Hate it Here

Her room is dark, an old pull-down shade hangs haphazardly from the curtain rod, clothes are scattered in multiple piles throughout the room, falling off of the rocking chair in the corner, lying in puddles on her dresser, her bed, her floor.
And there is a stench.
It is a strong, sour smell… something rancid.
And there is the alcohol. Jack Daniels.
You hate it here.

She sits up in bed and motions you over. She is smoking, and it is clear to you that she has been drinking for some time. You are not sure how long you had been in your room, only that it had to have been for some length of time; it is deathly dark out. The entire house is quiet and you wonder if your brother has fallen asleep. You wonder if he is in his room, under his bed, the usual hiding spot when things don’t feel quite right.

You get as close as you dare, trying to stay out of her reach. She wants you closer, tells you she’s not feeling all that well and that she’s not fucking around. You move to the side of her bed. There is a bottle or something shiny poking out from under the sheets, you can see that now. You can also smell that the rancid stench in the air is coming from her. As your vision adjusts to the dark, you also think one of her eyes is swollen shut, but you can’t be sure.

-What did you do to today, Jordan.
It is a statement, not a question, and you know that she knows about your dad moving and what you told him, but you play it safe. Maybe she’s just drunk.
-Went to a movie.
-What else did you do, Jordan.
You don’t answer. Scratch your nose.
-Went for some pizza, but Ben said he felt sick so we came home instead.
-So you know your father is moving.
Again, this is not a question. She takes a drag on her cigarette - a long, deep drag that invades her lungs. She exhales a great plume of smoke directly into your face. It rolls out of her mouth, a dirty factory belching smoke into the polluted sky.
-Yes, I know he is moving.
-You also know that he doesn’t love you. Or Ben.
You don’t answer. You want to scream at her, tell her to shut up, that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
You don’t.
You stand there, frozen, not able to feel your legs. You have the sensation that you may fall over, right onto the floor, spilling right onto the floor next to her and then what would she do? Would she panic? Would she leave you there? Would she laugh?
-Jordan.
You hate her.
-Jordan.

Her words slur and the liquid from the bottle, you can see now, has spilled out and left a deep, dark stain on the bed sheet.
She has a hold on your arm. Not tight, but she has you.
You are not scared, but have an overwhelming feeling of sadness, of regret.
Regret for what? What did you do? It is not clear what you should be feeling, all of these things running around in your head, but it is definitely regret.
Of that much you are sure.
Maybe because you don’t feel anything at all.
Maybe it is regret that you don’t feel anything at all.
Not even love.

She lets your arm drop and does not speak another word. The cigarette has gone out and is lying limp between two fingers. You take it from her and place it in the overflowing ashtray next to the bed. It topples onto the floor, the bedside table already full of whiskey and pill bottles, a mirror with a razor blade, cut up pieces of a drinking straw – the bendy kind - and little specks of white covering everything; you are not sure if it is the white of ash or of cocaine.
You are pretty sure, however, that it is not ash from her cigarettes.