Content: Arthur, Emotional abuse, Suicide

Arthur feels bad. Everyone can tell when Arthur's feeling bad because he speaks slowly, like his mouth is full of syrup, and he stares into the distance and reacts to nothing. And everyone loves when Arthur's feeling bad because he will accept anything that's said to him, and any abuse, and will never do anything but sit quietly, barely processing, or processing something else entirely.

During these times his mother will get wine drunk or take one too many pills, and there will be a confessional, and a vomiting up of half truths and non-apologies. They'll sit together in her bed and Arthur will stare at the wall as she talks to herself.

"I was such a bad mother to you, wasn't I?" she says. "I know you hate me, Happy... don't you?"

"No, mom," Arthur responds automatically, already disinterested in retreading this same conversation, "you did your best."

"That's right. I did." She nods to herself and for a moment Arthur thinks that it's over, that he won't have to pretend he's listening, pretend that they're bearing their hearts to one another.

"But you know I didn't have a choice. You had so much wrong with you and I didn't know what to do. And I was so lonely and scared."

"I know, ma," Arthur says.

"You know, there was a time where I was sure you were going to - to kill yourself, and I was just waiting for it. No one could ever help you. I didn't want you to do it because I'd never see you up in Heaven but I thought nothing could help you. I tried everything."

Arthur begins counting the petals on the wallpaper. Methodically working through each flower one by one.

"But there were a lot of things you were doing just for attention. I knew you were. You always liked to trick me and make me upset. So I couldn't give in. You had to learn that it's wrong to say scary things on purpose." She sniffs, and the shadows on the wall warp as she lifts her hand to wipe her eyes. "It was a scary time for me."

"Sorry," Arthur says vacantly. Of course dead people can't get attention and he knows this. Only the living can get attention. People who are grieving and who have lost their sons; their sons who they loved so much and did their best to protect.

She sniffs again and when she speaks her words are wet, "It's okay, Happy. I've always forgiven you."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, his mother dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown and Arthur counting petals aimlessly.

"Sometimes," she says, "I wish I'd never had you. I love you so much, Happy, but I think my body can't cook a baby right. Everything that's wrong with you... it must be my fault."

The admission hits him the same way it's hit him every other time she's said it. "I'm glad I was born," he tells her, "Life's not so bad. I'm happy I'm alive."

"Do you really mean it?"

Arthur knows that she's looking at him but he can't bear to turn his head to look at her. His eyes linger on the wall as he answers, "I'd never lie to you, ma."

She smooths out the bed sheets around her knees and Arthur knows that it's finally over. He counts one more petal, rounding out the number into something clean and even, then he stands and walks around the bed to her side, bending to kiss her still-damp cheek.

"Good night, mom," he tells her before turning out the light.

"Good night, Happy."

Arthur gathers his shoes before walking out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.