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Usually I’d feel secure in the knowledge that Liam knows me; he knows when I’m overthinking, like right now. But this is my family, my problems and I need to handle them myself.
I shake my head to try to clear the fog of worry that’s settled there. “I should probably get home.”
His face falls and his lips pout. “Right now?” His big puppy dog eyes almost make me change my mind, but I know I have to go before my worry takes over and I’m forced to admit to him how bad things are.
I lean in to kiss him briefly, “I really have to go. Walk me to school tomorrow?” I ask, hoping that’ll deflect the questions I can see brewing in his eyes.
I push up from the sofa quickly, picking up my backpack. Liam follows me to the door and wraps his arm around my waist, hauling me into him. “I’ll miss you. Let me walk you home?”
“No, I’m good. I could do with a quiet walk alone,” I say, feeling feverish and I’m not sure if it’s from how close he is, or because I’m desperate to run before he notices how I’m feeling right now.
I don’t like this feeling in my chest; it’s hot and sticky and makes speech feel impossible. I tell myself this is why I can’t tell him how I’m feeling, but I know deep down that it’s not the reason at all. Really, it’s because my mum isn’t his problem, she’s mine.
“What if I want to walk you home?”
“I’m fine, honestly. Call me before bed?” I say, deflecting him again.
I slip out from his arms and pull the front door open, hating how instantly I miss his touch as I walk away from him, back to my house.
When I get home, the house is quiet, the lights are off, and my shoulders drop on an exhale as I realise that my mum isn’t home. Although, the relief is fleeting because I’m not sure where she is as she didn’t answer her phone when I called her on the way home.
The smell of burnt food lingers in the air like a mist as I walk through the hallway and my foot crunches on something as I step into the kitchen. I flick the light on, and my eyes widen at what lies before me. Broken glass covers the floor, burnt food litters the worktop, black crumbs lining the floor, mixing with the crunch of the glass beneath my feet as I walk around the kitchen island.
What the hell happened?
A shuffling noise drifts down the hallway, making my pulse rocket as my mum turns the corner into the kitchen. Her short, dark curls are matted, she’s in yesterday’s clothes that hang off her slight frame, mascara is smudged under her eyes and her shoulders are slumped, making her appear even smaller than she is.
My mum was always such a confident person. She used to tell me it’s where I get my determination from, but the woman in front of me right now bears very little resemblance to the person who raised me.
Her brows pinch when she sees me. “Hey, Jessie, what are you doing here? I thought you were in school?” She takes a step towards me, making me shout out, “Stop, mum, there’s glass everywhere. Stay there. You have no shoes on. Let me get the broom.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, letting out a quick gasp, as if she was shocked to see the carnage spread all over our kitchen floor. I move quickly to clean it up, all the while she doesn’t move from the spot I told her to stay in, her eyes firmly fixed on the mess before us.
“Mum, school finished hours ago.” I throw my arms out wide. “What happened in here?” I ask wearily. A part of me isn’t sure I want to hear the answer. I’d rather just clean it up like I always do and forget about it.
“I… I don’t remember,” she says, shame evident in her voice.
The spotlight above her head makes the dark shadows under her eyes even more obvious as she looks around the kitchen curiously, like it might spark a memory as to what the hell happened.
“Well, something happened,” I mumble to myself, leaning into the cupboard to get a cloth and cleaning spray. I quickly remove all the burnt food, wipe the crumbs from the worktops and begin filling the sink when I feel her hand rest on my arm.
“Jessie, you don’t have to do that. I’ll clean this up. I’m sorry, sweetie. I promise I’ll do better. I don’t know what… I just get so…” she trails off, lost in her own thoughts, whilst I tiptoe on the edge of tears. I keep my back turned to her. I won’t let her see me upset because I need to make sure she knows I’m strong; that no matter what she throws my way, I can handle it.
“Go take a shower, mum, I’ve got this.” I shrug her hand from my arm and throw her a small smile, because that’s all I can manage right now. Her mouth opens to say something, but it closes just as fast before she turns and walks away. It isn’t until I hear the hum of the shower that I let the first tear fall into the sink full of bubbles.
Then another.
And another.
Letting the tears fall freely until I hear the shower stop.
I sniff and wipe my streaked cheeks on my sleeve, blowing out a deep breath just as she comes back into the kitchen. The dishes are clean, and the bubbles have melted in the dirty water, but I can’t seem to move. I don’t want her to see that I’ve been crying, so I stay still, re-washing the same things.
As mum appears in my peripheral, I see she has a packet in her hand that I recognise. I saw them in her bathroom cabinet last week when I was looking for tampons.
The packet crinkles as her hands tremble, attempting to pop out the pills. Her voice is raspy and low as she mutters cruse words under her breath just as one pill springs free from the foil pack.
And then two more.
