in the wall, right next to the one from two months ago, next to the one from Christmas Eve.
Angrily, she mocks my requests in a sarcastic voice from within her fermented state of mind; fear and dread fill my heart. Her slurred words hit as hard as her fists.
“A nap will fix this, huh? You have no idea what I go through. Every. Single. Day. It’s the same damn thing. You are not the boss of me!” she yells, struggling to stand, spittle flying.
Why do you do this? You have so many people that love you! Do not add your Absolut -induced bruises to my body.
My voice is no longer strong and firm.
“You need to lay down,” I mumble.
Like you, I broke my promise – again. I was going to be stronger than ever. She won’t remember, but I will. I retreat to my room. I lock my door.
She pounds on the walls and door. I cover my ears with my pillow, wishing I was stronger, watching the minutes click by until Dad gets home.
Why do you drink, Mom?
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