Blood. Dripping slowly out of the cuts I've drawn on my skin. Sliding down my wrist, making bright red lines as it moves.
It's beautiful really.
I set down the blade and lay down in bed, and stare up at the ceiling.
Why does everything have to be so hard?
Why do my friends have to leave?
I hear the familiar click of the front door unlocking, and the click clack of my mother's high heels.
"ALEX!"
"What Mom?"
"WHERE THE HELL IS MY WHISKEY?"
"In the drawer where you left it Mom."
The house shakes as she yanks open and slams closed her whiskey drawer, and the click clack recedes as she escapes to her room to get drunk and forget.
At least she came home tonight. Some nights I have to call the local clubs and bars to see where she is and pick her up in the morning because she's either to high or too hungover to drive herself home.
Other nights she'll come home with some man I've never seen before, and they'll be up in her room with the whiskey and he'll be gone the next day.
I roll onto my side and stare out the window. It looks out onto the grungy suburban neighborhood where me and my mom live.
As I look out the window I start to make out a figure against the darkness, but... He seems to be floating... Not even my fucked up mind could do that... Could it?
I brush it off as a stupid trick on my eyes, and roll back over to stare at the ceiling.
Eventually I fall asleep.
