Misfits (#2)

11.

can be triggering.

Seven years later.

There are two things I can do when I hear crashing downstairs, signifying my mom's drunk. 1) hide. 2) make sure she's not dying.

I always end up falling to the second choice, without much hesitation. Even knowing that this will end badly for me, none of my brothers care for mother when she's drunk. The thought of her drinking past her tipping point or hurting herself outweighs my fear of her right now. I'm used to this.

So I slip out of my bedroom doors. It's dark, the sun only staring to rise now that it's five in the morning. I was heading up to my art room with Leia and Ripley when I heard the noises.

The crashes get louder, paired with her incoherent noises and words. She's in one of the larger living rooms so I tiptoe down the staircases.

Turning the corner, I spot her. She's crashed one alcohol bottle against the wall, spilling all over the floor. Another one's in her hand as she takes big swigs, swaying on her feet uneasily. Bloodshot eyes and trembling hands.

It's a bad day. Maybe more of her worse ones. I can't decipher yet but I know I'm not coming out of this unscathed.

I watch as she takes a big swig of liquor and tosses that bottle at the wall too. Fragments of glass shatter everywhere, the sound echoing along the walls. She's angry and incoherent, the worse sort of drunk that mom can be.

I brave myself and then step into the room. As soon as I'm inside, her shouts pierce me. She yanks another bottle out of a drawer and points it at me when she yells, "You. Get out. God, get out."

I walk towards the shattered pieces all over the floor and crouch down, starting to collect them in my hands. She hovers closer to me, slurring and discombobulated.

"What are you doing? You are aware, right? That you're the last person anybody wants to see?" She gets louder, nears me more and I can hear that edge to her voice, "You're a pest everybody dreads. All the time— all the time, you're drowning everyone out. We all wish Violet goes away when she walks into a room."

She needs to hurt me, verbally or physically. It's a necessity for her right now. I know that and I'm accustomed to it.

It's as familiar to me as the lines on my palm. The drinking. The pain. The hurt. It's been my life for years.

"Every time—" She stands tall above me as I crouch, stumbling, "Every time I see you walk past, Violet. Every time you walk down in the morning and sit at the table- I wonder how on Earth I created something so fucking unworthy? You- you're not me. You can't be."

She reaches down and grips my chin, her fingers digging into my cheeks. I don't concentrate on it and keep trying to pick up the glass before she steps on it, "You'll cut yourself. You're barefoot."

She scoffs, "Is that fucking attitude?"

It's the opposite. I'm just not being overly polite so in comparison, my tone sounds flat and bland and normal. She squeezes harder and I breathe through it, not looking up.

"I'm just cleaning up the glass. Someone could hurt themselves." I say.

"For you to ever care about someone's wellbeing will always be hypocritical." She seethes and squeezes until my lips are forced together and I can't really breathe through them.

Her hatred, running deep, burns into my eyes when I look up, "You are my worst failure. And every time I see you, I never feel more regret."

"Please sit down, mom." I try to say. She's going to fall and I don't know if I'll be able to pick her up deadweight.