I understand

    Every morning I wake up to this pain in my side. I know I'm dying, but I suppose I'm not too worried. "We all die eventually," I keep telling myself. My eyes first open, first thoughts, "God, I wish I wasn't too lazy to put those blinds in my window. Why the fuck does it have to be so goddamn bright in here." Then I realize it's probably not bright at all, it's called a hangover. I look over to my dresser and realize I drank another entire bottle of Jack Daniel's Old Tennessee #5 Whiskey. It was probably a long night, but fortunately I don't really remember.

    I guess it will be a typical morning, rush to the shower, I'm twenty minutes late, take a few shots of vodka, get on the bus, and suffer through school. My friends say I drink too much for being seventeen. I say they don't drink enough. First block music theory. "Holy fuck, why didn't I take at least five shots?" I think as I pretend to listen to anything the teacher says. I realize my teacher looks like an egg. A really round egg. He's bald and I could paint some eccentric pastel colors on his shiny ass head. Class finally ends, and I mozy my way through the hall to my next class. Repeat for three classes with a lousy 27 minute lunch break.

    For some reason, I think I'm an actor so I have to stay after school until five thirty for play practice. "Man I need a drink." Then I go home.

    My parents don't really bother me, they let me do my own thing, so I head to my room and feverishly make phone calls to get more whiskey and vodka because my supply is running dangerously low. I have to remember who I called last week, I have to alternate who I get it from or else they won't get it for me because, "I drink too much." 

    My routine doesn't really change much. I don't know why I drink, I just know I'm not happy, and well, I really like to be happy. Everybody knows whiskey makes you happy. So when my best friend presents the question, "Hey man, why do you drink so much." I of course have the immediate reaction that I don't. I mean who is he to judge me, I drink with him all the time. Then it dawns on me, I don't remember why I first started drinking. At this point it's just my routine.

    The more thoughts that slither their way through all the cracks and long forgotten memories of my mind, I start to realize, I really just hate my life. And then I remember why I drink. As I fall to the floor and I begin to flashback, I only wish I had a fifth of rum in my hand.

                                                (FLASH)

    I'm six. I'm at the hospital. There is a strangely beautiful woman in the bed. Her hair is thin, and scraggly. You could barely see her pale skin amongst the white sheets if it wasn't for her light auburn hair, and her exploding green eyes. No matter how sick she was those eyes never dimmed. Slowly I realize I'm staring dead into the eyes of my mother. God dammit, she's on her death bed, why the fuck do I have to relive this? The only time those eyes ever dimmed and I have to watch it every fucking night.

                                                (FLASH)

    Mother's dead. Here I am in a two bedroom apartment. You have to understand I have three older sisters. We are living with my father now. Apparently this woman that is here is supposed to be my new mommy. Fuck her. I want MY mommy. The sisters all flipped a coin for the bedroom. I wasn't allowed because I'm the boy. Me and Trisha get the living room. One night I sleep on the couch, the next on the folding cot. We switch everynight. I like when I sleep on the couch. It smells like meat. My dad's a meat cutter and I want to smell like meat so I can be a man like him. Besides, the couch is much softer than the cot. The cot doesn't have any cushions. I think the living room is a better place to sleep because the light above the stove is always on. It doesn't take much light to fill a four by four kitchen with the washer and dryer stacked on top of eachother next to the oven, so the light comes into the living room and I don't have to be scared of the dark. I don't mind this memory much, except for the part where my sister threw me down the stairs. It's the next memory I hate. I'm already crying and it hasn't even started.

                                              (FLASH)

    The safe and cozy too small apartment is gone. I have a half sister now. We're still poor and now we have a house payment. I think I'm nine now. I have my own room and my own bed, so I can't pretend I'm a man anymore. My stepmom loves her child. Neither me or my sisters really matter now. Oh well, we shouldn't I guess. My eldest sister is never home because she has friends and places to be. The other two share a room and hide in there all day so it's just lonely old me playing by myself all the time.
    My dad has a lot to pay for with five kids, and a house. He works seven days a week and he's still a meat cutter, so we don't really have much money. For whatever reason my stepmom refuses to get a job and my dad doesn't try to make her. I hate that woman. I guess I probably could have avoided all the problems with her by just not telling her. She would make me so mad though, I had to tell her how I felt. "You are a lazy bitch, and you don't care about anyone but you and that stupid kid of yours." SLAP! I didn't realize what happened until after I woke up, but she back handed me and I fell into the kitchen counter. The bottom of my chin caught the counter and I bit through my tongue and lip. When I came too at the hospital my dad was there, and he made me tell them that I tripped down some stairs. I did.

                                            (FLASH)

    I'm laying on my bedroom floor with a splitting head ache. My tongue is bleeding, I must have been biting it the whole time I was thinking of all of this. I reach for the bottle of vodka, and welcome the burn I feel as it connects with the open wounds on my tongue. And I understand why I am the way I am.