Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
A blue-and-white glow flickers from the television, illuminating the room. I glance at the screen. Intervention. The sound’s off, so none of the messages can sink into her drug-addled brain. Pity.
I’d laugh at the irony of how much my mother loves watching desperate families trying to get their loved ones sober if it didn’t piss me off and depress the hell out of me all at once.
A pile of worn blankets are heaped on the brown, nubby couch. Then the pile moves. A pale, white arm flops out from underneath. My mother’s face comes into view. She moans, sighs, and licks her chapped lips.
My mother was beautiful once, on the outside. Now, she’s more like a husk or outer shell of a person. Her face matches the ugliness that’s been inside of her since I was little.
“Why are you on the couch?” Why do I bother? Doubt she’s even aware I’m here.
Her arm slides off the cushion, landing on the dirty carpet with a thud. A needle, still stuck in her skin, pokes from the crook of her elbow. A trickle of dried blood trails to her wrist.
My stomach rolls, bile burning the back of my throat. Taking a beating in the ring doesn’t bother me. Needles and the destruction they cause do. Every damn time.
Disgusted, I pull the needle free and try not to retch. I toss it in the small trash can next to the couch. When she started, it was only popping a few harmless pills. Then snorting oxy but now, she’s injecting herself as often as possible.
“Griff?” she slurs. “That you?”
“It’s me.”
“Sorry, baby. I had to.”
I don’t even bother asking. I just don’t care anymore. “You pay your rent?” I ask instead.
“No. Lemme borrow some money?” she asks without opening her eyes.
I pull the wad of cash I’d earned from the fight out of my pocket and stare at it.
“Where’s Larry?” Her loser boyfriend usually disappears around the first of the month, then shows up a few days later. Since he tends to keep my mom’s habit in check, I tolerate his presence. It’s nice to let someone else deal with her crazy for a change.
“Out,” she mumbles. “Leave the cash on the table.”
Yeah, that’s not happening.
I plod into the kitchen, the shadow of sleep following close behind. Since she never eats, the kitchen’s semi-clean. I find a glass, fill it with water, and bring it into the living room.
“Sit up and drink this.” I hold out the glass.
She groans and squeezes her eyes tighter but finally peels herself into an upright position.
“Thanks,” she whispers, taking the glass and tipping it to her lips.
“You eat anything today?”
Her bony shoulders jerk up. “Some eggs.”
“Good.”
“Did you win tonight?” she rasps, handing the glass back to me.
“Yeah.” The fight was nothing. The real win for me was Molly. Finally letting her know how I feel. The warmth from being with her earlier is the only thing helping me cling to sanity now.
“Remy fight too?” she asks.
“No.”
She lets out a muted hum that I don’t care to interpret. The way she fawns over Remy became awkward years ago. While he’d never insult my mother to my face, he keeps his distance.
It’s the disdain my mother’s shown Molly that made me lose all respect for the woman who brought me into the world. When Molly’s mom died, I’d thought maybe my mother would display a little compassion. It’s not like I expected her to play new mom to Molly or anything. Just show some kindness to a motherless little girl. But no. If anything, Mom was even nastier than she had been before. I can’t even blame the drugs. Molly’s mom died years before my mother discovered the joys of opiates.
I glance at the clock. It’s only getting later. “You good?” I ask.
“You leave the money on the table?” My mother flops her hand in the direction of the dining room.
“Sure.” After rinsing out the glass, I search through the drawers until I find an envelope.
“Later,” I call as I hurry out of the apartment. My mother groans but if she has any actual words for me, I can’t make them out.
I jog to the basement and knock on the door of the only apartment down here. It’s late, but the television’s blaring, so the landlord has to be awake.
“You know what time it is?” he shouts from inside.
While I’m waiting, I stuff enough cash to cover my mom’s rent into the envelope. I already paid my own a few days ago.
Seconds later, the door flings open, and Mr. Porter stands there in a blue bathrobe, white T-shirt, and boxer shorts. “Oh. Hey, Griff. Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Sorry to bug you so late.” I hold out the envelope of cash. “Wanted to drop this off to cover Mom’s rent.”
He hesitates before accepting the money. “She’s cuttin’ it close, Griff.” He waves me inside. “Come in. I’ll write you a receipt.”