Stay Sweet

chapter 3

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DESCRIPTIONS OF D0MESTIC VIOLENCE AND ALCOHOL ABUSE, IF THIS IS GOING TO BE AN ISSUE, EITHER PROCEED WITH CAUTION, LOOK FOR THE DOTTED LINE THAT INDICATES THE END, OR DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER!!!

June hoisted herself up onto the gray roof, warm from the constant direct contact with the fall sun.

Standing carefully on the dark shingles, she watched Steve speed off in his car. She tossed her Converse in through her open bedroom window. Her socked feet were luckily quiet on the roof. Tucking her body in through the white wooden frame, she rolled onto the springy mattress that sat in a wire frame next to her window.

The sky was painted a myriad of crystalline blues, deep pinks, and burning yellows. The sun was being tucked into the clouds, getting ready for the night.

It was only 8 p.m., but it was October, and winter was well on its way to invading smalltown Indiana.

Finally into the warmth of her own home, she flopped back onto her bed, gripping her pastel blue and pink quilt to make sure she didn't fall off the mattress.

Pushing the tops of her toes tentatively into the carpet, she slunk out of her room. Proceeding carefully down the hall, she stuck her hands out to feel the limits of the dingey yellow walls. It was dark in the house, so far no lights were visibly on. Her fingers dipped into a cracked area in the drywall and her breath hitched in her throat.

Suddenly her vision was clouded by the bold, vivid image of her Grandfather's fist rupturing the wall so close to her skull that the hair on her neck stood on end.

That was only his warning shot.

June looked down, eyes all filled with dread. There was the baseboard that had been repeatedly thrust into her spine. She could still feel the sting of his steel-toed ostrich skins, and how he only punted into her harder when the blood from the open wound forming in her stomach spilled onto the exotic leather. She couldn't remember when he stopped, only when she woke up to nothing but the tear-stained carpet under her head, did she even realize that he was gone.

Guess he didn't have any desire to beat a horse already dead.

Shaking her head fiercely, June tried to rid the echoing memories from her mind.

Fumbling at the area where the healed scar was, she tried to remind herself that that was two years ago.

Her legs were weak and wobbly as she continued her discreet journey to the ground floor.

Fortunately for her, the house didn't do much creaking.

When she got downstairs, she saw that there was a light on, one buzzing in the kitchen. Peering her head into the entrance, she saw that no one was there. She sighed as a wave of relief washed over her and flipped the switch down, turning the light off.

As she wandered into the living room, she came into contact with the exact scene she figured she would.

Charlene, her grandmother, was sprawled across the couch, passed out, half her limbs hanging off the plush fabric. On the brown carpet, just a few inches away from where she would have dropped it, lay two cylindrical orange containers. The white stickers most notably read "Opiates," and the WARNING labels were anything but discreet. The containers were void of their contents, reflecting just how empty the consumer of them was.

The old woman's frame was outlined in its entirety by glass bottles. Whiskey bottles, Beer bottles, Wine bottles, bottles of Vodka, Rum, Tequila, and just about any other type of liquor a person could think of. Some of them were half-full, others were fully empty. Some were tipped over, and some stood up still. There were so many that it hurt her head to try and count.tr