Unsteady (COMPLETED)

ONE

edited

Now - Carmella

"How did I get here?" I whisper to myself as I stand in front of the bathroom counter. It's Monday morning and I am struggling to get ready for work today. I lean over the sink, feeling my stomach flip with the familiar sickness that strikes me daily. My eyes are closed as I fight back the bile that threatens to spill before picking up the hairbrush that sits beside my hand.

Straight, black hair cascades down my back as I push the brush through it. I avoid looking into the dirty mirror before me. I don't want to see how my miserable life has taken its toll on my once beautiful face. My lifeless, green eyes wear purple bags below them and frown lines have begun to form on my forehead. I don't want to see it. I don't want to be reminded of my pathetic mother.

Oh, mother. How I used to vow that I would never be like you. I promised myself every night before bed that I would make something for myself - that I would do something great with my life. I swore that I would never, ever be like you. I wanted something so much more than that life that we lived. I strived for something more than Dad, that house and that city.

My, how the tables have turned.

I am your spitting image. Gone are the days where I had hopes and dreams. Gone are the days where I thought I could be someone - that I could make something for myself. Gone are the days where I thought I could escape.

I'm living the never-ending reruns of the life that I so desperately thought I could leave behind. I failed to escape the tragedy that was your life. I didn't leave that city that I despised so much. I am you.

I failed.

Sighing, I place the brush on the counter and finally gaze upon myself.

I'm tired. I, Carmella Travers, am tired. Tired of working three dead-end jobs. Tired of living paycheck to paycheck. Tired of wondering where I am going to get money to put the food on the table or to finally pay the overdue water bill that is hanging on the fridge by a Pizza Pizza magnet.

I'm so fucking tired of living this life that I never wanted. I am tired of being a failure like my mother and following in her shoes. I'm so bloody exhausted.

I hate this person in the mirror. I hate who I have become. I hate that I broke the promises I made to my younger self.

I simply just hate myself.

A loud bang on the door beside me snaps me out of my self-destructive thoughts.

"Ella!? Where's the Tylenol?" My husband's voice hollers at me through the door.

I clench my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I don't know, Mike. Probably gone." I reply before opening the door.

My eyes land on my husband of seven years. The twenty-eight-year-old man looks exactly the same as the day I met him. His dirty blonde hair is curly and messy on his head. His eyes are ice blue and his skin is tanned from working in the sun all day. He's tall, about six foot and a strong build. He's beautiful like he's always been.

"What do you mean gone, Ella?" He growls. "How the fuck am I supposed to work like this?"

"I don't know, Mike," I mumble as I push past him. "Maybe you shouldn't drink on a work night."

He runs his fingers through his curls in frustration, his eyes turning angry. "Why didn't you fucking buy any?"

"I couldn't afford it," I reply as I grab my shoes and walk over to our ripped, leather couch. "I had to pay the hydro bill."

"What are you good for?" He spits, storming over to the kitchen. I follow closely behind him.

"Maybe if you didn't drink so much, we could afford this stuff when we need it."

"Oh fuck off." He roars as he grabs a bottle of Wiser's off of the counter. "I wouldn't have to drink so much if it weren't for you and-"

"Don't go there! Don't blame me for your drinking! And don't you dare blame-"

"It's your fucking fault and you know it, Ella!" He screams at me.

"No, it's not! You have been this way forever, Mike! I didn't make you drink. I don't make you drink. You do all of this on your own." I yell as the familiar tears begin to form in my eyes.

Mike looks away from me and takes a large sip of the whiskey before replying, "If you didn't go and get-"

"Mom?" A soft voice interrupts. "Dad?"

"Tyler," I say, turning around to see my seven-year-old son - the spitting image of his father who stands behind me. "Are you ready for school?"

"Yeah," He says, looking warily at the two of us. "We gotta go, though. We're going to be late. I can't be late for school again. Mrs Moore said she would make me stay in at recess if I am!"

"Shit, I'm sorry Ty. You go get your shoes on and your father and I will be right there," I say, offering him a weak smile.

"Okay, mom," He says, turning towards the living room.

I watch him run out of the room before turning back to Mike and sighing. "We will stop on our way to work. I should have enough quarters left from laundry to grab a small bottle," I say.

Mike nods and grunts his thanks before leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Just a typical morning here in the Travers household. Another morning with Mike hungover and Tyler walking in on our usual arguments. Another morning of me wishing for something to change, but knowing nothing ever will.

Just another morning in the hell that is my life.