Page 9 of Bound By Threads
The moment I turn the handle and step into the dimly lit living room, the stench of spilled, stale alcohol hits me. Mom is slouched on the sofa again, the drugs spilled out on the coffee table, her eyes glazed over with a sheen of tears and anger.
Dad’s nowhere to be seen, and I discreetly glance around for him, knowing she’s worse when he isn’t home.
“Oh look, it’s the dud,” she slurs, her words dripping with venom.
I stare at her, unsure if I should pity her for the addiction that is ravaging her body, turning her into a mere ghost of who she once was, or be angry that Dad and I were never enough for her to want to be sober.
She stumbles to her feet, pointing a wavering finger in my direction. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? You think you’re so perfect?” Her voice rises, echoing off the now bare walls, but I stand motionless, trying to be invisible.
“Answer me, dud!”
I shake my head. I don’t think I’m better than her— I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I’m tainted… ruined.
I grab the note from my pocket, thrusting it at her, silently begging her to take it. She snatches it from my hand, opens it, and laughs. “How do they expect me to come up with ten grand in less than a week?”
My gaze fixates on the drugs behind her, and a sarcastic remark flashes through my mind. Why not just not take the drugs? Be a normal mom for once, but of course, the words don’t form, and I’d like not to provoke her even if I could speak.
I watch as her eyes, glazed and unfocused, flit between the note and me, her anger boiling just beneath the surface, ready to blow.
The living room is silent except for the ticking of the fridge in the corner of the room, devoid of any food, because their addiction comes first. It always does.
“Did you write this to fuck with me?” she finally asks me, her mind conjuring ways to lay the blame elsewhere because god forbid she takes responsibility. “Did you?”
I shake my head in response. I have no desire to mess with them, especially not about this. I know all too well how vicious the boys’ dads can be; I’ve experienced it firsthand, and I know Roman’s dad is serious about his threats.
The message is crystal clear — it has been for years. Pay, or I pay the price — a burden Mom has willingly allowed me to shoulder while her debt grows by the day.
My hands tremble as Mom moves closer to me, her eyes narrowing as she looks me up and down. “You’re just like them,” she mutters, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “Always looking down on me, always judging. Thinking you’re better than me. Daddy’s favorite little princess.” Her words are a tangled web of resentment and pity, spun from years of bitterness.
I wish I could say something. Reach her and make her realize the danger she’s putting us all in, to understand it’s more than her addiction. It’s our lives. But the alcohol and drugs cloud her vision, making her only see what she wants.
Her hands suddenly grip my hair, and I shut my eyes tightly as the pain shoots through my scalp. “I hate you,” she snarls, her face inches from mine, the stench of alcohol heavy in the air. “I hate you so much that I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”
A tear escapes me, her words cutting deeply as they always do. I twist my head away, desperate to hide any vulnerability from her.
Her eyes bore into me, filled with hatred and disgust. I don’t think there’s ever been a day when she’s looked at me with love or remorse. For a moment, her grip loosens, the strands of my hair falling from between her fingers.
She turns away, stumbling back to her spot on the sofa, done with me for now, and picks up her pipe with shaky hands. I stand, locking my knees so they don’t give out on me, and watch her with a mixture of relief that she’s leaving me alone and sadness that this is my life.
Maybe turning eighteen is a good thing.
I can move away from all of this and start again somewhere where the water is crystal clear, and the seashells are different.
Chapter6
Peter
“Idon’t know what you were fucking thinking! How could you do this, Tracey?” I shout, fury surging through me as I see her sitting there, the drugs laid out in front of her and the pipe clutched tightly in her hand.
She shrugs nonchalantly, “I was thinking that ten grand is a lot of money, and we simply don’t have it. What was I supposed to do?” Her tone is so indifferent, as if she doesn’t care that she has just obliterated my entire world and ruined Scarlett’s, too.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, reminding myself that Scarlett’s just down the hallway, sleeping. “You were supposed to wait for me. I was going to figure it out. Scarlett has paid the price for our shit for too long.”
“It’s not even that bad. The dud doesn’t even speak. She’s fine,” she sighs as she lights the pipe, taking a drag.
“She’s not a fucking dud. She was...” The words lodge in my throat, unable to bring myself to say them.
“Scarlett got our debt cleared. Think about how great it felt not to feel like he was going to come through our door any moment and take one of our lives in retaliation.”
