My mom is, as usual, home when I get there. Home, being a shitty one-story house on the wrong side of town. You get what you pay for though, and I can only afford so much.
She's lying on the couch, nearly passed out. There's also two needles sitting on the coffee table in front of her.
"Fuck, mom," I use a tissue to grab them. No chance in Hell I'm touching them with my bare hands. "You can't just leave these around. I don't want Mae getting a hold of them."
"She's not your fucking daughter," She growls lowly. It sounds like she's just drunk, but I know better.
I move to the kitchen and throw the needles in the trash, putting some paper plates and assorted plastic over them. "Well," I say, stepping back in the front room, "She's not yours. So."
"Knock off that fucking attitude, bitch." Mom sits up, glaring holes into me. She's wobbling slightly, though, so I'm not even the least bit intimidated. I wouldn't be even if she was sober.
"Knock off the drugs," I spit back.
I am in dangerous territory. If I don't cool it, I know she won't hesitate to try to take a swing at me. But, I mean, she's on drugs and I'm not. Also, I'm a street fighter. I know how to deal with people twice her size and twice as sober. It wouldn't be a problem if she did decide she was suddenly feeling feisty. But I don't want to put her in a sour mood, because Mae comes home later. And mom is not above hurting Mae. I always try to step in, but if I'm making dinner or in the bathroom, I can't always be right by her side to ensure she doesn't get hit at least once before I get to her.
"Sorry, Momma," I sigh, even though I'm not. Not even close to remorseful. "It was a bad day at school."
Her eyes soften from the stone cold glare they had been previously. "You should still mind yourself. Whatever happens there is not my fault. I never take my anger out on you when I have a shitty night at work."
That is a fucking lie and we both know it. When she doesn't make enough at her stripping job to buy more heroin or meth or whatever the fuck else, she's always pissed. Always ready to fight.
"I know," I lace my tone with sadness and guilt, swallowing the words I really want to say. "I'm sorry. How can I make it up to you?"
"Go get the bug spray. I'm being eaten alive over here."
She's not. That was the crack talking. But I nod and head to the bathroom anyway, bringing the can of spray over to her and letting her douse her body in it.
It doesn't stop her from swatting and scratching at herself, but I don't think she realizes she's still doing it.
I leave her alone and go to the kitchen, grabbing the grocery list off the fridge and laughing lightly when I see Mae has put cookies at the end of it. I try not to buy a lot of junk food, mostly to keep myself fit. But if Mae wants cookies, I'll get her cookies. She deserves some good in this world.
Next, I make my way down the hall and into my room, finding my lock box where I keep all the cash I earn after fighting someone and winning. I grab a two-hundred of it and put it in my pocket before locking the box again and shoving it back under my bed.
"I'm going to get groceries, Mom!" I call. "I'll be back in a few."
She doesn't answer, and that's probably because she's lost somewhere in the world of addiction.
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