The Outcasts

Typical

Only 7am in the morning and my mom has already to drunk two bottles of vodka and has just managed to include a cigarette.

'Pass me the glass darling will you?'

I sigh at her once again. Most daughters would probably make tea or coffee for their mother, but not me. I hand my mom glasses filled with vodka and a slice of lime on the side.

I take the chilled glass, and fill it half way up with vodka and hand it to my mother.

'Did you read the post yet?' I ask, knowing the answer is a no anyways.

Every few weeks a social career comes to see if I'm doing okay. A neighbour called the police one time after seeing my mother smashing bottles of alcohol on the street.

I don't know what I did to deserve a mother like this, or a father.

Sometimes I feel like my dad leaving two years ago was a good thing. He has a better life without her now, but it didn't mean he had to leave me behind also.

My Dad loved his job. Sometimes I felt like his job was the only thing he genuinely cared about. He worked in an office as an accountant but lost his job due to an incident at home. It was then he decided to leave us and go to America.

'No darling I didn't. Threw it away somewhere. She has no right coming into our home' my mother says in a slumbering manner.

'She wouldn't be coming here each month if it wasn't for you'

That remark definitely got to my mom, as she started to get up from the pile of blankets that havent been washed for weeks. I don't even think our washing machine works properly.

'Pass me my purse Sophia' she orders sternly.

I do as I'm told and pass her purse as I question her.

'I need you to get me some meds and some extra boxes just incase I run out of them too soon'

I fold my arms and cross my eyebrows. 'Mom you know I can't do that'

'You do what you are told Sophia, you don't question me'

I have honestly had enough of this ridiculous lifestyle.

'I'll be in my room. Before you come back home, bring me lunch and stop by the bank'

She walks slowly up the stairs, she'll probably end up smoking a couple more cigarettes while falling asleep to some old fashion movie that always seems to involve a group of showgirls trying to woo their men.

I run upstairs after she goes to her room and take out my laptop.

I want a better life than this, sooner or later I'll have to leave or my mom will be taken away from me. I don't even attend a school anymore.

I look up some cheap flights to New York and some youth hostels around the area that I could potentially afford.
I had saved money for years on end, working shifts when my mom was too drunk to notice where I was, or on the weekend when she thought I was out with the social worker. I had finally saved more than enough. Not enough for me to live in New York permanently or for a long period, but I will find a way to earn a living.

Before my dad left, and when I was still in school, I had the best grades, especially in English. I would write pages and pages and it still would have been anything but nonsense. A journalist is what I aspire to be, and New York is the place to achieve it.

I won awards for being the most innovative and creative writer. I was offered small jobs for local newspapers and teen magazines but my mother didn't want me to be apart of it. With fear that our personal life at home would have been published one day.

Maybe I can publish my own pieces in New York, while I try to find a part time job in a café or restaurant of some sort.

I order the ticket, no return and pay for my luggage.

I take out my suitcase from underneath the bed. As I aggressively pull it out, I get a strong scent of dampness.
It has been years since we went abroad. I think when I was around four or five, we went to Italy. This was my mom's suitcase but she gave it to me afterwards. I'm sure she new ot was going to be the last trip abroad.
Since then, she spent every penny on herself.

My suitcase had a velvety feel to it, smooth and delicate, quite a calmjng fabric to touch. It was a deep cherry colour and had rose-gold zips along the edges, as well as a front pocket with a minuscule lock.

I decided to bring all my notebooks with me. I didn't even write in half of them, I always felt like they were too pretty to touch. But a journalist needs to plan after all.

I fold two hoodies, some pairs of leggings and underwear in the suitcase, as well as two pairs of shoes, my makeup bag and some shirts.

I close my suitcase and put it back under my bed incase my mother walks in on me and gets suspicious.

I decide to email myself the tickets and go to the closest library to print them out. My flight will be leaving later on this evening, but I know my mother will be in a deep sleep by then.
She has no idea that I'll be starting my new life in New York,
Alone.