Something is wrong, I can feel it.

My eyes slowly flutter open to reveal pitch black darkness. Its quiet. Too quiet. The ceiling fan above my bed whirs at a steady speed, and I can vaguely hear what sounds like the morning news playing from the big box TV in the living room. Right as I shove my arm underneath my pillow, fumbling for my cell phone, I hear it. The sound of glass loudly shattering onto linoleum.

I forget about the search for my phone, fling my duvet cover off of my body, and blindly make my way to my bedroom door through the darkness. A few months ago, I had tripped and nearly face planted the dark maroon carpet many times. Now, I'm used to the disruptions that I know will come before the sun rises, and maneuvering through the dark got easier as time passed.

I squint my eyes as I make my way down the hall. The hallway, living room, and kitchen lights are on. As predicted, the six o'clock morning news is being broadcasted from the banged up tv in the corner. Peering into the kitchen, I'm not surprised to find mom sitting in a pile of broken glass and what was left of the Jim Beam her sister, my Aunt Dina, bought her last night. She sits on her knees, pink robe splashed with whiskey and falling off of her bony shoulders, and tears streaming down her hollow cheeks. I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch violent sobs wrack her body. I slowly make my way across the cracked and peeling floor, gently wrap my arms around her waist, and pick her up off of the floor.

She wails something unintelligible, and I catch bits and pieces of her slurred speech. The words "he's gone" and "she took him" ring loudly in my ears like an alarm that won't shut off.

Slowly and carefully, I carry mom to the couch and sit her down. She's quieted down some, but her frail limbs still tremor faintly. She peers up at me, face blank, hair matted to her forehead, and dark brown eyes void of any emotions, a permanent facade for her.

I reach into the small woven basket sitting beneath the coffee table and shake two Tylenol PM tablets into my palm. She takes the medication silently and waits patiently while I trek back into the kitchen to fix her a glass of water. The broken glass and puddle of alcohol mock me as I carefully step around it.

Mom dutifully swallows the sleep aid, gulps down the lukewarm tap water, and hands the cup back to me without a single word. I watch on in silence as she tugs the old afghan that was resting on the back of the couch and drapes it across her lap. Within minutes, she goes from staring blankly at the weekly weather forecast on Channel 3, to leaning her head back and letting out a string of snores that resemble a broken lawn mower. I take that as my cue to, once again, clean up her mess.

My hands clench the wash rag tightly as I wipe away the last remnants of the putrid smelling wasted whiskey. The shards of glass taunt me from their spot at the bottom of the garbage can. Anger claws at my chest, and then guilt, and finally, sadness. My mother wasn't always like this. Truth is, at one point in time, Maeve Adkins actually had her shit together.

But then again, that was before her husband of fifteen years up and left her for another woman.

Their relationship wasn't perfect. Far from it, actually. Daddy dearest put mom through hell and back. For years, dad loved meth far more than he could've ever loved us. She fought tooth and nail to get him clean, only to fail time after time again. So honestly, it wasn't at all surprising when he finally pulled the trigger on their disaster of a marriage and skipped town with a woman he had just met.

Mom says she loved him. She loved him even though he had cheated on her more times than I could count, smoked and gambled away all of our money, and neglected us. Mom had never been a very affectionate person. Stern, closed-off, and always sporting a resting bitch face, yet she had managed to reserve a piece of her heart solely for a man who did nothing but stomp on it. They say love makes you do crazy things, but I'll never be able to fathom the idea of loving someone who doesn't love me, much less sit back and watch while they slowly kill themselves with drugs.

The irony of that statement weighs heavily on my mind as I flick off the kitchen lights and make my way back to my room. I stop at Savannah's door first, carefully peeking inside and sighing in relief when I see that she hasn't stirred one bit. Must be nice.

Savannah is the charismatic and more pleasant to be around mini version of myself. I know its hard on her, having to sit on the sidelines and watch as a shit storm continuously brews around her, but I refuse to let her get a job. She deserves to bask in her last year of adolescence and have fun. I don't want her to grow up just yet. Unlike me, I want her to go to college. I want her to make something of herself. I want her to get out of this damn town and explore places that I'll only ever see through RedBox movies and sucky cable TV.

As I make my way to my room and crawl back into bed, I finally grab my phone and check the time. Seven AM. My shift at the diner starts at nine, so I have a little bit of time to catch up on my sleep. A bitter smirk briefly crosses my face as I flop onto my stomach and squash my cheek against my pillow. I couldn't remember a time where my mom or dad had ever tucked me into bed, so it was ironic how this had now become my daily routine.

Growing up in a household where everyone fended for themselves taught me not to rely on anyone else. I guess, in a way, I'm like my mother. Aside from the fact that I don't permanently carry around a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Jim Beam, I am exactly like her. And I don't know how I feel about that. I'm distant and cold. I keep my head down, bust my ass at work, and then try not to literally bust my ass as I clean up puddles of spilled whiskey and vomit at home. Adulting is a bitch, and the reoccurring cycle of bullshit and responsibility never seems to end, but dealing with it is all I know. Its what I'm used to, and it seems like the only thing this shitty world has to offer for someone like me.

What do normal twenty-one year olds even do for fun? Certainly not work two jobs to make ends meet and babysit a heartbroken alcoholic.

Same old shit, just a different day, I think bitterly to myself. I can faintly hear the sound of birds chirping as my eyelids finally droop closed and my breathing evens out. I welcome sleep with open arms.

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