CLOVE

eight

☘︎ clover ☘︎

I walk through the front door of my house, bracing myself for the familiar scent of cigarettes and the dim lighting. My mother is sitting on the couch, a beer can clutched in her hand as she watches some mindless tv show.

"You're home," she slurs as I enter. She doesn't even bother to look at me, her gaze firmly fixed on the screen.

I nod in response, not bothering to say anything. This is just a typical night, one more in a long line of nights where my mother is more interested in her alcohol than her own daughter. I hesitate for a moment, weighing whether it's worth trying to have a conversation with her or if I should just go straight to my room.

I decide against trying to talk to my mother. It's pointless, I know that from experience. No matter what I say, she won't listen or remember in the morning. So I simply head down the hallway, towards my room. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I walk, a constant reminder of the run-down state of the house.

I collapse onto the bed, feeling the exhaustion of the day catching up to me. I close my eyes, trying to force myself to relax. But my mind is racing, thoughts of yesterday swirling through my head.

I think back to the nightmares, my body tense as I remember the fear and helplessness I felt.

But most of all, I think of him.

I can't help but think of the way he comforted me after the nightmare, of the gentle touch of his hands as he tried to soothe me back to sleep.

It was...nice, having someone there for me. Someone who cared enough to stay and make sure I was okay. But I know it's silly to get attached to someone like that. He's just being nice, that's all. It doesn't mean anything.

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. I can't afford to get attached, to rely on someone else for comfort. That's just a recipe for disappointment. I force myself to take a deep breath, to focus on the steady in and out of my breathing. Gradually, my body starts to relax, my eyes growing heavy with fatigue.

My mind gradually begins to drift, the worries and thoughts slowly slipping away. I'm just on the edge of sleep when I hear a loud clamor from down the hall.

I jerk awake, instantly on alert. The sound of my mother stumbling around in the living room is unmistakable.

I lie there in bed, listening to the sounds of my mother stumbling around. The faint smell of alcohol drifts through the air, mixing with the scent of stale cigarettes.

I can hear her muttering to herself, the words slurred and incoherent. This is just another typical day, another episode of her drunkenness.

Frustration and resignation wash over me as I lie there, listening to my mother blunder around. It's a constant cycle, one I've grown all too familiar with.

I want to get up, to confront her and tell her to sober up. But I know it's pointless. She won't listen, won't remember anything in the morning.

I lie there for what feels like hours, listening to the sounds of my mother's drunken ranting. The clock on my bedside table ticks loudly, the hours crawling by.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the sounds from the living room grow quieter. My mother has either passed out or gone to bed.

My eyes snap open as I hear the sound of a knock at my front door. It's faint but unmistakable, a soft rapping on the wood.

Confusion washes over me. Who could possibly be knocking?

As I reach the front door, I hesitate for a moment. I don't know who could be knocking at this time of day.