Hunter's Chance

o n e

"Mom, please" I cry as I pull her into my arms to stop her from trying to get up. She always seems to get this way when she's intoxicated. Unable to control her actions and stumbling all over the place. I instantly feel regret on the decision not to join my friends and go out for the night.

Between my brother and I, it always seems to be me to take on the task of babysitter when it comes to mommy dearest. I guess as the oldest, I feel that responsibility. I'm not even sure I would trust anyone else to take care of her in such a fragile state; in fact I know that I wouldn't. It's a bonus and seemingly makes it a lot easier to visit home now that I took my last final on Wednesday and it's officially summer break.

Sitting here holding my disgruntled mother, I imagine what it was like two years ago. How different it was and how happy we all were. But I'm immediately pulled from my thoughts when without thinking I begin to pat around the floor next to us. I grab my vibrating phone, quickly silencing it with a huff before closing my eyes and wrapping my arms tighter around her body; can't I just embrace my broken mother in peace?

After a few minutes, her weeping comes to a halt and I stand to help my mother to her feet placing her arm over my shoulders as I lead her to the room she claims. After tucking her in for the night, I make my way to the bathroom placing my hands on both sides of the sink taking in the appearance of the brown-eyed girl staring back at me in the mirror.

My recently bleached blond hair is pulled into a messy bun on the top of my head, and the dark circles under my eyes are more alarming than waking up from a bad dream. You know the kind where you practically jump out of your own skin because the last thing you remember was falling, though I wish this were just that, a bad dream. I realize that I'm exhausted as I let out an exaggerated sigh and make my way back into the living room where my buzzing phone sits on the ground.

My patience is wearing thin, though now I know that whoever it is, is obviously in desperate need to get in contact with me. I mean this is the fourth time that they have tried with no answer and the persistence spikes interest in me. I bend down to pick up the phone, checking the sender's name when another call buzzes through.

"Conner," I say more harsh than intended.

"Is this Raegan?" a husky voice responds, one I don't recognize and I instantly know that it's not my seventeen-year-old brother.

"Yeah? Is something wrong?" Worry evident on my tone.

"You need to come pick your brother up."

"Who..."

"1634 Walter Street" he firmly says cutting me off, frustration laced in his voice.

"And make it fast" he adds.

"On my way." I whisper as I stand to my feet and peak into my mother's room. Her brown hair is tossed over her face and really the only indication that I have to knowing that she is, in fact alive, is the small movement of hair right in front of her mouth each time that she pushes out a breath of air.

Things weren't always like this. Mom was rowdy, yes. But only to the point where she'd force me off the couch to dance around the living room with her, zeroing in on every song lyric of Pat Benatars 'We Belong.' We would sway to the beat together until she grew tired, or needed another sip of red wine and I'd find my corner back on the couch.

And Conner? Well I never had to worry about him. We spent the majority of our time together, lying on the floor in my bedroom listening to old school rock, just like mom and dad taught us. "The music industry has lost it's soul" they would say, "stick to the good stuff."

Conner's lanky arms and legs would take over half the floor space and me, well I'd scoot as close to the wall as possible, lying on my back and lifting my legs, crossing one over the other. My hands would rest behind my head and I'd watch as my feet would sway to the music.