Ash & Dust

1| She Was Tired

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ASH
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I kept my head low as I turned down the same alley I walked through every so often, using the fabric of my muted blue hoodie to shield my face from the shady people lining the walls. Men, no doubt strapped with at least one gun or knife, watched me move with as casual a pace as possible while they stayed hidden in the shadows. Women, showing more skin than was safe in the bitter cold of Pittsburg barely noticed me while they rode out their highs, waiting for their pimps to collect them.

I just had to mind my own business and not stare too long—focus on watching each chilled breath leave my lips, or watch the ripples in the puddles from the vibrations of cars driving by. Anything that showed I wasn't trying to start any trouble.

I knew the way things worked around here. Knew them too well, to be honest. Crack and whore houses were hidden, camouflaged by the rundown ghettos, but everyone in this neighborhood knew the truth. Hell, even the cops knew what went on around here. And those of us lucky to survive our childhoods in these parts? A small percentage were lucky enough to escape it. Others? Well, others ended up like me—permanently trapped and tied to it because of someone we loved.

"Ash," Ronnie, a guy I'd grown up with, said in a subtle tone.

Lifting his chin slightly as a way to greet me, I returned the gesture while walking past him and approached the worn down house I grew up in, along with a ton of other people. Surely it wasn't legal to have so many bodies in one place, but like I said, the police didn't care. At least, not the ones assigned to section 8.

"Hey, Ronnie. She in?" I asked, standing at the foot of the house, next to him. The light green siding was warped, covered in a layer of mildew, while the bricks at the foundation looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch. To top it all off, the stench of cigarettes, marijuana, and sex stained what should have been fresh air.

I hated this place.

Yet I always came back.

It was torture.

"Think so," he shrugged. "Didn't see her leave at all earlier, so."

Nodding my head, I gave him a small smile before going inside.

"Mom!" I called out, surveying each room on the first floor while avoiding the passed out bodies and used needles littering the floor. Most people would be disturbed by the sight, but this was what I grew up around. This was my normal, no matter how hard I tried to change that. "Mom! Mom, where are you?"

Heading up the old, rickety and busted wooden stairs, I peered my head into each room, fully aware that she tended to wander around when she was doped up. The sad thing was, I recognized almost every face I saw during my search. Women that were put in the same dangerous predicament as my mother, and twenty years later, they were still stuck in it.

Barging into what was considered 'her room', I huffed out a troubled breath at the sight I was unfortunately numbed to seeing. My mother, Yelena Ovechkin, sprawled out on her old, lumpy mattress, naked as the day she was born. What used to be soft and healthy skin was now marked with quite a number of scars and bruises.

Correction. She was always covered in scars and bruises. For as long as I could remember.

After taking in a few deep breaths, I opened my eyes and did what I always did when I came by.

I took care of her.

"Mom," I said as softly as I could, but loud enough to wake her. "Mom, get up."

Most of the time, it took around five minutes for me to bring her to consciousness. Others...others took too long for comfort. The worse days were when it took so long I thought she may have died.

"Mmrrm."

Finally, she started to get up.

"Ashley?" she called out, grabbing my arm with one hand while she rubbed her swollen eyes with the other.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me," I answered solemnly.

Looking at the condition of the sheets on her bed, along with the used condoms and opened wrappers on the dirty floor, I sighed and headed to her drawers, pulling out the first clean clothes of hers I came across. Tucking them under my arm, I gently grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, leading her to the only bathroom with a shower, right across the hall.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up," I suggested as I helped her step into the tub. Naturally, the bathroom was a mess. Bile and other bodily fluids stuck to the floor, but this was an environment I was all too familiar with. I may not have lived in it for the past four years, but this was something I never forgot how to stomach.

Turning the water on, I could see the goosebumps on her skin as the cold water hit her body, but for her, it felt good. She liked the way the chill woke her up. Eventually, when it warmed up, I grabbed her cloth and washed her, letting her be at peace for the moment.

"Mmm, my baby," she drawled, stretching her body out as I scrubbed her arms, being extra gentle when I got to the spot on her arm she always used when shooting up. It was bruised and discolored, abused, like the rest of her. "Always taking care of me."

"Someone has to," I mumbled, glancing back at her.

When I finished washing her hair, I helped her back to her room, handing her the clothes I picked out. Leaving her to get dressed, I started cleaning up. Using the unorthodox wisdom I had, courtesy of being raised in a whorehouse, I was careful not to get pricked by any of the used needles laying around.

I was just beginning to feel satisfied with the space when I caught a glimpse of my mother, still naked, just staring off into space.

"For Christ's sake, Mom, would you put some clothes on? They're right next to you," I complained.

"What's the point?" she laughed bitterly, although she did pull the large t-shirt on over her head. "They'll be ripped off again later tonight."

"And aren't you tired of that? Of all this? Mama, you don't have to keep suffering. Just come with me," I pleaded, on my knees in front of her, gripping her pale hands. "I've got a place, you can stay with me."

"Oh, baby, I'm not suffering," she shook her head, disagreeing. She always disagreed. "I'd have to feel to be in pain, and I don't feel a thing."

"Yeah, as long as you have your next fix," I scoffed, harshly disconnecting our hands and going back to cleaning. "One of these days I'm gonna walk up here and find you fucking dead! What do you think that'll do to me?!"

With no words, she simply shrugged and turned her head.

Disgusted, I glared at her, taking in her appearance. Wet, long, mildly thinning brown hair. Sunken in, high cheekbones. Heavy dark circles around two deep green eyes. She was thin, far too thin to stand up for herself when someone tried to take advantage of her. My mother used to be a proud Russian woman, determined to break free from the sex slavery she was sold into. Now, she was a broken shell of who she once was and I hardly recognized her.

"I came here to take you grocery shopping," I explained, since I knew she never got to keep the money she made doing tricks. "But, I don't think your head's in the right space for going out in public."

"Ashley-"

"I'll do it myself," I asserted, already standing in the doorway. Watching as she buried her face in her hands, I closed my eyes again, reminding myself to stay calm. Stay in control.

I hated the position my mother was in. Hated the way people used her body and damaged her soul, day by day. But, even more than that, I resented the way she let them win. She gave up, and left me all alone in the fight for her life.

And I was getting tired.

You could only fight someone else's battle for so long until you had to let them decide the outcome on their own.

"I'll be back in an hour or two," I said, looking at her one last time before I left. "Try not to get high until then."