The Strings She Pulled

CW: Violence, substance abuse, mental health

"You used me." I breathed, my voice almost inaudible. Silence filled the space between us; the only barrier a long metal table with a matching chair on either side. I never realized silence could feel so loud. At first, I thought she didn’t hear me. But then I watched the words hit her. Watched them sink in. Watched her expression shift from faux concern to something dangerous. As if I had offended HER. 

"I did no such thing." Was her only response as she lifted her hand to tuck a stray red curl behind her ear. As red as the blood she shed. The blood we shared. As a child, I begged her to teach me how to style my hair like hers. I always wanted to be just like her. Her mini-me. Now I wish I could remove every scrap of resemblance I have to my mother. Looking like her used to be something I held on to, a way to remember her. Now it only feels like a curse. Now I have to force my body to stay still and not flinch as eyes the same green as the ones I see in the mirror every day stare back at me, calculated and emotionless. She thinks she can talk her way out of this. Thinks she can trick me into running into her arms like I was a toddler finally finding her mother again after getting lost in a department store.

Like. Hell. 

"Oh, really?” I scoffed. “You’ve been pulling strings from the shadows for years, and I was just the puppet you used to do your bidding. You set me up. You set all of us up. All of the people you’ve hurt….” My voice wavered, remembering all of the lives I’d held in my arms as they died. The innocent boys and girls that never got a chance to grow up. All of the nights I spent unable to sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I was haunted by their faces, telling me that it was my fault. It was all my fault. 

"You don't know what you're talking about, Rory," she snapped, stepping closer. I stepped back in response. She paused, something like hurt flashing across her face for a second before it vanished. "I did what I had to do to pro-"

"Don't you dare stand there and tell me you were trying to protect me!" Yelling would do nothing, I knew that, but the longer I stood here, the angrier I got. It was getting harder to keep my temper in check. I squeezed my hands into fists at my sides to ease some of the building pressure. 

The room suddenly felt so much smaller. I could feel a panic attack coming on, but I pushed it back. Not here. Not now. Instead, I glared at her, teeth clenched. “A mother protecting her children does not fake her death and cause the kidnapping and near murder of her eldest child.” My voice shook, pain lacing every word as emotions I had kept carefully buried for ten years came to the surface. “A mother protecting her children does not stand by for a decade while her husband wastes away and dies, while her youngest daughter struggles with losing both her parents before she is even old enough to drink; she doesn’t watch while the weight of the world rests on her oldest’s shoulders doing a job that apparently was orchestrated for her.” I could feel blood dribbling from the wounds in my hands, my nails digging in too hard. My jaw ached from the tension, but I didn’t care. It was a lie. People I thought I had chosen to be in my life had been placed in my line of sight, told to insert themselves in my life. My decisions. My work. Written out like a story with my own mother as the author.

Her face remained blank, not even a stray tear to show any sign of the mother I once knew. The one who spent her weekends teaching me how to bake, helped me with my homework after school, and read to me every night before bed. I look at her now and see a clone. One devoid of emotion.

Her breath hitches as if she heard my thoughts. She rolled her shoulders back and leveled me with a glare. “I protected you the only way I knew how, Rory.” Her voice was strange. Monotone. Robotic. The pain of it sent my heartbeat into overdrive. Not yet. Quiet the storm. I had to get out of this room. Looking at her became too much, so I set my stare on the clock on the wall behind her, watching the second hand tick. Tick. Tick. . A steady rhythm, a controlled movement. Tick. Tick. Tick. My breathing calmed, the anger tapering down, leaving only heartbreak in its wake.   

“We buried you,” I whispered, a tear rolling down my cheek. No. I scolded myself, but as if in defiance, another tear followed close behind. I remember those first few months after the accident. My little sister, Carrie, was inconsolable. She was too young to fully understand what was happening, but she knew her mom wasn’t coming back. She slept in my room with me for two months after the accident. Waking up in the middle of the night begging for her mommy. Dad started drinking to numb the pain. We would wake up for school and find him hungover, sprawled across the couch, the floor littered with beer bottles and whiskey glasses. After the funeral, Carrie and I stayed at the cemetery for hours. We just sat next to the fresh dirt mound, talking to her. It seemed to help Carrie, so I took her back once a week. Carrie would tell her about school, and I would read to her. Sometimes, on the bad days, we would just sit in silence. It helped. Finally, after a while, Dad started coming with us. It was strange at first. He would stand by the car or walk down the dirt path, refusing to even look in our direction. It took weeks before he came to sit with us. Another month before he would speak. I got him to go to meetings, and the drinking slowly stopped. We started to feel like a family again. For a while, at least.

I don’t tell her any of that, though. She doesn’t deserve to know how we healed. How we grieved. Too late, I realize more tears have tracked down my cheeks as if they have a mind of their own. 

She doesn’t deserve your tears. This is pointless. She is not your mother. Just another Unsub.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes for a moment, then open them, my face blank besides the lingering tears, and meet her stare again. Her eyes widen slightly at my resolve, but I ignore it. She is no longer speaking to her daughter. 

She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

“Lillian Thatcher, you are under arrest for fraud, murder, and conspiracy to kill a federal agent. You have been read your rights, and you will be transported to prison for processing.” Turning my back on her, I head for the door. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” She asks, her voice tinged with incredulity. “You can’t just leave me in here, Rory; I am still your mother!” A fist against metal rings through the small room, but I don’t flinch. 

With my hand on the doorknob, I respond quietly, “My mother died ten years ago.” I turn the knob and walk out without looking back.