I'll just cut deeper

Chapter 4

As I walk to the backdoor, that's hanging off of the hinges, because one of mums old scabby ex's never got round to fixing it, I hear the music blaring out. I contemplate whether to go in or not. I know what's going to happen. The air will be thick with grey smoke. Music will be booming, thudding through the thin, mouldy walls. Mum will be laid out, completely off her head on the sofa. When I walk in she won't even remember me, she's usually like this for about another half hour by the time I come home. I'll start to tidy all of the bottles, probably half of them smashed of the floor. The frayed carpet soaked and smelling of strong spirits. I always knew families had troubles and their own shit going on, but I wasn't stupid. I knew that my 'family' wasn't normal. I knew that my 'family' wouldn't be around for long. After 5 minutes of hovering my hand over the door, I finally turn it and walk in. I sigh, and my thoughts are confirmed. I was right, everything I knew was going to happen is happening. Sometimes I do wish I was wrong, that my mum finally thought to clean up her act, get help. After all the amount of times her bastard druggy ex's have grassed her into the police for drugs. The police know what she's like, the amount of help that has been offered to her to get her away from every addiction she has, and believe me there's a lot, is ridiculous. But no, not my mum, she wouldn't have any of it. She'd just tell them to fuck off and call them cocky pigs. I slump my bag down, and walk to the living room. Mums eyes are rolled to the back of her head. She's wearing a grey (once white) vest top. And ripped skinny jeans that aren't supposed to be ripped. She looks so skinny so frail. After 2 years the smell of stale alcohol and weed still makes me urge. I go to the kitchen and get a black bin bag. I go back to the living room and throw the bottles into the bag, I storm into the kitchen and throw the bag into the back garden. I look out into the garden and look at the abandoned swing, hanging lopsided. Dad built that for me when I was 4 or 5. I hate him now. I hate him for doing this to mum. I go back to mum and sit her up, all of sudden my hand goes into something wet and lumpy. I don't even have to look to know what it is. Vomit. Absolutely great. Mum never vomits when she's done weed that's all she does. What is this? I examine her scrawny arms. She's so frail and skinny I could snap her in two.