Pain. That's all that I felt. My mother was drunk again. Fear. That's what I felt when she got home. Anger. That's what my mother felt towards me. Guilt. I knew it wasn't my fault, but hers, and yet I still felt like I was the problem. Resentment. That's what I feel towards my father every time mother comes home drunk. Longing. That's what I felt when I looked out the window.
"Yes, mother," I didn't know what she said-nor did I care-but when mother comes home drunk, that's always the safe thing to say.
"Room, now," I nodded and stood up. Not looking back, for I knew the scene I was walking away from. Slowly and quietly, careful not to bother mother, I opened and closed the door to my bedroom. I turned around and looked at my calendar. Today was the day. Exactly one year ago, I promised myself if, for the next year, mother continued to drink, and come home wasted all the time, then I would run away. Today was the day. I grabbed my bag, made my way over to the window, and opened it.
"Good bye mother, you won't be missed," With those final words, and jumped out my window.
