Beautifully Broken

The door creaks as it opens. I peek my head in, making sure the coast is clear before stepping inside and closing it behind me. It’s been five weeks since I’ve been here last, but nothing’s changed, not that I expected it to. Flies buzz over molding pizza boxes and faded red solo cups on the kitchen counter. I cover my mouth, choking back a gag.

I walk around the couch to the coffee table, where mail is piled a mile high, and freeze. Monica, my bio- mom, is passed out on the couch, one arm over her eyes. The other dangles off the side, her fingers brushing the floor. She’s even thinner than the last time I saw her, practically skin and bones. Box red hair, more of a faded maroon than the desired color, is splayed across her cheeks and pillow. Even in the dim light, there’s a yellow tinge to her translucent skin. Track marks scar her arms and for a moment, I feel bad for her.

Life is just a catalyst of decisions, spinning you high above the clouds or burying you beneath the dirt. One wrong choice and I could easily end up like Monica. I can’t help but wonder, what happened to her? What terrible experience made her feel the need to banish all thoughts and worries with

heroin and alcohol and everything else she does?

I push these thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter what happened to Monica. Nothing in her past will ever excuse what she did to me.

I crouch down and sift through dozens of envelopes filled with past due notices and collection letters. It’s a wonder how she hasn’t been evicted yet. I used to pay everything— the lights, the water, most of the rent. The landlord when we were short, which was practically a monthly occurrence, would take payment in the form of Monica’s pussy. She probably still pays him that way. Finally, I find the envelope I’m looking for and tuck it into my back pocket.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Monica mumbles as I rise to my feet. Her voice is nails on a chalkboard, grating my nerves and inciting a rage I’m not proud of.

“Out.”

“I have a client tonight,” She hollers from the couch.

I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge. Unsurprisingly it’s empty. By the looks of things, it has been for a while. I slam it closed. Half empty bottles of liquor rattle like a deranged windchime on top of it. “You always have a client.” Or five.

Monica quit working Avenue D when she met Gerald last year, which was more of a curse than a blessing. Gerald brought his clients, his drugs, and his thugs into my four walls and there was nothing I could do about it. What’s worse, he was Monica’s supplier, paying her with heroin more nights than not. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“When exactly was the last time you fed me, Monica?”

She sits up and throws a wrinkled McDonalds’ bag at me. “There, I fed you.” It lands at my feet as she lies back on the couch. She clicks the TV on, watching static on the cableless screen. I pick up the bag and unroll it open. My stomach lurches into my throat from the smell. I crumble the bag and toss onto the mountain that is her trash can.

“Yeah, because giving me rotten food counts as feeding me.” I roll my eyes and cross the room to the front door. I need to leave. These walls are paper thin. Someone is bound to hear us arguing and that someone will probably tell one of Gerald’s thugs I’m back. The last thing I need is a tail.

Monica sits up again, her lips purse together making her hollow cheeks even more skeletal. “You’re an ungrateful little bitch.”

“What do I have to be grateful for?” I scoff. The piss yellow walls from all the cigarette smoke? Piles of dirty dishes in the sink that I refuse to wash because I don’t live here. The cockroaches that scurry from one leftover fast food container to another because her so-called friends don't know how to throw shit away? Or how about your pimp who broke into my room and tried to rape me?

Monica’s up and in my face before I can finish my thoughts. Bone chillingly thin hands on her scrawny hips. For a half dead thing, she moves fast. “I keep a roof over your head. If not for me, you’d be out on the streets.”

Mommy dearest is delusional. She still thinks I hide in my room at night, pretending monsters aren’t real. Newsflash. They are. She let them into our house and now they claw their way into my dreams. “Keep telling yourself that, Mom.”

SMACK.

My fists ball at my sides. I clench my teeth and look back up at Monica’s smug expression, ignoring my throbbing cheek. She crosses her arms, proud of herself. Like she just caught me sneaking out in the middle of the night. Mother of the year right here. I roll my tongue across my teeth and nod. I’m done. Done talking to her. Done being here. Just done.

She arches a drawn on brow. “You got something to say?”

11

Piper

“You’re fucking stupid.” The notion that someone knows I’m here should be terrifying, but I’d recognize the voice anywhere; raspy from too many years of smoking with a subtle hint of his mother’s Italian accent.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say shutting the door behind me. I rub my cheek. Monica hit the same spot Tad did a couple weeks ago. I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t bruise again.

Bane, my tattoo artist and best friend on this side of town, holds his hand out. I shake it, our usual greeting, and step in for a hug— an unusual part of our greeting. My small arms wrap around his hard frame, clad in dark blue jeans and a heavy metal T-shirt.

I ignore the pressure in my chest building with each millisecond we touch because, like Cooper, he needs to know I’m okay. He wraps one arm around me, dozens of needles spread down my spine.

“Woah, Piper.” He takes a step back. Like Cooper, he knows my issues with touch, which means he realizes how special this moment is. “What was that for?”

I blink back tears and smile, then shrug. I owe Bane everything. He kept me safe when I ran to his house covered in blood. He took me to the shower, stripped me down, and cleaned me off. No questions asked. He covered for me when the goons came knocking. Kept me hidden for a few days until it was safe to move me. Without him, I’d probably be dead. No… I’d definitely be dead. “How are you?”

“Not too bad, actually.” I lean against the wall and prop one foot up. Even though I just saw him when he did my tattoo, I miss the way things used to be. I miss the way we’d hang out every night. How he’d walk me home to make sure I arrived safely, practically tucked me in while threatening any John who looked my way. I guess I just miss him.