DIFFERENT

The Beginning of the End

It was the first loud rumble of thunder that had her eyes snapping open. It was raining outside, she noticed. Lightning flashed and she bolted upright. Her back ached from lying down on the pull-out couch -made of rusty springs and wood- for so long.

Her sudden movement sent a rat scurrying behind her mother's vanity table. She looked around, her eyes resting on the ragged, old, urine-smelling bed her mother usually used.

"Mom?" she called. She was Chelsea Levin.

No answer. "Mom, are you there?" she tried again. Chelsea wasn't surprised that her mom wasn't there with her. It wasn't the first time her mom left her alone.

"Probably hawking herself around," Chelsea said spitefully. She looked at her old leather watch lying beside her on the couch. It was nearly four in the morning. There was the deafening sound of roaring thunder that made her shudder as she lay back down.

Chelsea was a brown-skinned 17-year-old teenager living with her drunk harlot of a mom, Georgia Levin. Chelsea had brown hair, the same colour of her eyes which were shielded under long lashes and a well-positioned pointed nose over a small, cute mouth and full pink lips. She could have looked just like her mom, only her mom was a white who hooked up with a black man to have Chelsea. Despite this, she was more beautiful. Suddenly, the air reeked of whiskey and beer. Chelsea could smell her before she even saw her. It was as if she soaked her clothes in alcohol.

Chelsea heard her footfalls as her mom stumbled about their one-bedroom apartment, knocking into furniture and dropping things, making her way to the bedroom. The room door burst open as her mom staggered in. Her daughter pretended to still be asleep. She hated talking to her mom in that condition.

Her mom crashed onto the bed, still in her full clothing, shoes and all. Georgia grunted before snoring into sleep. Chelsea tried to fall back to sleep, she would see her mom in the morning.

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She got up before her mom did. Sitting at their kitchen counter, she reminisced on how long they'd lived in the small apartment in a building they called home which looked as if a strong wind could knock it over. The walls were in the apartment were chipped and gouged in places. The outside walls were scarred with graffiti and the walkway was shattered so that there was just dirt in many sections where cement had once been. The small patch of lawn between the building and the street had turned sour years ago. The grass was a sickly pale green, and there was so much garbage in it that no one could run a lawn mower over it.

The sinks always gave them trouble, dripping or clogging. They couldn't even guess how many times the toilet had overflowed. The tub was full of rust around the drain and the shower dripped and usually had barely enough hot water. There was a lot of mice and their droppings and for everyone they killed, ten more were there to replace. There was also no exception of roaches-not just roaches-big ones! The duo lived side by side with drug dealers, smokers and other shady personalities. It was a hell of a slum.

Her mother's unsteady footsteps caused Chelsea to turn as Georgia moved past her to the refrigerator. She kicked the refrigerator door closed with her now bare foot and slapped a bottle of beer down so hard on the counter, it almost shattered. She tore off the cap with her opener and stared at her daughter, her eyes bloodshot. Chelsea only wondered what had woken her mother from her dead sleep.

Georgia brought the bottle to her lips and sucked on it, muscles in her thin neck pulsating with effort to get as much down her throat as she could get in one gulp. Then she glared at Chelsea again. Chelsea noticed she had a bruise on the bottom of her right forearm and a somewhat blackened eye. She assessed her mother as she remembered years ago when her mom had been a pretty woman with eyes that glittered like the ocean, a richly fair complexion with distinct high cheekbones and perfect facial features. There was no disputing of the fact that Georgia had natural full lips which other women could literally die for, but now, as Chelsea looked at her, she noticed how that familiar glint in her eyes that had once been there, left a faint glow that stared blankly at anything as if she couldn't focus, her hair just as black as her daughter's hung limply over her cheeks. Her bangs were too long and uneven, her once silky hair now looked like a mop made of piano wire. It was streaked with premature grey strands and always looked dirty and stringy.