Page 45 of Fated to Them

“He is dead, Taylor!” I scream at her, and she lets go of me.

“You fucking lying bitch,” she says, her hand connecting with my cheek. I can feel her handprint welting my skin.

“That’s it, Taylor. I am calling the police. I am done with this shit,” my mother tells her, walking toward the phone on the side table.

My sister grabs her, ripping her back, and I hit her. My mother falls to the ground and lands on her hip. My sister stumbles back from the hit before she charges at me. Eli grabs her just before she punches me.

She turns on him instantly.

“Who the fuck are you? Get out of my house!” she screams, thrashing, but he doesn’t let go.

He even cops a smack in the side of the head, but he pushes her toward the chair in the lounge room, forcing her to sit. Taylor is trying to get up when Eli yells at her.

“You dare hit your mother and sister when they have done nothing but try to help you and raise your kid because you are incapable of doing it?” he screams, leaning over her.

“You don’t even know me, so get out,” she screams, pointing to the door.

I see my mother pick up the house phone to call the police. Maya is still crying upstairs.

“You are upsetting your daughter. Now, sit there and shut up,” he tells her, but she doesn’t listen, instead trying to get up when he shoves her back.

“You can’t touch me. Who do you think you are?” she demands before glaring at me.

“This your new fuck toy, sis? Got a keeper right there,” she snaps at me.

The doorbell rings. My mother answers it thinking it is the police, only to discover Cyrus.

“Everything alright?” he asks, stepping in.

He looks around the room, my sister breathing rapidly, as she tries to find a way to escape. Not finding one, she starts screaming and fighting again, hitting Eli.

“Taylor, stop this!” my mother cries, trying to get through to her. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this no more,” she says, walking off.

I hear her go upstairs, no doubt, to try and console Maya. Eli keeps Taylor restrained until the police arrive; they arrest her, and we find out she also has outstanding warrants. They take her away, kicking and screaming, the neighbors coming out the front to see what the commotion is. The day has barely started, and I already feel drained; it is way too early in the morning to wake up to yelling.

Walking inside, I let my mother know she is gone. Maya has stopped crying, but it is clear my mother won’t be going to work today, nor will Maya be going to school. Eli and Cyrus stay but remain quiet, just observing everything that is going on and not interfering. I am grateful because the last thing I need is to deal with them.

“Coffee?” I ask, turning on the kettle.

“I will make them. Get ready for work,” Eli says.

I nod, walking upstairs and grabbing my clothes before walking into the bathroom and turning on the shower. My sister is gone, and now the emptiness and guilt set in. Being alone, I cry. My tears silently drip down the drain.

I hate this part of drug addiction to the point where you just can’t see them getting better, when you feel like you are hurting them, when you have to resort to calling the police on them, watching them being dragged away. Watching your loved one wither away to addiction is like watching them slowly kill themselves, on repeat, as you watch the person you love become a stranger to you.

We have been down this road with her for years now. First, we didn’t understand it; my mother was trying to look for where she had gone wrong, blaming herself for the way Taylor was. Then, we tried to help, only for it to fail. Then came the anger when you watched time and time again how they sabotaged themselves and let you down. Then the guilt followed, when you just didn’t have the energy to keep doing it, then fear, fear every night that you would have the police knock on your door, telling you they’d found them dead in a gutter somewhere, so then you’d start the entire process again, trying to help to no avail.

From watching her deteriorate over the years, I know that this will end in us burying her because we don’t know how to save her. That is what living with drug addiction is like. It doesn’t just kill them; it kills you every time you see them, taking a small piece time and time again until you give up and walk away or you bury them.

Some get clean, while others don’t. I love hearing stories of those who manage to bring themselves back; they give me hope for her, but now I just can’t envision her coming back to us.

Pulling myself together, I wash myself before getting out. Drying myself, I dress quickly before wrapping my hair in a towel and walking out to my bedroom. I quickly blow-dry my hair when I see Cyrus walking into my mother’s room with a coffee.

“Thank you, dear,” I hear her say, just as I cut off the hair dryer.

My sister’s handprint welts my skin. I grab my make-up bag just as he walks in, placing a cup on my dresser.

“Thanks,” I tell him while digging through my make-up bag for my foundation.