Mia

Evenings are the worst. Most people look forward to going home after a long day, but not me. My street is cracked concrete and broken lights, the kind of place the city pretends doesn’t exist. The worst parts of society live here or maybe just the parts no one knows what to do with. Drug addicts. Dealers. People who’ve given up. Criminals who don’t bother hiding it. And somewhere in the middle of all that mess, me and my mother.

We live in a run-down apartment that smells like old cigarettes and stale hope. I don’t think it has to be this way. If my mother didn’t drink so much, or if she could let go of the drugs, maybe we could live somewhere better. Safer. Cleaner. Somewhere I wouldn’t have to double-lock the door every night and sleep with one ear open.

She doesn’t have a job, not a real one, anyway. I’m not even sure where she gets her money. Every dollar that comes through the door disappears into bottles, pills, or whatever else keeps her numbed out long enough to forget reality. I know it’s not my responsibility, but it feels like I’m the only one holding things together. And I don’t earn much. Just enough to keep the lights on. Most of the time.

I used to wonder what went wrong with her life, what broke her so badly that she stopped caring. But now I’m more focused on not letting the same thing happen to me.

As I get closer to the building, my eyes scan the windows one by one. I’m checking for darkness, for silence, anything to tell me she’s not here. Most of the time, that’s the best-case scenario. Maybe she’s passed out in some corner, or wandered off to someone else’s place. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.

At the front door, I pause. My hand hovers over the key, and I take a breath before sliding it into the lock. I turn it as slowly as I can, careful not to make a sound. If she’s still inside, I don’t want to wake her, not because she’ll be worried, but because I never know what version of her I’ll be waking up.

The door creaks slightly as I push it open. I slip inside and pull it shut behind me, quiet as a whisper. The air smells like old beer and something sour. I take a long, steady breath, trying to settle the tightness in my chest. Then I move toward my room, step by step, careful not to make the floorboards complain. Silence is safety here.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Her voice cuts through the silence like broken glass. I freeze.

“When were you supposed to be back?!” she shouts, already getting closer.

Before I can answer, her hand is in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m forced to look her in the eyes, bloodshot, wild, and furious.

“Mom, please, let go. That hurts,” I beg, my voice trembling, trying not to make it worse. But pleading only seems to feed her rage.

“Why is the fridge empty?!” she screams, louder now, spit flying, her grip tightening as she jerks my head again. Pain shoots through my scalp. My eyes well up, and the tears come before I can stop them, streaming down my cheeks as I try to stay as still as possible. As small as possible.

I don’t even try to explain. There’s no point. She’s not really listening, she never is when she gets like this.

“I’ll go tomorrow, I promise, just please let me go,” I plead, trying to sound calm, trying to convince her, trying not to make this any worse than it already is.

She narrows her eyes at me, lips curled in disgust. “You better,” she spits, “or you’ll end up even worse than you are now, you worthless little bitch.”

Then comes the slap, fast, brutal, ringing across my cheek like a thunderclap. I stumble back and collapse to the floor, clutching my face, the sting spreading across my skin like fire. The tears come hard and fast, no way to stop them now.

She mutters something under her breath as she disappears into her bedroom and slams the door behind her.

The second she’s gone, I scramble to my feet and rush into my room. I twist the lock the moment the door shuts, then double-check it just to be sure. Only then do I slide down to the floor, pressing my back to the door as if that could protect me from everything on the other side.

I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to muffle the sobs. If she hears me crying, it could start all over again.

This is my life now.

I don’t even know when it all began, when everything started to fall apart. It was never like this before. I remember a time when we were a real family. Dad, Mom, me, and my little sister. We used to laugh. We used to sit down for dinner like normal people.

But now... it’s just me and Mom. And even that doesn’t feel like family anymore.

If I remember right, everything started falling apart after my little sister died.

She was only five when the doctors told us she had leukemia. A rare, aggressive kind. They said the chances of surviving it were slim - almost none. She was too weak, they said. There was no treatment strong enough to save her, not without breaking her even more.

She didn’t make it.

After that, our lives flipped upside down. My dad started staying at work late into the night, as if burying himself in spreadsheets and silence could keep him from feeling the weight of her absence. My mom, on the other hand, started drinking. She didn’t know how to deal with the grief, and when my dad pulled away instead of pulling closer, she spiraled. Fast.

A few months passed, and the silence in our house grew heavier than any argument. My dad couldn’t stand coming home to a wife who couldn’t stay sober. And my mom couldn’t stand being ignored by the man she once leaned on. Funny thing is, not once did either of them stop to think about me. I had lost someone too, my baby sister.

No one asked how I was doing. No one offered a hug. They were so caught up in their own pain, they forgot I was drowning in mine.

Eventually, my dad had enough. He packed his things and left. No note. No warning. Just gone. And that was the end of whatever was left of our family.

That’s when my mom started taking drugs. It wasn’t long before my dad found out and tried to get me out of the house, to take custody. But she didn’t let him. She fought to keep me, maybe not because she loved me, but because losing me would’ve meant she truly had nothing left.

A year later, my father died in a car accident. Killed on impact.

Just like that, I lost another piece of my world.

It’s been seven years since my sister passed. I’m seventeen now. I’ve had to grow up fast, too fast. I have two best friends, Anna and Lisa. They don’t know what goes on behind the walls of my home. I’ve never told them. I plan to keep it that way for as long as I can.

I won’t lie—there were times I tried to end it all. A few attempts. All failed. I still haven’t decided whether that was a good thing or not. Some nights, it feels like surviving is just another way of losing. But I guess if I gave up now, that would mean letting everything win. And I’m not ready to do that. Not yet.

Pushing all those thoughts to the back of my mind, I get up and walk to the bathroom. The light flickers on with a tired buzz. I look at myself in the mirror. There’s already a bruise forming on my cheek, dark purple creeping beneath the skin. It’ll look worse by morning. I’ll need more makeup. Again.

I stare at my reflection: long, dark brown hair falling past my waist. Light blue eyes that never seem to smile anymore. I’m not skinny, not big either, somewhere in the middle. I know I’m beautiful. People say it. Guys notice me. But I’ve never let any of them get close. I don’t trust easily. Especially not with something as fragile as love.

I check the door one more time. Locked.

I crawl into bed and pull the blanket over me. I hope tonight’s quiet. I hope I get some sleep. Tomorrow is just another day I have to survive. And maybe, just maybe, one day, things will finally start to change.