Play the Game ~ R O G E R T A Y L O R ~

1

New Orleans, Louisiana - 1976

Laying silently in my room, my mind begins to race. First over the odd stuff, like what our purpose here on Earth, but then gets progressively darker and depressing, getting into topics that are not worth sharing. I take a look at the clock on the wall.

Half past 3.

I get up and open my curtains. Most people think Louisiana just one huge swamp with country boys and tailgating girls everywhere, but it's honestly very beautiful if you're in the right spot. I personally don't have an accent, unlike most, which has its perks.
I have an apartment room pretty high up, with the absolute perfect overview of the city. I can clearly see the French Quarter from my bedroom, and all other attractions in my line of sight. I gaze up at the moon, the stars, and the dimly lit sky.

Beautiful.

The sounds of crickets in the trees can be heard from down below, as well as the occasional thumping of loud music coming from a club nearby or the honking of a cars horn as they pass by. Life is honestly perfect here, aside from one thing.

My mother.

I do live with her here. She helps pay bills, or I should say helped pay for bills. She recently became an alcoholic, which sounds cliche, yet sad but true. My dad left her, and she hasn't been in the best state of mind recently. At night sometimes, all you hear is the crashing and banging of bottles and pans, but on other nights like tonight, it's silent, and she's asleep on the couch or in her bed passed out. I ask her to get help, but she just yells at me and continues to drink.

I'm definitely old enough to move out and live on my own, but as mentioned before, the bills pile up on my counter, and the amount of money that I make during my shift at the local record store can only pay for, at the minimum, two bills. But at this point, she doesn't help me anymore. So what's the point? Not much of an adult 23 year old thing to be saying about such a broad topic, but I cannot deal with paying $500 electrical bills right now. Money is tight.

After contemplating whether or not I should stay or leave the apartment, I yawn, and crawl into bed, knowing damn well that I shouldn't take this quietness for granted and mope about it, but rather get some sleep. Because I know the next night will be full of crashing pots and the clinking of multiple bottles of Jack Daniels. 
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

I wake up the next morning feeling quite good about myself. I hop up out of bed, rummage through my drawers to find a cute outfit, which ends up just being a pair of mom jeans and a Beatles tour t-shirt. I brush out my matted hair and apply just mascara to my eyelashes whilst heading downstairs to make breakfast. As I am scrambling eggs, my mother comes downstairs, swaying like a palm tree as she walks.

"Good morning, mom. How are you?" I ask while reaching for some plates.

"F-fine, baby. Oh, how I could use a glass of wine right now." She grabs the nearest bottle of red wine which was on the counter next to the carton of orange juice and pours it into a dirty wine glass. I glance up at her as I set the plates of food on the table.

"Mom?" I ask.

She spins around. "Yesssss?"

"Could we maybe eat breakfast without the wine?" I pick at my finger nails as I say it, scared of what her reaction would be. And I was right. I should've been scared.

"N-no! This is he only t-thing keeping me going! Don't talk to your mother that w-way!" She slurs and flings the glass at my head and I duck just in time before it hits my face.

She's never done that.

"Mom. I just asked a simple question. Please calm down."

But there was no calming down now.

"You do this constantly! You a-always nag and nag about something so stupid. And I'm sick of it! Grace, you are o-out this house! If you aren't g-gone by Thursday, I'll call the cops on you."

I stare blankly at her as my mouth cranes open.  Her logic made zero sense, but at this point, it's probably best for me to move out. I look at her for a moment.

"Fine. If that's what you want."

Then I go upstairs and slam the door, wondering what to do next.