Lethal

6.

I feel numb, shaken to the bone and detached as I attempt to get ready for work. I feel like I haven't gone in months, while it's only been a few weeks.

I miss it, I miss having an excuse to leave this house, to leave my dad and forget my problems. Even if it's just for a few hours.

I look at myself in the mirror. I'm pale as a ghost, dark circles under my dull, sunken eyes, staring back at my reflection. It physically hurts me to look at myself, to see how sick I've gotten and what I'm putting my brothers through.

I miss the days my mother was alive, even though I don't remember much, I remember being happy.

The high pitched giggles and laughter of me and my brothers as we played with our parents before everything went to shit.

My mother spread warmth and happiness into our household, and left it cold and empty after her death.

I rub my eyes, clearing my head. My thoughts often drift back to my mother at times like these. When I'm feeling so alone my heart aches and my entire being feels empty.

I just put mascara on, feeling too tired to do much more as I stand up to get some clothes.

Hoisting low raise baggy jeans over my hips, I secure them with a big belt before throwing on a long sleeved black top and a band tee over that to at least appear like I put in some effort.

Eventually I walk downstairs, standing still at the top of the stairs, listening. I pray my dad has already left, and when I hear the utter silence in the house, I know it's safe to walk down the stairs.

I walk into the kitchen, inspecting the damage done. Empty beer cans and cheap whiskey bottles scattered over the counter top, the smell of cigarettes mixed with chintzy booze.

Normally I would clean this up, but I can't bring myself to go close to the half empty bottles. The smell alone is making me queasy, bringing me back to times deep in my addiction. Times I never want to remember again. Times I want to forget.

So I turn around on my heel, getting my zip up from the coat rack in the hallway.
I'm working a night shift as well today, so I'll be home tomorrow morning, which is kind of reassuring.

Often times one of my brothers comes over to the cafe on days like this anyway, so I won't miss them. And I also won't see my dad for a day, and I absolutely love that thought.

Most girls grow up happy, well adjusted, but my family prevented me from doing so. The torture that I go through each day is slowly destroying me. My brain is rotting, and I'm speeding up the process by taking every drug I can get my hands on.

I walk through some alleyways, the messy neighborhood dark and quiet in the early morning.

I tend to get stuck in one place, my mind going over the same thing over and over until my throat closes up and the urges come back and don't disappear until my next fix.