Artbeat

Chapter XII

- CARSON -

As I took a step out of the tribute exhibition, the heavy glass door swung shut behind me, and the night air enveloped me like a shroud. The cold hit me like a slap, its chill seeping into my bones as I breathed in the crisp, damp air.

The sounds of the city at 9 pm assaulted my ears - the hum of cars driving by, the distant wail of sirens, the muffled laughter of people passing by. I hadn't even felt two hours pass by, but they did. I admit, it was a strange but beautiful escape.

I stood there, the chill of the night air seeping into my skin, making my cheeks tingle and my fingers numb.
I could feel the weight of my mask, still clinging to my face, reminding me  of the secrets I kept hidden. And the man from the museum just had to question it, and I could see the hint of curiosity in his eyes. The wind whispered through the streets, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust fumes, a pungent mix that filled my nostrils.

I weighed my options, but the truth was, I had none. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. I had nowhere, but home - a place I didn't and never wanted to face if I had the choice.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ward off the chill. The city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors as I stood there, lost in thought, the night air closing in around me like a trap.

The feeling of the cold air on my skin, the city sounds, and the visual blur of the lights all combined to create a sense of disorientation, as if I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

I took a deep breath, the chill of the air filling my lungs, and began to walk, a step forward and another, carrying me towards the only place I could go, despite the emptiness that awaited me there.

__________

I trudged through the front door, the familiar stench of stale alcohol hit me like a punch to the gut. It was a smell I'd grown accustomed to, one that greeted me every day after school. I can't deny, it still made me want to throw up.

The beer cans littered the floor, some crushed, others still standing like tiny soldiers, told the tale of another binge. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, leading me to a scene I'd witnessed countless times before.

My mother, sprawled across the couch like a ragdoll, snored peacefully, her body splayed out on her stomach. Her arm dangled off the edge, her hand still clutching a nearly empty beer bottle.

The TV blared in the background, casting an eerie glow over the room. I felt a mix of everything I never liked feeling; sadness, anger, and a hint of disgust. The need to shout and possibly break down. My reality, one I'd grown bored of, but didn't know how to escape.

I bent down to pick up the beer bottles, a solitary tear escaped my eye, rolling down my cheek like a tiny, salty river. No, tears don't solve anything.

My life had become a never-ending cycle of chaos and disappointment. The clinking of the bottles as I gathered them seemed to echo the emptiness I always felt inside.

I moved quietly, not wanting to disturb her, though I knew she wouldn't stir even if I made a ruckus. Her sleep was the kind that only comes from exhaustion and excess.

I made my way to the hallway, my eyes scanning the floor for any remaining bottles. The dim lighting seemed to magnify the mess, making it feel even more overwhelming.

I couldn't help but wonder how things had gotten this bad. How had my mother's addiction consumed our lives so completely?
I know my dad was the reason. He left, and without turning back to see mom's shattering soul, the tears he brought to the eyes of his little sapphire. And I never wanted to think back to that day ever. But really, who's side was I on? My mother was now the one that brought greater pain than the damage dad did.