One Word

Chapter 1

I sighed, pulling my hair up into a ponytail. Today was the first day of my senior year and I was less than enthusiastic. Making my way down the stairs, I took note that my father was gone, his keys missing from the bowl, and his coat hook empty.

He was always working.

After throwing together a measly breakfast that consisted of a glass of water, and nothing else, I cautiously walked into the living room. I was always scared of the sight I would see.  I glanced at a photo of a woman with wavy, long brown hair, bow lips, and a snowy complexion with freckles dappled over her nose, reflecting my face, minus her blue eyes compared to my grey. We used to look the same, but now, the woman who was in front of me a shadow of what she once was in the photo.

Rumpled, matted hair, dilated eyes, dry, cracked lips, and a never-present look that always painted her face.

She was here, but not really. She was wrapped in a robe and staring at her scarred leg, and fiddling with her painkiller bottle with her hands.

She had needed a high dosage of 4 pills a day. She went through bottles almost every two weeks now. Our insurance didn't cover it. Opioids are expensive.

But I pretended not to notice.

I pretended that when I went to the 'Chess Club', I wasn't really going to my job.

I pretended that I wasn't slipping money into the payment at the pharmacy.

I pretended the pharmacist didn't give me pitiful looks as I did so.

I pretended to have a normal life, with friends, and a present family.

I seemed to pretend a lot nowadays.

"Morning mom," I greeted.

No response. The usual.

I sighed, heading out the door and locking it behind me, not trusting my own mother to do so. Glancing at my home, I tried to bury my despair in the deepest parts of my soul. My once well taken care of house had fallen into a state of slight disrepair. The window boxes of flowers were overflowing with foliage, weeds sprouted everywhere from the lawn that was many inches tall, and there were holes in the siding of the house from a hail storm that we hadn't had the money to repair since the accident.

I turned away, scuffing my shoe on the sidewalk before walking towards my car. It was many years old when I had gotten it and had only aged more since then. I hopped in, finding some semblance of normalcy as I drove to school, playing music off my phone, and focusing on the road.

It was an easy rhythm. I liked it. It reminded me of when I used to have the time to run. Another aspect of my life ripped from me due to my own stupidity.

I had always thought people were being dramatic when they held guilt that didn't really make sense. When someone held guilt over an accident that didn't really have anything to do with them.

But humans are smart. We make connections. Too many.

Too many, what if's.

Too many but's.

To many however's.

If I hadn't left my backpack on the steps, none of this would have happened. People, therapists mainly, told me it wasn't my fault. That if my mother hadn't come home so late, it wouldn't have happened. Or if she hadn't decided to leave the lights off. Or if she hadn't been drunk.

But, when it came down to it, al of those things would have been fine, if my backpack hadn't been there. It was my fault. No matter what they said.