Addicted

     It's crazy, isn't it?  How a simple slit of the wrist can free any pain you have.  How a single smoke can take away any anger you may be experiencing.  How a swig of a bottle can remove the sadness.  Yet people continue to tell you you're wrong. How could something that makes you feel right, be wrong.  Right?  

        

Prologue:

        "I hate you."  Tears begin pouring down your mothers face as she screams at you.  You clench your fists, forcing your own tears back.  You didn't want to give the drunken woman the satisfaction of seeing you cry, now did you?

        "You ruined my life!" She wails, throwing the closest object near her at you.  Lucky for you it just so happened to be a butter knife.  

        It clatters to the ground by your feet as you jump from surprise.  Your hand automatically brushes against the scar on the top left corner of your mouth.  A little reminder of the last time your mother threw a knife at you.  You're heart clenches as you watch her collapse to her knees crying, an empty bottle of Vodka in one hand.  She brings the bottle to her mouth and screams in anger when she realizes its empty.  She smashes it to the ground and glass flies everywhere.

        You don't really know what's going on, after all you are only eight years old.  All you know is this is your fault.  Your own mother said so.  So it must be true, right?  She mutters something inaudible under her breath and storms out of the kitchen.  You wait a couple minutes before collapsing on the ground, with salty tears pouring down your cheeks. 

        You cry silently for what feels like forever until you peel yourself off the faded white tile floor.  You wipe your tears away and sigh as you head over to the pantry to collect the dust pan and broom.  You sweep up the glass, being careful not to step on any of it.  You come across a large, sharp piece of the bottle.  You stare at it for a moment before picking it up.  

        You had heard of teenagers cutting before, but you never understood it.  All you knew was it was supposed to take the pain away.  But what else did it do?  Was that it?  You were curious.  You glanced over at the doorway to the living room, where your mother usually passed out when she was done yelling at you while intoxicated.  You set the sharp piece of glass down on the counter, tip toed over to the door way and peered in.  Sure enough, your mother was asleep on the brown leather couch.

        Dirty dishes piled the almost broken end tables.  Bowls were stacked on top of bowls which were stacked on top of plates.  Clothes lined the bottom of the couches.  Your mother barely used her room.  To her, this was her room.  This was the place she did everything in.  She ate in here, watched television in here, slept in here.  She even did most of her yelling in here.  She would only leave this room to use the bathroom or go to work which was almost never.  There would always be something 'wrong' with her, making her unable to attend work.  

        Her snores, along with the hum of the fridge were the only things you could hear in that house.  You silently tip toed back into the kitchen and continued cleaning up her mess, saving that one piece of glass.  

        You look around, dishes were piled in the sink as well.  The pantry was empty as well as the fridge.  The only food left uneaten in the fridge was some moldy bread and expired milk.  Your stomach growled at the thought of food.  You hadn't eaten in days.  There was never any food in the house and your mother never gave you money for school lunches.  Your friends never knew the real reason why you never got lunch, they only knew the story you told them, which was you just weren't hungry.

        Your heart begins to flutter in your chest when you realize tomorrow is Sunday.  Sunday was your grandmother's day off from work, which meant a meal in your stomach.  It also meant you got to spend a whole day with her and away from the hell you called home.  Your grandmother was usually the one who fed you.  She was usually the one who took you back to school shopping for school supplies and clothes.  She was the mother you never really had.

        You rush back to your room, eager to fall asleep just to wake up and have it be Sunday.  You pull the sheets over your head and beam, completely forgetting about the piece of glass that was left on the counter.

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