Chapter 1: Katie
When I step into our dimly lit unit, there are only two things on my mind; the unwavering desire to collapse onto my ancient mattress, and the troubling realisation that my mother is not there.
I let out a low sigh, dropping the worn-out bag that contained my uniform and keys onto one of the few uncovered spaces of our couch. She'd promised she wouldn't. Then again, there was more worth in our school gossip chain than my mothers word. Shit. I shouldn't have left her alone. With a groan, I reach down into my bag and feel around for the keys. I shudder as I feel my tomato sauce stained shirt from an incident earlier, but laundry day isn't until Tuesday and I can't afford another trip. Maybe I could attempt to wash it out with warm water, but I doubt it would work.
My hand closes around something cold & jagged, and I triumphantly yank my hand out of the bag. Sure enough, a small keychain with two sets of keys flies into my sight. I stride towards the door, flipping the light switch off as I go. I pause for a moment to fiddle with the lock, making sure that it's secure. Not that it mattered much. If someone really wanted to break in, all they had to do was smash a window.
The old ute splutters to life, and I push the joystick into full throttle. The longer she was left unattended, the more detrimental it could be to the both of us.
The car speeds past rows and rows of identical flats, painted in what must've once been a vibrant teal, but was now reduced to a swampy green. The majority of the fences are either broken or so swarmed with graffiti it's impossible to see the original colour. None of us who lived here could afford to fix them, and there was no point when they'd just be broken again the next time some drunk asshole with a bat decided to put their swinging skills to use.
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I abruptly surge to stop in front of August's Alehouse, flinging open the neon-lined door. I march inside, getting stares from many unassuming patrons. Some look sympathetic, others annoyed at my interruption. I ignore them, scanning the room for a familiar brunette. I spot her at the counter and immediately take action.
"Uh, uh. That's enough for tonight," I drawl, putting my hand over her freshly ordered beer. "She's an alcoholic," I direct at the confused bartender, "don't let her trick you into feeding her problems." He moves away, clearly not wanting to get involved.
"Aww, come on Katie, lighten up a bit," she slurs, closing her fingers around the flare of my sleeve. She's already visibly drunk. Annoyance surges through me. How could one person be so impossibly selfish?
"Don't tell me to lighten up," I exclaim, wrenching my arm from her grip. "9 fucking hours. That's how long it'll take me to recover the money you've just drained. Now, get your ass up from this stool and into the car." I stand up, pulling her with me. I act enraged, yanking her up with all of my force, when really, a piece of me dies inside. Every single night. The same rountine, over and over. She must really despise me. I hate fighting with her, but if I don't act absolutely furious, she won't do a thing I say. Machiavelli states that great leaders are either feared or loved, but it is better to be feared than to be loved, if one cannot be both. I suppose I've made my decision. Who knows if it's the right one, but it's no use dwelling on it. Either way, I'll always regret something.
"Bitch," she murmurs, and I have to stop myself from turning around and doing something I’d definitely regret.
"Name calling, how mature," I drawl out, fighting to keep how much it bothers me off my face. I tighten my grip on her arm, nervous she might try to make an escape back towards her precious bottle. To be honest, I wouldn't put it past her. I'd learnt not to take any chances after her first few performances. If there's even the slightest possibility, she'll take it. Never underestimate the power of a middle aged woman whose only judgement has been clouded by one too many drinks.
When we finally arrive home, it's past 1:00 am, and I'm desperate to get some sleep before I have to be up for school. Apparently my mother has the same idea, because as soon as we open the door, she collapses onto the couch, becoming dead to the world. I considered trying to transfer her into her bed in order to save me the work of cleaning the couch, but I was bone tired, and dealing with her constant resistance was the last thing I felt like doing, so I slide under the threadbare covers, and drift into a rare state of tranquility.