"Wow, you must be worried. You called me Ashtyn."
"That's your name, isn't it?" He deadpanned.
"It is, but I don't know the last time I've heard you say it," I said as I hopped out of the car. "Thank you for getting me out of my…episode. I haven't had an attack like that in a long time."
"It's not a big deal. Do you need help getting to the door?"
"No, I'm okay now. I appreciate you saying all that, and I know it's true but–"
"But you're still going to worry and help him when he calls and give him money when he shows up asking for it."
I didn't respond as I turned to walk up the steps to my house.
"Hey," West called from his porch. "He doesn't deserve a sister like you."
We both turned and went our separate ways.
Tosaymyhousewas a dump would be an understatement. It wasn't that it was small and outdated. That part could be overlooked.
It was the gaudy yellow Formica countertop filled with empty bottles of wine and vodka, old takeout containers, and dirty dishes. It was the ratty, floral print couch stained red from Mom spilling her bottle of wine after she passed out. It was the rancid smell of being enclosed all day, a mixture of sweat, puke, and sour milk. It was the shaggy green carpet with the vomit stains from Mom and the piss stains from the dog she was sure we needed a few years ago. I ended up taking the dog to a no-kill shelter a few hours away and dropping him off. Mom had no business being responsible for a dog considering she couldn't even take care of herself most days. I told her he ran away and she didn't even blink. She didn't give a fuck.
I trudged through the empty house, bypassing the counters cluttered in trash and bottles, through the stench of last night's sins, to my bedroom. I opened the door and released a breath I had been holding.
Neat. Clean. Tidy.
My room was small, and I liked it that way. I didn't have a lot of stuff, so it was easy to keep organized. I had a full-sized bed against the far wall. It wasn’t actually abed, just a mattress. Since I upgraded to a full-size mattress–back when I wasten–Mom promised that she would buy me a real bed someday, with a headboard and everything. She must have forgotten and accidentally bought a pair of Louboutins instead.
There was a dresser and mirror across the wall from the bed where I kept my limited supply of makeup. I also had an old antique desk and chair which at one point belonged to my grandfather. I used the desk for homework most of the time, but it also acted as my art space. I had to beg–beg–Mom to let me have the desk once her dad passed away. She got everything he owned and sold most of it at an estate sale. The desk was one of the few things that survived the purge. Whenever I wanted to paint, I would cover the desk in a huge drop cloth to ensure no paint made its way to the mahogany finish. Then I would set up my travel easel and paint away to my heart's content.
That was the extent of the furniture in the room. I was thankful to have a closet because that's where I stashed my clothes. I used my dresser for books, art supplies, paint, paintbrushes, notepads, pencils, and anything else related to it.
The room washot. I was melting, and I was still trying to regroup after the panic attack earlier. Trying not to think of the vice I used on occasion–my blade. I kept a few of them around for comfort, but I’d avoided using them for a long time. I couldn’t deny the pull I felt for it. For that physical pain–the release.
Maybe West was right when he told his friends I was crazy. Who fucking knew at this point? After everything, I felt like I’d earned the right to go a little insane.
I dropped my bag by the desk and shoved open the lone window in the room. I could instantly feel the relief from the air outside, as if that said anything about the temperature in the house. I went out to the living room and started opening the windows to let some of the rank air out. In the neighborhood we lived in, it wasn't the safest thing to do, but my options were limited when it came to avoiding heat stroke while inside my own damn house.
Without warning, the front door swung open violently and Mom stumbled in. She wobbled like a newborn calf in black and red stilettos–theLouboutins–and she flopped down on the couch, her short red cocktail dress riding up her legs. "Oh, you're home. Be a good girl and go make me a drink."
She covered her eyes with her arms as if she just had the worst day at the office and needed to unwind. I knew that wasn't the case since she hadn't held down a job in years. Her chestnut hair was cut in a stylish bob–she always managed to scrounge up money for the salon–however, it was so matted and disheveled that it looked like she just came from the ditch out front.
"Are you drunk? Did you drive home drunk?" I asked with my hands on my hips, unable to remember if I saw her car in the driveway when West brought me home. It was all a blur at this point.
"God, you're just like your idiot father. No, dumbass. I took an Uber home."
An Uber that was attached to my checking account.
She lifted her head from the couch and focused her hateful glare on me. I could always tell when Mom was three sheets to the wind because she used terms of endearment like "bitch" and "little fucker", or my personal favorite "should've been an abortion".
"I've been out all day looking for a job, the least you could do is make me afuckingdrink!"
"You’re looking for a job? Why would you do that? You've made a career out of bleeding me dry for the last few years. Running my ass ragged with odd jobs on top of my schoolwork. Why would you possibly do a thing likework?"
Mom’s eyes blazed, and I knew I’d poked the tipsy bear. "Because you little shit-for-brains, you don't make enough! I need money for clothes and shoes, and you want to pay the water bill before it's due. My disability check isn’t enough. I've been looking for something that pays cash so I can keep collecting my checks."
“That explains the dress.”
Mommy dearest had a penchant for fucking over the taxpayers. She was good at it, but not good enough. She was stressed from the prospect of having to earn her money. She rubbed her temples with her wrinkled fingers, looking far beyond her thirty-eight years of age. The alcohol, cigarettes, and pills aged her severely. Her ugly, blackened soul didn't help matters either.