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SMASH! 

I woke with a start and became alert as sleep dissipated in the wake of terror now ripping through me. Sitting up on the couch, I tried to get a bearing on my surroundings through the thick disjointed daze leftover from my too-short slumber. The flickering T.V was my only source of light as I scanned my surroundings to find the origin of the crash, panic squeezing me like a vise at every oddly shaped shadow.

Then I saw it, hunkering in the far corner of my apartment near the kitchen.

I was up on my feet before I could even think and at the light switch in two short strides. The room lit up, illuminating the space and revealing the thin body of my mother cradling a broken bottle in her hands. Thin greasy blonde hair clumped against her reedy face as her small brown eyes, much like my own, stared at nothing, completely lost in a drug-fueled dream. Her dry lips opened and closed as she muttered incoherently at nothing.

Terrified that she was going to hurt herself, I scrambled to where she was to take the jagged object from her, but my approach was instead seen as a threat. She lashed out, now brandishing the broken bottle as a weapon, and swung it at the hand I had reached down with. 

A sharp sting burned me, making me stumble backward in shock. Sanguine splotches splashed against my pale skin as I clutched my injured hand against me in a feeble attempt to stop the pain radiating through my body. Carefully I opened my hands, letting my eyes roam over my torn palm. Bright liquid trickled off my fingertips and onto the cracked linoleum floor beneath my feet. 

I watched as the droplets filled the crevices, and for a brief second, I wondered how I'll clean all that blood out.

A crash brought my attention back to my assailant who was now on her feet. The broken bottle was still clutched in her shaky hands; the fragmented tip painted red.

I felt the refrigerator door dig into me as I backed away from her. Utter nonsensical words rambled from my mother's mouth as she fell deeper and deeper into whatever lurid fantasy was plaguing her. Everything else was forgotten. She could no longer see me or even remember why she was so angry. Then as if her strings were suddenly cut, she collapsed in a heap.

After a few moments passed and she didn't get back up, a relieved sigh vibrated through me.

Still cradling my wounded hand, I made my way over to my mother who was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. The stench of alcohol hit me hard as I checked her breathing. Once I was satisfied that she wasn't dying, I went about the strenuous task of propping her up on her side with cushions from the couch – a deeply ingrained routine that had been my only form of bonding with my parent since I was ten.

This chore took far longer than it should've as I only had one hand to work with, but eventually I managed and soon found myself staring miserably at my inebriated mother. At one point, the woman was quite beautiful.

Most of my own attractiveness could be attributed to my mother from my dirty-blonde hair, hooded eyes the color of honey, and petite build. But now my 35-year-old mother had the appearance of a sickly old woman with gaunt and leathery skin freckled with blisters.

Seeing my mother like this caused a pang to squeeze my heart.

My attention then shifted back to my own problem. Three angry cuts sliced across the palm of my left hand. Now that my adrenalin was dying down, I could feel the extent of my injuries, and I prayed that they weren't too deep. I didn't want to meet with that bastard nurse any time soon. Just the thought of him caused me to grimace.

I noticed a bag in the corner and found a second bottle of vodka. I took it then moved towards the kitchen sink. For a few moments, I struggled to get the bottle open as I only had one hand, and it was slick with blood, but eventually, I managed.

Then I paused.

My entire body stiffened as it prepared for the pain that I was about to inflict on myself. I took several deep breaths then upended the liquid onto my outstretched palm. Intense agony shot through me as the now red vodka cascaded off my palm and splashed against the bottom of the sink.

My small frame shook, and when I could take it no longer, I let the bottle fall from my hand to clank loudly against some dishes. Numbness rolled through me, washing away my pain and causing my head to swim dizzily. I clasped the side of the counter to steady myself.

A terrifying realization rolled through me. I was going to pass out.

Footsteps approached from behind and a solid figure pressed itself against me to keep me stable. A familiar scent wrapped around me, and without needing to say anything, I knew who it was. I could hear my name being spoken, but I couldn't find my voice to reply until I was sat down on the cushionless couch.

"Sorry, Mason, I guess we woke you," I shakily apologized once I was finally able to speak. My tired brown eyes turned upwards to see the familiar boy with a frightful expression drawn on his sharp features.

He shook his head, letting his wild black hair flop from side to side as his hands tugged on the hood of his fox onesie. "Stay here, I'll get the kit," he ordered softly.

Mason disappeared from the room and I could hear things being moved around in the bathroom as he worked to retrieve the small rectangular box. Finding it didn't take too long as this wasn't his first time having to patch me up, and soon he was in front of me on his knees with my damaged hand in his.

"Are you injured anywhere else?" he questioned as he gently examined my shaking palm.

"No," I heaved in discomfort.

Silence fell between us as he began pulling supplies from the kit. I watched him intently to distract myself from the pain. The usual smile that swallowed his eyes was replaced with a tight frown, making his expression tense and his high cheekbones more prominent.

Despite everything, the sight of a 14-year-old boy in a fox onesie playing doctor made a ghost of a smile tug on my face, helping me forget my injury for a moment.

"Abbi," he started, his tone serious. I knew that tone all too well, and I wasn't in the mood to be chided.

"Mason, stop," I sighed exasperated, cutting him off before he could continue. "Look, I know this isn't easy for you, but not yet. Just give me until the end of the school year...please."

Mason looked taken aback. "Easy for me? Abbi, this isn't about me. This is about you constantly getting attacked by your own mother. Someone that's supposed to protect you."

"I mean...yes, true," I assented, "but unlike you, I put myself in this situation. There is an obvious solution to my problem, which is to commit her to a rehab facility or move out, whereas you are stuck with my choices because you're the boy next door who cares too much."

I hated how I constantly dragged Mason into my mess, and I knew that he was right about a lot of things. Logically I understood what he wanted and what should be done, but somedays my mother was lucid and kind, reminding me of who she used to be.

But those were the days that I detested the most as those were the ones that I remembered and remembering only shackled me to the monster.

"You know that ever since we were kids, you've been like a big sister to me. In fact, you're my only family I have most of the time," he expressed, his voice low and full of emotions.

I nodded, feeling the same way. Both of us came from a single-parent household, but where mine was a useless addict, Mason's mom worked two jobs, which left him home alone more often than not. With only each other to rely on for the past six years, we grew close like siblings.

Mason continued, "But I've always had a choice. You're not forcing me to do anything. I chose to be here, and even though, I don't approve of a lot of things...I am choosing to believe in you, but Abbi, I may not be able to stay quiet if she hurts you like this again."

Our gazes met. I watched his warning dance in his dark pools before slowly disappearing from their stage, letting a new emotion start their ballet with a crashing crescendo.

Self-blame.

My heart ached. "Don't carry my weight, Mason. Nothing that happens to me is your fault."

He looked at me surprised that I knew what he was thinking. "I-I know that..." he stammered, obviously lying.

I wanted to say more to make him understand that none of this was his responsibility, but he quickly interrupted me by raising my hand above my head and ordering, "Keep your hand up. You're bleeding pretty heavily."

"I'm going to be constantly called on in class if I do," I joked, a bit thankful for the change in topic.

He hummed in response, distracted. "You may have to see Noel."

Just the name of that bastard nurse caused me to make an unintelligible noise. "Ugh, please don't even say that name around me. I'd rather just let my entire arm fall off."

"You need that."

"Nah, I'll just not have it."

"You do need it, and I think Noel would have way too much fun chopping your arm off if it came to that."

"You know, on second thought," I relented, refusing to give Noel the gift of amputating my arm, "I think I'd like to see that bastard nurse today."