Y/N's POV "Y/N! Wake the fuck up and get out of bed," My drunken mother shouts into my ear, her breath reeking of alcohol and other unholy substances.
"I'm up, please get out of my room so I can get dressed," I say sternly.
"Don't fucking talk to me like that you piece of shit! I'm your mother!", She says, lightly stumbling over her words.
"Dear god, get out of my room!", I say, raising my voice ever so slightly.
"Whatever, you're not worth my breath anyways," She mutters before nearly tripping over her own feet as she exits my bedroom.
I sigh before slipping my legs over the edge of my bed and standing up, walking to my bathroom. I flip the switch on my wall, quickly lighting up the room, allowing me to properly distinguish everything. I snatch my toothbrush from the small cup beside my sink, smothering it in toothpaste before shoving it in my mouth.
...
After completing my morning ritual, I walk back into my bedroom to get dressed. I'm not about to try hard for people I don't give a fuck about. I decide on something lazy but casual, my normal sense of style.
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With that task completed, I grab my phone, charger, AirPods, and chapstick off of my nightstand, sliding them into my fanny pack. I quickly grab my two large suitcases, full of all of my necessities before dragging them out of my room. I take one more glance at my neat and tidy bedroom, sighing lightly. I won't see this for a while...
I finally make it down the steps and into the living room, where my mom lay spread across the stained beige couch. I roll my eyes, I go and grab a water bottle from the coffee table before pouring it onto her head. That's the only thing that ever wakes her up after she's just gotten high out of her mind.
"Fuck!", She screams, gasping for air as if she's just been submerged underwater for five minutes too long.
"You fucking bitch! And you wonder why I'm sending you to that shithole!", She shouts, grabbing what I'd assume to be a cum rag from beside the couch and wiping her face with it. Gross...
"Can we leave now?", I ask.
"Yeah, go outside and wait for me," She says lowly as she scratches her rash filled skin, like a dog that hasn't bathed in months.
I walk out of the door, sitting on the curb beside her car with my belongings at my side. I pop my AirPods into my ear, pulling my phone out of my white fanny pack, and clicking onto Spotify. I scroll through a few albums and songs before finally deciding on Yonkers by Tyler, the Creator. I click on the Instagram icon and begin scrolling through different posts and accounts.
...
Around fifteen minutes later, my mother comes walking out of our house looking completely different. You wouldn't think she was an abusive, manipulative, crack addict asshole. She genuinely looked like a mother.
