The One You Can't Forget (The One, #1)

twenty-four

Hainsey

You know things are bad when you dread returning home after a certain amount of time. Normally, you'd be excited about the feel of a hot shower and the familiar sheets of your bed, even that original smell that your house has – some spiced pumpkin candle my mom loves.

But with the current conditions of my house, I'm not excited whatsoever. My first thought when I step in has something to do with me hoping my mom is still alive and breathing. I know it contradicts what I said about her death probably being a good thing (even though I sound like a terrible person when I do say that), but it's a complicated situation I'm in. I hate her, but I don't. She is still my mom and I do love her. I just hate how she's suffering and the how she's made some bad decisions that have affected me and how I live.

"Mom?" I call out after I've kicked my shoes off. That's when I notice how old my hiking boots are – the fabric on top is starting to weather and the laces are worn. The grip on the bottom must be horrendous – no wonder I was constantly slipping when I went on a run yesterday. I add hiking boots to my list of "Things I Need, but Am Never Going to Get."

I saunter into the living room, where I'm expecting her to be. I'm correct. She's lying on the couch, passed out. On the coffee table are small packets of heroin, along with used and unused syringes. My stomach flips – I've never been queasy when it comes to blood and shit like that, but there's something about knowing that it's my mom the drugs are affecting that bothers me. It's her dried blood that coats the tips. It's her hands that tie the rubber band around her upper arm.

I shut my thoughts down. I can't think about this or else it's going to ruin the evening for me, and I can't let that happen. I'm going out with Ems, Rosa, and Val. Just like the old times. While I feel a little guilty that I'm the only one preventing them from being able to go to a bar tonight, I think screw it. At restaurants they can order drinks. Besides, I'll be nineteen in a couple weeks. And, on top of that, I've never liked alcohol. Maybe the odd sip here and there. But that was when we were young and feeling rebellious for breaking the law. Everything is different now.

With the heart-breaking sense of hopelessness and anger, I pull up the small, chequered blanket so it's up to my mom's shoulders. I look her over while I do this. When did she get so skinny? Is she eating? Is she taking care of herself at the minimal level at least? Fuck all the questions that start protruding my brain. I wish there was something I could do to stop this.

But there isn't. In the end, it's her choice. I mean, I could cut her off. But I've read up on what heroin can do to a person's mind – she'll do whatever she can to get it, and I'd prefer it if she didn't go around sleeping with guys for money or something to that effect.

Before heading upstairs, I plant a kiss on her forehead. I can't stop the single tear that trickles down my cheek. I wonder if my dad ever thinks about what he left behind. I wonder if he ever contemplates the damage he's done, what he's left behind for me to deal with.

To my dismay, the question, Would he be proud of me? seeps into my brain.

I aggressively push that one away. Fuck what he thinks. I know I'm doing the best that I can to deal with this. Maybe I'll have help soon, too. I know I need to tell Ems about this sooner than later. I'm thankful Val has kept her mouth shut, but I'm starting to think it's time for me to open up about what's going on at home.

And I swear I will.

Just not tonight.

When I tell her, I want us to be alone together.