I remember my mother.
Her name was Sophie Masery.
She had bright blue eyes, much like mine, with that darker, wavy like rings around the edges of her iris in which the colour never quite seemed to want to stay. She always had these big, soft greyish shadows cast under them which she used to cover with a slightly off colour, liquid foundation. She used it to hide bruises too, but the faded purple marks always shine through, no matter how hard the thick the layer she applied.
Her hair was a natural blonde, much like mine, but it was always dirty, and pinned up in a messy bun atop her head. It made it harder to grab.
Her face was soft, and ill defined. Her face was narrow, but she had rounded cheeks with a slight pinkish tint. Her nose was small, and thin, much like her body...
She was a heavy smoker.
I don't remember a time when she didn't have a cigarette between her lips, or clasped firmly between her fingers, on which she had cheap, 'gold' rings with small, pale, plastic gems imbedded in them. They were my fathers cheap excuse for gifts.
I remember her tattoos, too.
She had a few, most were black and white, with simple designs. She had my name on her left wrist, in black calligraphy, with my birthday underneath it in a smaller font. She had the same for Lucas on the right wrist, and despite how much he wanted it, she refused to get my fathers name on her body.
I remember the way she used to call my name when my father wasn't home. 'Kaitlyn?' Her voice would call, always quiet, and she was very soft spoken.
I don't remember much of my mother.
I didn't have much of a mother to remember.
I do, however, remember this one, pale red zip-up jacket she always wore. It was one of the only pieces of clothing that she took care of, it had no stains or tears in the material, and always smelled nice, like clean, fresh towels.
I have that jacket. It's one of the only things I have left.

I remember my father.
I don't even remember his name. I don't want to.
He was a tall man, with a bit of a belly which always made him look slightly pregnant, especially when he stood In that slouched position he seemed so fond of. He had dirty brown hair, curled with grease at the tips, with an ugly, messy scrap of facial hair along his jaw and chin, as well as a thicker, disgusting handle-bar moustache. I don't remember his eye colour... I think it was brown. But not a nice brown, a dirty, dark brown. The colour of mud.
I remember his hands.
They were big, and his knuckles were covered in thin, wiry hair like that on his face. His fingers were thick, like chunky, horrible tasting sausages, with nails that were grossly kept, messy. His hands were weapons.
I remember a little bit of his face. He had a strong jawline, and the bridge of his nose was broad and flat. His brow stuck out from this nose by a good centimetre. His skin was oily, much like his hair... That's all I remember about him.
Or at least that's all I let myself remember. I do try to forget.

Lucas, too. I still remember Lucas.
Every little detail of his chubby little face. His curly brown locks, and bright blue eyes which her shared with my mother and me. He was 3. I was a whole 7 years older than him, and I remember that made me feel all grownup like. I used to take care of him, amongst all the chaos I mean.
I fed him, changed him, cleaned him, protected him. I carried him everywhere I went, and did everything I could as a 10 year old child to take care of him a mother would. What our mother would, if our mother could that is.

You really don't realise how important the little things are.
I remember wishing I did.