A Chance for Reconciliation

Blake's POV

"I know, I'm fucking sorry. What do you want me to say? I panicked. I didn't ask for this Em," I yelled outside the bar, my voice filled with frustration and regret.

"You panicked? I had your mother in a bathtub with foam coming out of her mouth, your mother Blake," she said, folding her arms tightly across her chest. I could see the anger and frustration in her eyes, growing with every apology I uttered. The weight of my mistake was sinking in, causing my intoxicated body, bloody knuckles, and pounding headache to fade into the background. I could throw a punch, and make my enemies kneel, but I couldn't handle the overwhelming disappointment and frustration that radiated from this beautiful, angry woman standing before me.

I was supposed to be her saviour, her protector. I was supposed to help her confront her demons and move forward with her life. Yet, here she stood, her emotions in turmoil, fighting with every fibre of her being to face my own demons and help me heal. I never imagined being so damaged that I would leave her alone with my mother, especially in such a vulnerable state.

"I have to go," she sighed, her voice filled with exhaustion and sadness.

"Where are you going?" I slurred, still intoxicated beyond belief. I tried desperately to regain control of my emotions, but the alcohol and the rage I had just experienced made it nearly impossible.

"Home, and then work," she replied, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and determination, as she hailed a taxi.

"Em?" I called out as she opened the taxi door, desperately grasping for some semblance of connection amidst the chaos.

"Go home Blake, your mother needs you," she said, her face stained with mascara and her beautifully pale face reflecting the turmoil of the night.

I watched as the taxi drove off with the girl I love. The words I had been too afraid to say lingered in my mind, unspoken but heavy with truth. It fucking  frightened me to my core, the intensity of my feelings for her.

I loved her so much that it consumed me, tearing at the very fabric of my being.

As the rain poured down upon me, I stood outside the bar, hoping that the downpour would wash away the tangled mess of emotions within me. But rain could never cleanse the scars that lay deep within my soul.

I knew I should go home, and face the woman who abandoned me as a child, and now expected me to help her. The irony of it all twisted my gut.

Summoning what little strength I had left, I raised my hand in my drunken stupor, hailing a passing taxi. I stumbled into the backseat and directed the driver to my apartment.

"Wait, take me to the liquor store first," I slurred, my words barely coherent.

The taxi driver nodded and pulled up to the nearest open bottle store. I stumbled out, my body weighed down by the heavy burden of my emotions. I bought a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, seeking solace in the temporary relief they provided.

By the time the taxi driver pulled up to my apartment, I had finished the bottle and smoked half the pack of cigarettes. My mind whispered that perhaps marijuana would have been a better choice, but Vicky, my frequent companion in such endeavours, was not with me. I refused to venture into the dark alleys where drugs and cheap thrills were readily available.

I ascended the stairs to my apartment, my movements unsteady and uncoordinated. Each step felt like a battle, an uphill climb against the weight of my past.

Finally, I reached my front door and stumbled inside, where my mother sat at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of water. The sight of her instantly filled me with a mix of anger and resignation.

"I thought you fucking left," I muttered, my voice filled with bitterness. She didn't respond, instead taking my half-empty pack of cigarettes from the counter and lighting one up.

"What are you still doing here?" I asked, my frustration evident as I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it into the dryer.

"Who was the girl who helped me?" my mother's voice pierced through the tense air, her words hanging heavy with expectation.

I stood there, stunned by her question. At that moment, I felt a torrent of emotions rushing through my veins. Anger, resentment, and a deep sense of betrayal coursed through me like a raging river. How could she ask about the girl, someone who had shown me kindness and compassion, when she had caused so much pain in my life?

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? That's what you want to know, who the girl was," I exploded, unable to contain my frustration any longer. My voice echoed in the room, making her flinch involuntarily. The words spilt out of me, fueled by years of pent-up emotions. "How about, hey I'm sorry for messing up your fucking life, Blake. How about, you deserved to have love in your life, after everything I put you through."

Her expression twisted into anger, mirroring my own. "Love? Fucking love," she spat out, her voice dripping with contempt. "You don't know how to love. You are the same man as your father, you have no idea what the word love means."

Her words struck a nerve, piercing through the walls I had built around my heart. I clenched my fists, feeling the weight of her accusations. "What do you know of love, mother?" I shot back, my voice laced with bitterness. "You left me when I was just a child, feeding your fucking addiction after my sister..."

Before I could finish my sentence, she cut me off with a yell. "Don't you dare talk about your sister," she seethed, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain.

But I couldn't stop myself. The words spilt out like shards of broken glass. "She was my sister. You and Dad were a mess, and we paid the price. You chose to leave. You could've taken me with you," I said, my voice quivering with the weight of my unspoken pain.

She lit a new cigarette, the smoke curling around her fingers as she inhaled deeply. "Your father would've never let me take you," she said, her voice now lower, tinged with regret. "You were his prized possession. The perfect son who would become the world's famous kickboxer, and was he right."

I slumped down onto the couch, exhaustion washing over me. The adrenaline from our heated argument was fading, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. "I didn't ask for it," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. The reality of my situation settled in, and I felt a deep sorrow welling up within me.

She continued, her voice filled with a mix of bitterness and sadness. "You followed every word he said, and every move he made," she said, her words hanging heavy in the air.

"Yes, because I was scared. I was a child. My mother left me. What was I supposed to do? Run away like you did? I had no one, so I vowed to myself to never let my fear take control of me and to never be such a coward like you," she exclaimed, her words filled with anger and hurt. Her palm connected with my cheek, leaving a stinging sensation behind.

"I was never a coward. I was broken, I was a mess, and I tried to contact you countless times, but your father kept you away from me," I defended myself, feeling the heat radiating from my cheeks. As she continued to recount the past, I could see the deep sadness in her eyes, as if she was reliving the pain all over again.

"You never came back for me," I whispered, my voice laced with a mix of vulnerability and longing.

"I did, countless times, and your father told me every time that you didn't want to see me," she explained, her voice filled with a hint of desperation. But deep down, I knew it was a lie. My father never mentioned that she had tried to reach out to me when I was just a child.

"I tried, I tried until you became famous. I remember the day you won your first title. I was there, and when I tried to get near you, your father had the guards throw me out. What was I supposed to do, Blake?" Her voice softened now, the anger dissipating as we both began to calm down. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the counter and lit one, the smoke curling around me like a protective shield.

"I never knew," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Your father said that you didn't want to see me, that you said you didn't have a mother. I never wanted to leave you, Blake. After your sister died, I had to clear my mind. I had to get away from your father," she explained, her voice tinged with regret and sorrow.

"I don't claim to have been a perfect mother, but I loved you and your sister. I was a mess, and yes, I turned to drugs to numb the pain, just as you turned to fight to numb your pain," she continued, her words filled with a mix of remorse and understanding.

As the smoke from my cigarette swirled around us, a heavy silence settled between us. The years of separation, misunderstandings, and pain had taken their toll on both of us. At that moment, I realized that the narrative I had built in my mind about my mother was incomplete, distorted by the words of a father who wanted to keep us apart.

As I sat here, facing my mother, her tear-streaked face filled with remorse, I felt a mixture of anger, pain, and confusion. It had been years since I had seen her, and now she stood before me, begging for another chance. The wounds from my childhood were still fresh, the memories of her addiction and abandonment haunting me every day.

"It's not that easy, Mom," I responded, my voice tinged with bitterness. "You left me. You left half of my childhood and most of my adult life. How am I supposed to just let you in now?"

Her eyes met mine, filled with a desperation I hadn't seen before. "Blake, I want to get better. I want to be your mother," she pleaded, her voice trembling.

I could feel the weight of her words sinking in, the desire for redemption evident in her tear-filled eyes. A part of me longed for a relationship with my mother, a chance to heal the wounds that had plagued me for so long. But another part, a deeper part, was wary of opening myself up to potential pain and disappointment once again.

The memories flooded back, the moments of emptiness and neglect that had shaped my childhood. I had grown up too fast, forced to take on responsibilities that no child should bear. The scars of her addiction had left a lasting impact on my life, making it hard for me to trust or let anyone in.