ripped from her chest. "Do not ever apologize for needing me," she tells him sternly. Pulling out of the embrace to cup his face in her hands. "And please, what happened to you? What happened to my little boy?"
His expression, already wet-eyed and delicate, crumples like tinfoil in a fist. "Don't ask me that," he whispers. His voice raw like he's been screaming. "Please don't ask me that."
"I am asking you," she insists.
"If I tell you what they did to me," he mumbles, mostly under his breath, "You won't want me around anymore."
It feels like the air is forced out of her lungs. "What who did to you, mijo?" Her fingers dig into the side of his face without her meaning to.
His face goes white. "Forget it."
"No," she says, wiping away a stray tear with her thumb. "I can't ignore it anymore. You're clearly in pain, and I won't let it keep going like this."
He shakes his head furiously, wiping at his eyes. "No. I can't."
"You can," she insists. "I am your mother. There is nothing you could tell me that would change that."
He laughs, raw. "You don't know that."
"I do. Tell me what's wrong."
He lets out a shuddering breath, pulling out of her reach. Tucking himself into a ball, back to the wall. Not looking her in the eyes. She can see both his bare arms now, and the scars covering them. Ugly, jagged things that climb up his forearms in rows.
"Mama, I'm tired," he says finally. "I'm so tired."
It breaks her heart, the defeat in his voice. The heaviness, like even saying the words is a difficult feat. She doesn't know how to fix this for him, how to wipe away his tears and make it all better. There is no bandaid for the sheer tangible pain in his voice. It cuts her deep.
"That's okay," she says, taking his hands in hers. "You can rest here for as long as you need."
He shakes his head. "You don't get it. I wanna fucking die."
"No," she snaps, blood turning to ice, "Don't say that sort of thing. Don't ever say that." She squeezes his hands tight, like she can make him take back the words if she holds on tight enough.
"S'true. I wanna die. I want it to stop hurting-" his voice breaks, and he pulls his hands out of hers, hugging himself. "I just want it to fucking stop!"
She feels like he's slipping out of her grasp, like it's all those years ago and the police are at her door and she's lost him. "Julio, please. Don't say these things. You don't know what you're saying. It will get better. Everyone feels these things from time to time-"
"I feel it all the time!" he snaps, glaring out at her from beneath tangled hair. "I feel like this all the time, Ma."
"No," she breathes, because that can't be true. She would have noticed, if he felt like dying. The little boy she knew was quiet, yes, but he was not so sad. He did not want to end his life.
Then again, that little boy doesn't really exist anymore.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispers. "Julio, why did you keep this all inside? Talk to me, mijito. Let me help you."
"You can't," he says, voice hoarse. "I'm fucked up. They fucked me up forever, Mama."
"You are not 'fucked up'," she insists. "You are my son and I love you. Tell me who made you feel like this."
"You won't want me to be your son anymore if I tell you." His voice is raw and tight. Strangled. "Trust me."
"Trust me," Analuz tells him, voice firm, "I love you more than words. There is nothing you can say to make me stop loving you, Julio."
His eyes flicker to hers, and there's something burning in his gaze. Almost like spite, or hatred. Like he resents her for this. She tries not to let it hurt her. Julio is clearly not in his right mind. He is suffering, and she is his mother. She can bear the weight of whatever he experienced. He's already bearing it himself, after all, and he is a child. Her child.
"People died, Mama," he says, voice flat. "I killed people."
"I know," she says. "The police told me what happened with your… your mutation. You were just a boy, you didn't mean to hurt anyone."
His eyes flicker to her, and they are horrifically empty. "And then they took me away. They-" he swallows, looking down. "They did things to me. They- It hurt. Mama, it hurt."
He sounds like a child, and her heart weeps for him. It feels like there is a blade buried deep inside her chest.
"They put me in a machine. Drugged me." He scratches idly at his arm. "Some of them-" he shivers. "They were bad men, Mama."
"None of that is your fault, Julio," she says. Taking his hands in hers and squeezing them. "And none of that could ever make me love you less."
He won't meet her eyes. "They were really bad men," he repeats.
"Of course they were. You were a child, and they hurt you. No one who does that is a good man. That is not your fault."
"It is," he whispers. "I was stupid. They told me what I wanted to hear. I let them- I didn't fight hard enough. I shoulda fought harder."
"That is not an excuse." Anger grips her. Anger at these men who took her son and made him think that death was the only way to stop being in pain. Her bright, kind boy.
He shakes his head. "They ruined me forever. I'm fucked up for the rest of my life." His voice breaks. "I- I feel dirty. Like they made me into some kinda tool. Used me."
There's such a heaviness to him that she doesn't know how to fix. All she can do is pull him into a tight embrace. Try to hold together all his broken pieces. He tenses for a brief moment, and she thinks she will carry a scar from that inside her heart forever.
"You are my son," she says firmly.