Broken Souls Collide

Chapter 1- A Broken Soul

REECE

A bang, followed by a thump and a shatter.

Most people would wake up startled hearing these noises, but it's happened to me enough times to know that it was just my drunk mother once again coming in at two in the morning, from god knows where. Sighing, I sat up on my bedside and rubbed my eyes.

The stairs creaked with each step I took, despite my slow pace. My prediction was confirmed when a light shone from the kitchen and a fridge door being opened was heard. I blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.

The first thing I noticed when I walked through the kitchen entrance was a shattered bottle of alcohol on the floor. Rolling my eyes, I finally spotted my mother rummaging through the fridge for a late night snack; a clear after effect of the substances she's consumed tonight.

"Where the hell have you been?" My voice came out sharp and accusing. Startled, my mother hit her head off the ceiling of the fridge.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed, rubbing her head and slamming the fridge door shut. "Stop sneaking up on me like that," she glared at me, but I stood my ground, unaffected.

"Stop coming home in the middle of the night wasted, and there wouldn't be a problem," I retorted. Her eyes were like coin slots now, obviously not appreciating me talking back to her.

"How many times do I have to tell you to speak to me with respect," she gritted out.

I see where I got my short temper.

Normally, I wouldn't hesitate to add more fuel to the fire, but I didn't have the energy to start an argument. Instead, I gave her the sweetest smile I could muster, so sweet, it was painfully obvious how insincere it really was. She huffed as she grabbed a full bottle of alcohol from the liquor cabinet, which I thought I had locked. I glared at her as she passed by me, and then she exited the kitchen.

I clenched my jaw, a way of trying to keep my mouth shut, but it was hard when I was given a smart ass mouth.

"You're acting like a teenager," I called after her. The only response I got was her bedroom door being slammed shut. I sighed in frustration, shaking my head at my mother's behaviour which had been going on since my dad had passed away.

Grabbing the broom out of the closet, I began to sweep the shards of glass off the floor. It had been eight years since my dad's death, I was only ten when it happened. My younger brother– Sammy, had only been born a week beforehand. It saddened me to think about, Sammy never had the chance to get to know how wonderful of a man he was.

There was also a small part of me that was glad. I would never want him to go through the same pain of loss and grief that I had once gone through– that I was still going through.

Believe it or not, my mom had once been as caring and loving as a mother should be. The loss of my father had changed her. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't changed myself, but the sudden tragedy had the worst effect on my mother; or maybe the damage had equally impacted us. We simply had different ways of coping, hers being any substance that numbed the pain and mine being isolation; however, alcohol seemed to be the way to go when I needed to forget for a little while.

Even as a ten-year-old, I knew I had lost both my parents that day. Images of my father's lifeless body laying motionless on the hospital bed flickered through my head, and my mother's eyes drained of life, left bitter and empty.

By far the worst day of my life.

I cried.

And cried.