Wicked Games
Ryan
I wakeup to the reeking stench of alcohol and cigarettes.
Ah, the smell of home sweet home.
I roll over in my twin-sized bed, the one I've slept on since I was ten, and check the time on my phone, 9:35 a.m. Groaning, I muster the little drive I have, get up and walk through my tiny, two-bedroom apartment. There are empty beer cans and vodka bottles scattered all over the kitchen counter and a dozen and a half smashed-out cigarette butts in the ashtray. A few roaches too.
Just another rockin’ Thursday night at casa del Pierce.
I amble into the living room and find Sean, my twin, passed out on the couch with his sneakers, jeans, and hat still on.Fuck, man.I rake my fingers through my hair then head back into the kitchen, grab a garbage bag from under the sink, and start cleaning up. Just once, it would be nice to make breakfast without the company of Naddy Ice or Popov— if there were any food in the house to begin with. The bottles clink as I dump them into the garbage bag, the beer odor becoming more potent as the cans pile up. I drop the bag on the floor then grab the blue sponge and start scrubbing down the counter. God, how I fuckin’ hate this. Not the cleaning. The cause of the mess.
“Yo, bro,” my twin voices from behind me as he opens the refrigerator.I wonder what he thinks he’s going to find in there.
“Yo,” I respond plainly as I press harder on the sponge.
Sean picks up the garbage bag next to me, and I catch a glimpse of him; his eyes are bloodshot, and the brim of his hat is pushed upwards on his head.
“I see you and Mom were having your usual fun last night.”
“What can I say? Our mom’s a cool lady.”
I throw the sponge back into the sink and glare at him. “Ghetto fabulous.”
Sean rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, the bag still in his hand. “What are your plans for today?” He changes the subject, clearly in no mood for another one of my gripe sessions.
“Work. You should try it sometime.” I sneer.
“Nah, not for me.”
“Obviously.” I glance around the dirty kitchen.
“You need to lighten up, brother. Have some fun.”
“I have plenty of fun. It just doesn’t involve drunken stupors with our mother.”
“Maybe it should.”
“No thanks. Speaking of mothers, where is she?”
“Probably in bed.” Sean shrugs. “What time is her shift?”
“Not sure, but I think we should wake her up.”
Sean drops the bag and backs away from me. “That’s all you,” he says as he pulls open the front door.
Of course it is. You break the glass, and I pick up all the jagged pieces.
I rest my hands on the sink, drop my head, and steel my resolve. I really hope she doesn’t try and hit me this time.
I knock lightly on her bedroom door. “Ma?” I call out before walking into her room. It’s sparsely decorated with just a bed and a small dresser. Dark shades conceal the windows, and the thick smell of cigarette smoke clouds the room. I sit down on the edge of the mattress while she remains asleep. Like this, she looks so young. Well, she is young; she had me and Sean when she was only seventeen. My father left when we were three, and I only have one memory of him. Playing football on the large front lawn of a house. I don’t know whose house it was, but Sean and I were tackling him, giggling our heads off. And then like a blink he was gone. I don’t remember my mother any other way than an alcoholic.
She gets up no matter how hung over she is and goes to work though, if for no other reason than to keep a roof over our heads and full vodka bottles in our cabinets. It’s about all her salary can afford. A waitress in a diner doesn’t make much. So I try my damnedest to pick up the slack.
“Mom.” I rock her gently. “Mom, wake up.”
She groans. “Seany?”