Six

I opened the door, and as soon as I walked in, I knew that my mom was home, because I could smell her cigarettes. She smoked these weird “herbal” cigarettes that were apparently tobacco free or something, and they always smelled kind of spicy.

“I’m home.” I said loudly.

“Where were you? Come into the kitchen.”

I sighed, took off my jacket, and dropped it onto the s**t table we had standing in the hallway beside the front door.

A s**t table is exactly what it sounds like: a table to put all your s**t when you walk in the door. I mean, come on. You usually have a bunch of crap with you when you come in, and you obviously don’t want to be holding it for a long time, right? So you dump it on the s**t table. Anyway.

I went into the kitchen, dragging my feet behind me. My mom was sitting at the table, a half full ashtray beside her, a magazine in front of her, and a cigarette in her hand. Today her nails were a shiny, lacquered red, and her outfit included a hot pink top with the Playboy bunny logo on it.

How I hated her.

I know, I know, it’s bad to hate your mother, the Ten Commandments; she gave birth to me, whatever.

She’s just the biggest f*****g b***h. All she does is nag and complain. She’s not even a good mother. She divorced our dad four years ago and since then she went completely off her rocker.

Now she dresses like she’s still eighteen, and goes out all the time. Not that it matters.

But then she comes home and tries to control me, and is always bitching and moaning about how I “never talk to her anymore” and stuff. I don’t even know.

This is why I spend most of my time either out with Stitches or Chris or locked up in my room. I don’t even know how my brother, Stephen, deals with her s**t.

“Where were you? Why weren’t you home when I came home? I was worried.” She looked at me with fake concern on her face. She always tries to act like a good parent, even though she really doesn’t care about me or Stephen.

“You could have called my cell.” I said, and opened the cupboard to look for a snack. There was nothing there. Obviously.

“Oh.” She looked down at her magazine. There was a picture of Britney Spears and some other celebrity d********g that I didn’t care about.

“I’m going out tonight.” She said, after a pause.

“I know. I’m going to my room.” She didn’t say anything, so I walked up the stairs and to my room, locking the door behind me.

Oh, what to do, what to do?

I took out the weed that the Adder had given me, and carefully measured out 1.5 grams for Ruth.

Then I realized that I never asked if she wanted it rolled or not.

Then I got my phone so I could text her.

Then I realized that I didn’t have her number.

Then I sat down.

I live a fascinating life, I know.

I put Ruth’s weed in a dime bag that I took from a tin on my bedside table, put the rest into another one, and then shoved both into my wallet, which I put into my backpack. In retrospect, this was probably a bad idea, because I could have gotten caught any time, but I got away with it this once.

When I was done with business, I lay down on my bed and looked up at the ceiling, where I had pinned up a big poster of Pink Floyd a couple years ago. It was pretty faded from the constant abuse of the sun over the years, but I could still make out the general idea of the image. It was the picture from The Division Bell album; their most recent (if 1994 could be considered recent) and my favourite.

I lay in bed just staring up at it for a while, thinking, and after a few hours I realized that I was starving. I got up from my bed and listened to the floor groan and sag under the weight and pressure. This house was falling apart and nobody gave a damn.

I walked out of my room, making sure to close the door behind me, and walked down the squeaky stairs. I knew my mom was gone already because her pink bunny slippers were by the door, and her “clubbing” (hooker) shoes weren’t. 

In the living room, my little brother Stephen was watching TV and eating popcorn.

“Whatcha watching?” I asked, and sat beside him on the couch.

“SpongeBob.” He said, and pulled the bowl of popcorn out of my reach.

“Come on, bro!” I whined. “Give me some popcorn! I’m starving!”

“No.”

I tried to fight him for a bit, but then I gave up. Stephen was, after all, massively stubborn. And twelve. Or was he thirteen? Either way, there’s not much point arguing with him.

 I went to the kitchen, dumped out my mom’s overflowing ashtray, and looked in the fridge.

 In the end, I settled for a glass of orange juice, a bowl of Froot Loops and a piece of chicken from last night. Realizing that I have probably made the worst dinner choice in the world, I sat down at the rickety table and began to eat, drowning the horrible taste of chicken and Froot Loops with orange juice. I forced it all down, because I was starving, but after eating it all I felt so sick that I had to lie down for a bit on the couch beside Stephen. I didn’t move, for fear of throwing up everything and then having to clean it up, so I ended up watching the Discovery Channel. Or rather, watching Stephen watch the Discovery Channel, as it was an episode on lobsters or something and it didn’t really capture my attention.

After the lobster show was over, Stephen decided it was time to do his homework, so he went upstairs and I fell asleep on my stomach.

When I woke up, it was 4:30 in the morning and my cell phone was ringing upstairs.