Saving Mattie (nh)

Chapter One

Chapter One

If there is one thing you should know about me, it's that I'm not worthy of everything I have. I haven't done anything to deserve food on the table and a roof over my head. All because I let my little brother die at age two.

I should have known he was dying. He had never been so quiet. And when I reached over to stroke his face, I felt nothing but cold flesh beneath my fingertips. Death is cold. Inevitable. When I was told that he died, I lost it. It was then that I promised myself to never get close to someone again.

***

I peeled my eyes open and instantly knew it was going to be a bad day. The air was damp. My sheets were wrinkled and cold. And my hair was a big, fat, staticy mess.

Raining again. It was usually raining in London this time a year, but it put me in a bad mood all the same. The rain splattered against the fire escape outside my window, making the entire picture seem gloomy.

I peeled myself out of the thin blanket I had laid over top of myself the night previous, and stretched out my arms. The muscles pulled and stretched, instantly relieving me of the achy feeling that comes with sleep.

I threw my legs over the bed and stood up on the hardwood floor- fake hardwood of course. We weren't the richest family around. The run down old red brick building we lived in said enough about our wealth.

I shuffled over to the mirror hanging on my beige walls and sighed. My pale skin seemed sallow, blackheads were skattered across the bridge of my small nose, and my overly large green eyes still held traces of fatigue. I just wiped the odd green crust from my eyes and walked over to my bedside table.

Instantly, I got to work, grabbing my small makeup bag and some clothes from the drawer. Slipping on my navy blue Ashby's Sixth Form shirt, I managed to pull my long scruffy blonde hair up into a ponytail. I grabbed some pale ivory foundation and managed to get to work fixing up my unco-operative skin.

I applied some foundation over the bumps and blackheads on my face, before tilting my neck and covering the crecent moon scars on my neck.

I still remembered getting those. My dad had just been arrested, my mum was depressed and on the verge of alcoholism, and I was struggling to work two jobs at the young age of fifteen to help make ends meet. But when I came home one night to find out my mum had drained most of my college fund to pay bills so she could quit her job, I lashed out.

Let's just say, my mum isn't the most peaceful when she's drunk. Who knows, she may just leave a few scars on your neck due to long finger nails digging into your flesh as she choked you out.

Shaking away the memory, I threw on my plaid skirt- also part of the uniform- and old Converse. I applied a thin layer of eyeliner and mascara and walked out into the living room.

In cheap flats in London, all the rooms are connected to a central room. Our central room happened to be the living room.

I turned towards the kitchen and loped inside, turning left again to enter our one bathroom. I quickly brushed my teeth and all that jazz, before exiting into the kitchen once more.

I grabbed a cold waffle from the fridge and hurried back out to the living room. My mother had taken her usual spot on the couch by now, Hooch already popped open and half empty in her hand. Her straggly blond hair hung like a matted curtain around her face.

"Mum?" I said cautiously. I tip-toed to the corner of the couch and knelt down beside her. "Mum, how re you? Did you sleep well?"

I don't even know why I try anymore. She obviously couldn't care less about herself, given her hair, matted clothes and the fact that she had basically given up. On herself, on life, on me. Alcohol had consumed her thoughts, and now she was... different. Now the only thing she cared about was the amount of liquor flowing through her veins.