July [n.h.]

chapter two: distraught

Distraught is an understatement. When my parents left three weeks ago, I never knew how difficult my life could become. I was forced to quit school and find a job to support Roslyn and I. The only cash they spared us was $1000, an amount that has kept us alive, but not exactly living. Roslyn's medical bills come in daily. There's been a notice on our door claiming that if we don't pay the house bills, they'll take away our privileges. Even Roslyn's junior high teachers have become suspicious when she comes to school everyday wearing the same ratty clothes.

I'm scared they'll separate us if I reach for help. I'm scared we'll starve. I'm scared Roslyn will get sick again for not being treated properly. Most of all, I'm scared of how I'll react if my parents ever step into our lives again.

                           -M.G.

I wrote this as I sat beside the creek five miles from my house, surrounded by a half empty bottle of vodka and three full. Roslyn was asleep when I left, and though I didn't want to leave her alone, I needed time to clear my head. I've become numb since they left. It's a sad, empty feeling that fills you up, like water in your lungs when you're drowning. But it's also a barrier that keeps the world from knowing how hurt you are. It keeps you from being vulnerable, and that's what I needed.

I stole the liquor from my parents old stash, dark intentions in mind. I've never drank before, but ever since they've left, I've welcomed its presence. The foul taste still greets my tongue every time, occupying me from the worry that always seems to push its way through the delicate walls I've built around my mind.

I pull my phone out and dial my moms number for the seventh time today. Sometimes, I call in hope of getting through to her faked-happy voicemail. I don't want to admit it, especially after everything they've done, but I do miss my God damned parents and the way things used to be.

This time, when I call, the dial tone ends and someone picks up. I look at my phone, shocked to see the number of seconds we've been on the phone increase.

"Mom?" I whisper. I need to know if she's there. I need someone, anyone to be there. There's no reply, but I continue to talk anyway.

"Mom -- Dad -- please come home. I need you. Rose needs you. Things are getting bad. I know she isn't feeling well, but with us being tight on money, she won't tell me. Everything is falling apart. I know I've rarely shown how grateful I am to you both, but I-"

The line goes dead. I throw my phone to the ground as angry tears threaten to spill from my eyes. I try to blink them away, but the anxiety overwhelms me and I let them fall free. My vision becomes blurry as I scramble to find the open bottle of vodka, needing a distraction. When I do, I take the longest sip of the clear liquid I can manage, savoring the burn that follows.

"If you drink all those bottles by yourself, you'll die."

The sound of another voice startles me, making me choke on some of the vodka. I spit it out as I turn around in alarm, meeting the hooded figure that addressed me.

"How long have you been standing there?" I wonder aloud, wiping my face to rid the mix of spilled vodka and tears.

The boy shrugs, pulling down his hood to reveal his ruffled hair. It's mostly brown, overlapping the blonde that peeks through, almost as though he had dyed his hair. His cerulean blue eyes are his most prominent feature, next to angry scar that runs down his neck.

His gaze flicks to mine for the first time, his striking eyes meeting my faded green ones. He looks away just as quickly,  but I immediately recognize him as the boy who defended me in Mr. Harvey's class.

He sits beside me in the dying grass, the scent of vanilla infiltrating my nostrils. Reaching over, his warm hand brushes my thigh as he grabs my almost-empty bottle and finishes it.