Perspective

Chapter Four.

"I know that things have to change
But how to change them isn't clear
I'm tired of knockin' on doors
When there's nobody there"

***

I drag myself through the front door, kicking it closed behind me and I've never been happier to high tail it away from somewhere faster than that damn party.

Thank god that's over.

I keep trying to shake those damn green eyes out of my head but it's like they've snuck into my brain and set up camp, taunting me and refusing to give me a break from them flashing in my memory for five minutes.

Who he hell does he think he is?

Furthermore, why wouldn't he just leave me alone. I guess maybe I was just like when you see a car crash, impossible to look away from how much of a cluster fuck it is.

Frankie didn't even bother trying to convince me to stay when he saw how desperate I was to go, he knew I'd had too much and reached my limit.

He's always so understanding with me, although sometimes, he acts like I could shatter any second and I hate those moments when he looks at me like that - like I'm unstable and a moment away from falling off the deep end.

He's not wrong but it doesn't change the fact I hate feeling weak.

I stop dead as I reach the lounge room from the front door, looking at the body slumped unconscious on the couch and my shoulders deflate as I sigh.

"Fuck sake mum, not again"

I press my lips into a flat line, walking towards the couch, looking at her limp but sitting up in only a shirt, undies and dressing gown, slouched over with her hands resting palm up beside her, mouth hung open and head hung forward.

I stop in front of her and I look next to her, seeing the box of medication open on the seat next to her, then to the several beer bottles on the ground; the burnt out cigarette still perched between her pointer and middle finger and groan, pinching the bridge of my nose and mutter under my breath "She's like a fucking blood hound, no matter where I hide them she finds them - she's going to burn this fucking house down one day"

I huff, leaning forward and shake her shoulders roughly "Mum" I say loudly "Mum!"

She doesn't respond, so I shake harder until she makes an incoherent groan, and shout "Wake up!"

She lifts her brows, trying to open her eyes but too drunk and high off her face to even do that.

"God dammit" I huff, standing back up straight and leaning down to snatch the box off the couch and cigarette from her hand then picking up the beer bottles.

Where did she get the beer from this time? I don't keep alcohol in the house - well I haven't for the last three years, not since she moved in.

Moved in isn't even the right term, more so just showed up at my house and told me she was living with me because she had no where else and I'm her daughter, she's sick and it's my job to take care of her.

So here we are I guess.

I know most people would be shocked or frightened coming home to their parent looking dead on the couch, but I've been seeing the same thing since I can remember, it's just what is normal is for me.

It's routine for me now, I don't know if I feel anything about it, if I do I'm numb to it, this is just how life is.

This is probably punishment for me going out, she normally just passes out in her room, but seeing as I wasn't here to run after her and act like her servant, god forbid she had to walk to the fridge and get her own drink; I assume she wiped herself out for me to deal with when I got home.