The screen door to my house slams shut behind me, and I hold myself back from jumping. The way it closed had always bothered me- always too sudden and too loud. This house was old though, and there were a lot of things that bothered me that I couldn't change. I didn't have the money to fix the door, much less the shower, the TV, the couches, the floorboards, the fridge, or the roof. It was arguable that we were poor, but I always felt like I had more than most. Plus, it seemed as though people with more money had more time to focus on deeper things, when all I wanted to do was worry about whether or not it was going to rain.
I set my bag on the kitchen table, and was about to go to my room when I smelled something burning. Turing my head to look for the source, I saw a pot over boiling on the stove and rushed to turn it off. When I lift the lid off the pot, a disgusting smell drafted through my nose and I struggled not to puke. What the fuck is my step dad trying to do now? Psion me?
"Hey, James!" I called for him, walking into the living room. "Dumbass, you left the stove-…. On."
Standing in the living room in front of the couch was not my step dad, but my mom. She smiled when she saw me. "Welcome home."
I stared at her for a moment, just to make sure she was real. How long had it been since I've seen her? It's been over two weeks. She looked the same though; her fried, blonde hair ended at her shoulders and her blue eyes were pale and lifeless. Her skin was chalky and covered in scars. When I looked closed enough, I could see that her pupils were dilated. She was high; this was normal too.
My mother never came out of her room though when I was home. She was always passed out or crying or doing something to herself. When she wasn't at home, she was out doing things that I had no knowledge of, and I didn't really want any. All I knew was that she was addicted. To what, I had no idea. I had few guesses; her scars suggested heroin, her mellowness suggested weed, and the redness around her nose suggested crystal meth. Why she did this, I had no idea. It was none of my business anyways, and I wasn't going to intervene.
"You left the stove on," I told her. "Whatever you were going to cook went bad, so don't eat it."
She frowned a little bit and wrung her fingers. "I'm sorry… I just wanted to cook something nice."
"It's alright, just throw it out later," I said, and then looked over at the couch. It was covered in clothes. "Were you doing the laundry?"
She smiled then, looking at a small pile of folded clothes. "Yes, I wanted to be useful for once."
For some reason, I feel anger starting to build up, but I try to push it down. "You don't need to do that. I don't put my clothes up anyways."
"I know," she answers, still smiling, and picks up another shirt to fold. "Your room is such a mess, you should clean-"
"Don't," I snap at her. "Don't try to be the parent now."
My words land more harshly than I meant them too, and I watch as her expression changes from shock, to deep sadness, and then she starts to cry. "I'm sorry…" she says quietly while wiping her tears, and then adding, "You look so much like your father…"
The anger softens, but I don't trust myself with words, so I silently walk close to her and pick up the folded clothes. She watches me, waiting for me to speak or to look up at her. I do neither, and instead I keep my head down, and I walk out of the room. Even as I reach my bedroom, I could still hear her crying.
Shutting the door behind me, I went into my and fall on my bed. My head is spinning from too many complications. Why couldn't things just be simple? Did everything have to be so complex? I have my space, and she has hers. She stays in her room, she doesn't have anything to do with me, and I don't have anything to do with her. Isn't that how it's supposed to be?
I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my contacts, pausing over Rylee's name. Should I talk to him about it? He knew, sort of. The last time he was out my house my mom and I had a big fight, but just because he witnessed it doesn't mean he understands. Skipping his name, I go up until I find my dad's number and quickly press call, holding it to my ear. It rings once, twice, five times when a voice recording starts, telling me that the number is unavailable. However, I'm not disappointed. My dad hasn't answered in ten years now.
Ending the call and cutting off the voice recording, I got back to my contacts until I find Kace's name and hesitate. He just gave me his number today, so would it be weird to message him so soon? Weird? How is texting someone weird? I ask myself, and shrug. It's probably okay then.
"Hey, it's Nix," I type out and press send, instantly feeling stupid. He had me in his contacts too, so he already knew who it was. I'm a fucking idiot.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrated. "Hi, Nix," Kace sent me with no indication whether he was laughing at me or not. "Do you need something?"
I felt that, in some cases, what he sent could be thought of as rude, but it was Kace, and I doubted that he was used to texting people. "No, just wanted to talk," I replied, and patiently waited for him to answer.
"What about?" he asked in return and I quickly typed my response.
"I don't care. What are you doing?" I asked. It took a while before he answered.
"I'm about to go to bed," he said, and I looked at the time on my phone; it was only eight thirty.
"Now…? It's a little early," I sent.
"I know… I got to go now. It was nice to hear from you, I'll talk to you tomorrow," he answered, and I smirked. He wrote like he was writing a letter.
"Bye," I responded, and shut off my phone. I watched as the screen slowly grew dark, and then I laid it on the floor beside my bed. Kace was weird, but he made me forget everything, until all the stress left my body. He was weird, but I liked it.