m e l o d y

O2//headphones

Friday 15 August 2003, 9:31 p.m.

An hour or so later, I look up from my homework and exhale slowly.

There's an unsteady crunch of tires on gravel outside. I bang my book closed and lean back in my chair, fingers laced behind my neck.

"Shit," I hiss.

This is what I was panicking about before – my mom's inevitable reappearance, probably with some drunk male company.

Or worse, sober.

A set of footsteps outside indicate there's only one person headed toward our apartment: great. I get to confront the witch alone.

The harsh jangle of keys in the lock propels me to my feet. Judging by the amount of swearing and keys being tried, mother dearest is too drunk to do shit. Clintonville may be a small town, but I'm surprised that mum hasn't yet killed herself already, what with all the drunk driving she does.

Half a minute later, the door creaks open and mom gives a sort of happy shout that's lost somewhere in her throat. The wobbly sound of her heels going click-clackclick on the wood floor travels up the stairs as if warning me, but I, sadly, can't comprehend their message.

She stops in her tracks when she sees  me perched at the top of the stairs, and I inhale.

Control your breathing, Mel. Hold it there.

Her face contorts into a look of disgust and outrage, as it always does. I am her Dark-Skinned Disappointment™, after all.

I finally exhale and wait for the blow.

"Melody-FUCKING-Thompson!" my mother yells, spit flying from her pursed lips.

Keep calm, Mel. Just keep the fucking farm calm.

I breathe in, out, and attempt to look unimpressed.

"Hi, Mom," I say tiredly. She seems at a loss of what to say, but clenches her fists and gestures at me wildly.

"Y-you disgust me," she sputters, practically blazing with anger.

"Why do I disgust you so, mother?" I ask, simultaneously enjoying and being scared shitless of my words. How will she react?

See, my mom when she's drunk (which, to be honest, is more often than not), has never felt it easy to express herself in words. She prefers fists, wine bottles, rolling pins and the like – when it comes to me, at least. 

"I'll get you for that, smart-arse," she growls, but after a moment, she turns away to unpack her handbag. I've never been sure what she manages to fit in there that she can live off, for the days that she just... doesn't bother to come home. 

I have an idea about the people she lives off, though.

One more thing.

"What's for dinner?"

Sandra Thompson slowly turns to face me, and I cringe at the way her eyes somehow form a cruel snarl.

"Shut the fuck up!"

After that, she pays me no further notice. I'm glad – she's no mother.

Sighing, I walk back to my room. Examining myself in the mirror, I find the following things:

· long dark hair covering half my face

· milk chocolate coloured skin, dotted with pimples

· bloodshot eyes the exact shade of forest green as my mother's

· a fourteen-year-old with a larger burden than most and

· a tired, rejected girl with nobody to turn to.

All in all, I'm a rather sad sight.

I change into black pyjamas to match my mood, and crawl into bed. Plugging Beastie Boys into one ear, I try to relax, but it's hard when I'm too scared to even sleep. Mom's downstairs, making some inexplicable clanging sounds somewhere in the kitchen, and I am how I will always be: afraid.

With that cheerful thought, I spend another sleepless night feeling more alone than ever.

---

Mel's pictured as I imagine her up at the top. She has darker hair, though.

Also, how are y'all enjoying this so far? Please remember to vote n comment (: