The woman was drunk, I knew this beyond a doubt, but I couldn't stop her from reaching for that frosted glass over and over. I was helpless, sitting there and staring as she downed one gin and tonic after another. It was a destructive cycle. She laughed, my mother. She was drunk.
Beneath my sleeve, cuts stung, and my nose burned for no particular reason besides the coke I had snorted desperately earlier. I laughed a bit at the irony, my mother drunk and lolling about while I lay, doing nothing on the couch besides being high.
A really terrible song started playing on the T.V., and of course, my mother knew it. She sang along in a drunken slur. The song was pitched low, but fast with its rhythm, thick with sexual innuendo and derogatory terms towards women. The words sunk into the rotting boards surrounding us, the foundation of our house.
I found myself despising how perfect her voice was, even when intoxicated, and pushed myself to my feet, excusing myself upstairs and ignoring my mother's sobs of sadness. I hated how helpless she was.
On the walls there was peeling, yellowing wallpaper, tacky with childish drawings. They reminded me of my youth.
I wanted to be able to be a kid again while stumbling into the bathroom, scraping up a line of powdered white substance and sniffing it up a nostril. It made me shudder with relief, the feeling. I picked up the razor I used to make the line straight, and shoved up the sleeve of my jacket to carve bright red lines into my scarred wrist.
"At least I'm not wasted," I assured myself, easing my guilt. My eyes found the engagement ring on my finger, and I sighed. "It doesn't matter."
The ring was a dainty thing, average, with a gold band and a large diamond center in the middle, as if my fiancée thought the size of the jewel represented the size of his love. I scoffed at the mere thought, rolling my eyes and shaking my head.
Blood started running from my nose, and I cursed softly, clamping a hand over it and hiding the razor, as well as my Stuff.
My eyes found my reflection in the mirror. I had black circles surrounding my dark eyes. My cheekbones jutted out over paper-thin skin, and my red hair was sloppy, unkempt. Blood had already stained my lips, and dripped through my fingers.
I was pretty, once.
Casually, I held toilet paper up to my nose before heading out into my messy house once more.
Giving a nod to my cat, I made my way into my room, logging onto the computer and going into a chatroom. I looked for anyone willing to meet up for a fuck, and an unattractive man in his forties agreed. I set out to the meeting spot, and tried to make some sort of pleasure come out of it. Of course, I didn't.
He was persistent, I'll give him that. He told me I was cute as he fucked me, getting off. He even asked my name.
"I'm a nameless woman," I told his dick more than his face as I took it. He laughed, not pushing any further. He told me to call him Bob, so I did.
The back of a pickup could be a comfortable place, sometimes.
Bob gave me money to pay for my next fix, and dinner that night. My mom could never be bothered to work for anything, and no one would hire a girl still in highschool for any job; not with me looking the way I did. I looked like a druggie.
I looked like what I was. I never knew anyone who looked different than who they were, and I wasn't an exception.
My mom looked like a drunk.
My fiancée looked like an asshole.
My dad looked pretty damn dead.
Bob was coincidentally my fiancée's name. He always wore Abercrombie and Finch, his hair was always short and always combed neatly, and he was always convinced he could save me.
I went along with the whole thing, assuming it'd die off soon. Of course, my luck was not with me. Bob pursued me, and asked me to marry him. I agreed, not having the energy to deny him. Being around him drained my energy. He treated me like trash, fucked me, acted like he loved me, and left to go fuck a girl who considered herself my friend.
Here I am, complaining about my fucked-up slice of life, while little kids starve in Africa and girls are raped. Here I am, not much to complain about besides my father being dead and my mother being an alcoholic.
When I got home, I was sore. I paid brief, disinterested attention to my mother. She was lying on the couch, eyes fixated on the T.V., peering at it glassily through messy dark hair.
Her figure was like mine, a bit bony, with breasts almost out of proportion and a flat stomach. She always said I got her best features.
I doubted my mother was into cocaine like I was.
I took a seat in front of the couch, and tried to remember the words that my mother had taught me, of an old Irish lullaby. My mind was too jumpy. I couldn't do it.
I went upstairs into the bathroom again before returning to my mother.
I was addicted. I knew this beyond a doubt, but I couldn't stop myself from snorting up the powder over and over. I was helpless, standing there hunched over the sink and staring at my own paled reflection as I snorted one line after another. It was a destructive cycle.
She was sober.