Chapter 1
I was six-years-old when my Nain taught me how to swear in Welsh. Okay, it was accidental – she cursed at a neighbour in her mother-tongue, forgot I was sitting on the rug in the centre of the living room braiding Barbie’s hair. When I asked her what it meant, she said it was a bad word meant for bad people. I wasn't to repeat it. Naturally I disobeyed.
Ten minutes later Barbie shouted the same insult at Ken, and ten years later I shouted the same insult at my Mam.
It was November 23rd and just a few weeks after dad’s unexpected death. My heart had, of course, broken, but when I saw how much Mam needed me I hurriedly reassembled it. Picked up the shards, stuck my heart back together until it looked unrecognisable, and I ended up not knowing how to feel. Numb? Angry? Lost? Scared? Alone? All of the above? In the end I just felt nothing. Nothing I did had meaning. I carried on with increasing robotic actions and thoughts. I’d get up, go to school, try and get the grades I needed. But just achieving a simple “B” seemed so much harder now.
Wasted hours slipped away, and once again I was staring listlessly out of the window. My pen was poised over a homework question that I had long-since forgotten the answer to. My mind – as it was prone to doing, these days – had wandered off to those hills and valleys beyond my bedroom window, and I desperately wanted to follow it.
My desk was piled high with homework, notes of concern from teachers addressed to Mam and leaflets on how to deal with bereavement. I’d only flicked through the leaflets, and it wasn't worth handing the letters to Mam – she’d be hoping the envelopes contained money of some sort, and these days cash only seemed to stretch as far as Tesco’s alcohol aisle. When I asked her if she’d bought food, she’d claim she had another hard day and needed something to get through the lonely nights. In the beginning I pitied her. She had to sleep in a cold bed, her hand stretched out on the empty pillow beside her perhaps, missing the comfort of another human beside her. Trouble is she seemed to have forgotten she still had me.
I needed her. And not the Mam that had been born from dad’s death – I needed my old Mam, the one who knew how to make me smile and made me forget that I’d grazed my knee or bumped my head. But that version of her seemed to be long gone. That version died with dad.
I tore my eyes away from the window and looked back down at the homework sheet. The algebra questions were a jumble of meaningless nonsense. Resigned to the fact that I’d never get it done, I folded the homework sheet, stuffed it into my exercise book, and went back to staring listlessly at my mountains in the distance.
I had spent too long upstairs away from Mam – I knew that the moment I heard the sound of breaking glass from somewhere down below. She would ignore me, or I ignored her, she spent the quiet hours getting drunk, and then she’d need to vent anger. She’d make a noise, and I’d go to her like a loyal dog comforting it’s crying master. Every time. It had become my duty. I pushed myself away from the desk, aware that I was instantly forfeiting all of the homework I had lined up. Coming up with excuses had quickly become second-nature. As much as I hated to admit it, it helped that the teachers understood I might find it hard to concentrate on work after dad’s death, but they had absolutely no idea how hard it really was.
On the landing, just outside my bedroom, I paused and listened hard. It was quiet downstairs, an ominous sign. Like the quiet before the storm. It was always this way – I’d be straining my ears for a sound from Mam, and she’d be doing the same. Waiting for me to appear so she could vent her anger. Her punch bag at her beck and call. People might ask why I kept going back to her, and I wasn't entirely sure myself - maybe because I was alive, I was the only one with enough wits about me to pull our fractured family through this mess. It was my duty to make sure Mam was alright, even if it did mean bringing myself within reach of her talons.
She was standing in the kitchen, her back against the greasy counter. At her feet was the shattered remains of a glass. I thought I recognised it as one of dad’s. He used it purely for whisky. I often saw him with it clasped in his hand after a particularly hard day at work. It belonged in that image, in his hand. Not on the floor in pieces. This filled me with a kind of insurmountable rage, and for a moment or two I glared hard at Mam. She looked back at me with glazed-over eyes and pointed at the floor unsteadily.
‘It needs cleaning up,’ she said, her finger aiming several inches short of where the glass actually lay.
I looked at the mess on the floor and back up at her. Over the past few weeks I had perfected the art of looking like I didn't give a damn, but now I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. The nerve that had been rubbed raw by dad’s death hadn't had a chance to heal thanks to Mam and her drinking. When the paramedics came, said there wasn't anything to be done and that dad was gone, she reached immediately for the bottle of whisky on the side. She drank so deeply one of the paramedics had to take the bottle away from her, while the other comforted me. Since then it was rare to see her without a bottle in her hand.
Now, I was completely worn down. I was exhausted, stressed out of my mind by the pressure of school, needing to be strong. Mam didn't need mollycoddling anymore. I didn't even have the strength anymore.
‘You know, this wouldn't happen if you didn't drink so much Mam,’ I said.
I trod carefully around the shards, took a dustpan and brush out of the cupboard under the sink, and knelt down in the midst of the shattered glass. While I brushed up, I looked at the broken remnants, how they seemed to symbolise our family life – shattered beyond repair. Sure we could glue this glass it back together, but it will still leak. It’ll never look the same. We could have made it work but Mam was the one to damage everything beyond repair. Though I tried desperately to hold things together, part of me knew full well all attempts at normality were futile. Dad had gone, Mam had followed in a destructive downward spiral.
‘You always say that Rhian,’ said Mam. Her voice jolted me out of my silent reverie.
‘What?’ Even then fear prickled at me. I could sense danger on the horizon. No matter what I said these days, she’d find a way to turn it into a personal insult, make it worthy of punishment. Even the most innocent comments led to an argument these days. I was constantly treading on eggshells.
‘You always say I should stop drinking. What else do you suggest? Counselling?’ She scoffed as if the very thought of counselling was a sign of weakness. I recalled my own brief counselling sessions at school. Now I was suddenly, inexplicably, ashamed of them.
‘Counselling isn't a bad idea,’ I said quietly, speaking to the glinting glass on the floor. ‘Dad wouldn't want to see you like this.’
Yes, I played the “dad” card. I thought it would have appealed to that tiny, darkened area of her heart where surely some love still resided. But the moment I heard the bottle being placed heavily on the counter, I knew it had been a bad idea. Mam only parted with her bottle for one reason – she needed both her hands. I froze where I squatted, and when I dared to look up she was standing just a few feet away. She stood over me, teetering slightly like a tower on the brink of collapsing.
It made me feel like a cowering animal and I didn't like it. I slowly stood to face her. The moment I was straight, her hand shot forwards and balled up my jacket in her bony fist. I staggered forwards towards her involuntarily. The smaller bits of glass grated between my shoe and the tiled floor.
‘Don’t you dare bring him into this.’ The stench of alcohol was almost unbearable. I tried to hold my breath, but at the same time I wanted to breathe hard and fast through fear. I compromised by exhaling in the middle of a muttered apology. She sneered at me, an action which marred her would-be beautiful face. ‘What did I do, eh? I lost him and ended up with you.’
It was these moments I feared above the physical pain. The cutting comments, ones which seemed to penetrate me like an icicle, hurt more than her fists ever could. I dropped my gaze and stared at her left shoulder instead. Her hand gripped my chin, her nails pressing into either cheeks, and she forced me to look back up. For a few seconds we stood in silence while she analysed me. Her face contorted with what can only be described as pure disgust. Sometimes there are moments where adrenaline makes you say something you wouldn't normally say – unfortunately for me, this was one of those ill-timed moments.
‘I didn't ask for it either,’ I said quietly.
It wasn't meant maliciously. It was honest. I didn't ask to be alive in his place. If it was me, if I had died, they could get on with their lives together. Mam will probably be happier. Those thoughts haunted me every sleepless night since dad’s death, and Mam putting them into words ... it was hard. But Mam never saw me struggling. She never saw me reaching out. She just saw someone who had to be punished, and here I was throwing her lines. It was like someone covered in barbecue sauce dancing in the middle of a lion’s enclosure. She grabbed the bait, released me, and instead swung a fist. She was hammered, but her aim was true. There was a blinding impact. I felt myself fall. One hand went out towards the floor, in an attempt to break the fall, and I felt a secondary blinding pain. This time on the palm of my hand.
Within seconds I had scrambled back to my feet, seized shaking hand to keep it steady and tried to examine it. Crimson blood was already pooling around the shard of glass still wedged in my skin. I breathed out, took hold of the edge and gave a tug. Bringing it out was even worse than the pain when it went in – I swore under my breath, hunched over the sink and tried to take steadying, calm breaths. Once I was sure I could bear it I stuck my hand under the cold water tap, let it run until my hand was numb.
When most of the blood had washed away, I bundled my hand into a towel and turned to Mam. She was back at the counter with the bottle in her hand taking deep, long gulps as if nothing had happened. The pain, exhaustion and complete frustration manifested as anger – before sense could tell me to just turn away and keep quiet, I found myself taking steps towards her.
‘When will you stop this Mam?’ I came to a halt within arm’s reach of her – a dangerous place to be.
She didn't even look at me. She took another gulp and stared at the wall opposite. ‘You slipped,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Not my fault.’
‘And what happened to dad wasn't my fault. The fact that you’re a washed up alcoholic isn't my fault.’ I was shouting. I never shouted, not in anger. I wasn't that person. I guess dad’s death brought out the worst in both of us. 'You've turned into such a ... an ... such an ast!’ I spat the word at her and savoured it. The pleasure felt like a tiny flicker of candlelight in a dark, cold room. She spent the past few weeks shouting at me, now I was getting a taste of revenge. Adrenaline coursed through me. It felt better than any alcohol.
She wasn't Welsh and didn't take the trouble to learn much of the language She didn't know I'd just called her a bitch. At least I didn't think she knew. Still, I could see her eyebrows furrow; the word stirred something inside of her. And suddenly, there it was – her eyes widened when she found the definition in her muddled mind, and if I wasn't so scared it would have been comical how quickly the transition took place. She took a wonky step forward, raised her fist, and yet again I felt the dull blow against my cheek which made the world flash white before my eyes, and then the subsequent blow to my head from the table.
For the second time in just a few minutes I fell to the floor. This time I didn’t stand up straight away. My ears were ringing from the blow and my head was reeling – when I tried to stand, I just fell straight back down again. Tenderly I felt my head with my one good hand, and when my hand came away it was covered in blood. Instead of trying to stand right up again, I pulled myself up onto the nearest chair at the table, and cast a glance backwards at Mam. The towel I had bundled around my hand came in useful for mopping up the blood now careening down from my forehead.
I thought she might have shown a little compassion. She did look in danger of experiencing a new, beautiful emotion. But the moment was gone, her face turned ugly again, and she shrunk back to the counter with her bottle of alcohol. She then continued to do what she set out to do every morning - find the bottom of the bottle. With every gulp she started to wilt a little, her feet sliding even further across the floor. I watched her with very little emotion. One gulp ... two gulps ... three gulps ... four gulps ... She fell to the floor with a painful sounding thump.
‘You’ve had enough now, Mam,’ I said, watching as she dribbled more down her front than she got in her mouth. She didn’t pay attention.
I pulled myself onto my feet and stood for a second, waiting for the world to right itself again. My head was pounding relentlessly, and I was a little worried that there would be lasting effects. I was already sure that this wound would be hard to cover up. The bruises are okay – just put on foundation, or make sure you wear your school’s hoodie over your P.E kit. They’re easy to cover. Cuts are much harder.
I moved towards her gingerly, put my arms under hers. She grabbed hold of my upper arms, pressing down on already-existing bruises. I bit my lip to stop myself from making a noise of protest. Once upright she leant on me unsteadily, and I guided her through to the living room to deposit her on the sofa.
Moving her wasn’t exactly hard-work. The weeks of binge drinking and not eating properly made her shed weight at an incredible rate – soon she’d be lighter than me, and since I was fairly slim that would be an accomplishment. I covered her up with a blanket from the airing cupboard and then sat on the arm of the chair on the opposite side of the room just staring at her. My plan had been to finish my homework, make a start on the essay for the following week, but there was no way I could do that now. There was no way I could even take off to the hospital, not with her in this state.
I was exhausted, mentally and physically, but sleep would have to wait. I went to the bathroom to try and repair a little bit of the damage Mam had caused. Dad kept the first aid box well-stocked – I found a good gauze and bandage for my hand. I tied it as tight as I dared to stop the bleeding. With an antiseptic wipe I cleaned my forehead – it stung. I sucked in air through my teeth. Ironic that this caused me to flinch ... After twenty minutes or so I had cleaned up the blood from my face and wrist.
Back downstairs I checked on Mam. She was sleeping soundly and looked somewhat peaceful. I resented her for this. I wanted to go to bed, cuddle up under the duvet and have a good sleep. But I didn’t see how I could sleep. Instead I sat down on the chair opposite Mam, curled my legs up underneath my body, and prepared for my night-time vigil.
