𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫? - 𝐓𝐌𝐑 𝐀𝐔, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

037 - moneyyyy... jk

———————————————

At exactly 6:30—which was always dinner–time—I sat down at the table. I looked longingly up at my mother.

"What?" She snapped, catching my eye. Her voice seemed off, but I couldn't quite place why.

My eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Where's dinner?"

"You aren't getting dinner," my mother replied blankly.

No dinner?

"But I'm hungry," I complained, stomping my feet on the ground.

"Go to your room," my mother ordered.

"Dad would've given me dinner," I muttered, turning around and running upstairs.

Dad had passed away six years earlier, and I still thought about it constantly. His death left a lasting mark on me, affecting every part of my life.

And my mother didn't care.

**

It had been an hour since my mother told me we weren't having dinner, and I wanted to find out why.

I silently opened my door, making sure to check if my mother was there. Luckily, she wasn't, so I had the chance to run downstairs. Since she wasn't in the kitchen, I had the opportunity to see if we had food.

I reached down and grabbed the handle to a cabinet closest to me. I pulled the cabinet open, but there was no food inside. There were just bottles of liquid I didn't recognise.

Poison? I hope not.

I closed the cabinet, and opened the one beside it. The same bottles of liquid. What was that stuff?

I sighed, standing up from my crouching position. I started to head back to my room, but stopped when something caught my eye.

I took several cautious steps toward the container my eyes had settled on. As I reached it, I leaned in for a closer look, carefully examining every detail. It had a label, which read 'Cocaine.' Next to it was a similar container, but this one read 'Heroin.'

Without knowing what the containers held, I cautiously opened the drawer beside them. Inside were many more of the same containers. Some were filled, while others were partially empty. I didn't bother counting, but there had to be around fifty of them, neatly arranged. Being a naturally curious kid, the containers only sparked more questions than they answered.

What are these?

Why does my mother have them?

I didn't know.

**

I was twelve when I found out the truth.

It was one day and, like usual, I walked home from school. I hated school, so most days I usually enjoyed coming home. This day in particular had sucked.

As I reached the front door, I noticed something odd—The door was open. My mother never left it open. I peeked inside, and the hallways were dark. It sent chills down my spine, causing me to shiver at the sight.

"Mum?" I called, stepping inside, the door creaking on its hinges as I pushed it further open. The disgusting smell entered through my nose. It was a blend of something sickly sweet and burnt, a scent I didn't recognise.

"Mum?" I called again, my voice a fragile whisper that echoed back at me.

As I stepped through the house and into the living room, I froze. I saw my mother lying on the couch, but she didn't look normal. She looked crazy. She looked broken. She looked psychotic. Her hair was in tangles, covering her pale face. There were multiple empty containers by her, and there were colourful pills scattered across the floor.

It couldn't take a genius to know that she overdosed on drugs.

Then I realised her eyes were closed, her body completely still.

"Mum!" I shouted, this time with more urgency. I rushed to her side, my hands shaking as I grabbed her shoulder, shaking her. "Wake up! Please!"

Sometimes I did want her to die, but not then.

She stirred, blinking slowly as if the light of the room burned her eyes.

"What do you want?" She muttered, her voice hoarse and rough, the words unclear in a way that sent a chill down my spine.

"I just got home from school. I thought we could have cookies!" I forced a smile, trying to sound cheerful.

In reality, I would've never wanted to bake cookies with her. She was a monster.

"Not now, Whitley," she snapped, a flash of irritation crossing her face. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Mum, answer me. What are you doing with these drugs?"

"Just go to your room," she ordered, her words slurred as she turned away from me, ignoring my presence like I was worthless.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, confusion swirling in my mind. My mother had always been distant, but this was different. The anger and guilt swelled inside me, battling with the love I still held for her. I didn't know how I could still love her; she killed my own father! I wanted to scream, to shake her awake and demand answers, but instead, I felt weak. I felt useless. I felt scared.

With hitched breaths, I stepped back, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt tears form in my eyes, but I blinked them away, not wanting to show her how much I was affected by her. I didn't understand. I didn't understand why she was like this.

Why couldn't she be a mum to me? Why couldn't she be a wife to my dad? Why couldn't she be anything?

I turned and fled to my room, slamming the door behind me. The realisation of the fact my own mother despised me settled deep in my chest as I sank onto my bed, the weight of the world crashing down on me. I buried my head in my pillow, muffling the loud sobs that escaped from me. I felt so alone, so abandoned.

Because I was.

And I was only twelve.

———————————————