I stepped off the sidewalk and started down the path leading to the dump. In other words, Mary-Anne's house. Not mine. The willow tree's soft branches touched my skin as I passed through it, some leaves getting caught in my dark hair.
I pushed all thoughts of school and new kids and bullies when I stepped onto the path leading to the front door. I stopped and leaned back, taking in the scene.
A few of the windows were cracked, one broken. Glass littered the ground around it, getting tangled in the grass. Slash marks littered the side of the house, and a huge kitchen knife stuck out of the wood below a window. Screams, filled with anger and pain, pierced the air from the upstairs. Loud banging noises, like a metal pan, echoed to my ears.
Mary-Anne was at it again.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat and slowly made my way to the door. Every day she does this. Every day. Not caring about how it's affecting me.
She has no idea.
Opening the door, I slipped inside. The kitchen looked like hell. It was like the Devil just had a tantrum and decided to stomp all over it. Cupboard doors were ripped off their hinges. The table was turned over, long scratch marks raking down its surface. Spices from the spice cabinet littered the floor, some looking like sparkles of a rainbow. The ceiling fan hung crookedly. The chairs were just bits of broken wood. The refrigerator was on its side, the little food we had thrown all over the place. A puddle of water formed beneath it.
A sob escaped my throat, and I leaned against the wall. I know why Mary-Anne does this. I know why she loses control when I'm not home. Despite her always being a bitch to me, I still care for her. She's my mother. How can I not?
That's when I notice the beer bottles. They're everywhere, along with wine. Vodka. Everything else. Tears prick my eyes. Mary-Anne's drunk this time. It's gonna be so much worse now.
The living room was in a similar state. Stuffing from the cushions hung from lamps and tables. The rug was ripped to shreds. The couch could have been blown apart by a bomb. Glass covered the whole place.
Every room was like this. I didn't even have to look at them all. I just went up the stairs, my shoes crunching over glass and other objects. I turned and crept towards Mary-Anne's room, where the screaming and banging was coming from. Alcohol lead a trail from the stairs and disappeared under the door. Alcohol and a dark red substance. I didn't have to guess what it was.
Gathering my courage, I edged open the door.
Mary-Anne sat in the middle of the room, slamming a metal pan on the ground over and over again. The curtains on the windows had been stripped down, and the comforter from the bed lay in tatters around the room. Her dresser lay face-down, her clothes spilling out from underneath it. Scratch marks covered the walls, along with small traces of blood.
I took a breath. "Mary-Anne, please-"
"NO!" She threw the pan across the room, the thing smacking into the wall. She lurched to her feet, grabbing my head and shaking it. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her nostrils flared, blood running down her face. "HE LEFT ME! HE LEFT ME!"
I was crying now, grabbing her wrists, trying to tell her to stop. "Mary, pl-"
"NO!" Mary-Anne suddenly threw me into the wall. Pulling a knife out of who-knows-where, she lunged at me and held me against the plaster. She pushes the knife against my throat. "HE CALLED ME THAT! NO ONE ELSE CAN CALL ME THAT! I HATE MARY!"
"MOM!" I scream. "IT'S ME, VIVIAN! YOUR DAUGHTER! PLEASE, STOP!"
She wasn't listening. Fury and immense pain clouded her gaze. "I TOLD HIM NOT TO GO! I TOLD HIM! HE DIDN'T LISTEN! HE DIDN'T LISTEN! HE WENT ANYWAY!"
