An Incomplete Story.

Have you ever wondered "why me?". I mean, why does stuff happen to you? Bad stuff; stuff you can't get out of your goddamn head? And it starts to rip you a part, poisoning you to the point where you don't even know what to do anymore. I wonder why all this shit happens to me. I mean, with the stuff I've seen and the things I've heard I feel like I should take a gun to my head and end the pain for good. Most people don't realize the world isn't all fun and games. The truth is the world is a really cold and dark place, filled with a shit load of pain. Well, that's all there is to my life, anyway.

It was the first day of winter the day it happened. Coming home from school the snow felt heavier as each snowflake added weight onto my shoulders. My hair looked like a starry night; pitch black with little white stars. My fingers were frozen by the time I got to the subway station. The cement walls were damp and stained with the scent of piss and liquor. I hated the subway station.

The ride home seemed longer than usual, not that I minded. Often I'd stop at the library. Anything to stall from getting home. It pained me to walk in the door, dishes scattered everywhere, curtains drawn with my mother passed out on the couch. An empty bottle of vodka would lie at her fingertips. Sometimes I think it would be easier to choose her path, but somebody has to take care of us. So that's why I did it. I know, I know, you're probably wondering why I just didn't go out and find a job, but you don't understand how easy this all seemed. All I had to do was pick up the dope, deliver it and then I'd get my cut. Well, let me tell you, it doesn't work that easily.

When I got home that night I started to make some Mac and Cheese. The milk had already expired a few days before but that didn't stop me from using it. I left enough for my mother but knew she probably wouldn't wake from her drunken coma. And if she did it would only be to take a piss and pour herself another drink. I quietly crept passed her and into my bedroom. It was pretty damn messy in there with clothes, dishes and papers scattered across the cold floor. Everytime you inhaled you could smell the scent of rotting food. I kicked around some clothes and picked up my torn jean jacket. I swung it over my shoulders and heard a thud as my keys and loose change hit the ground, scrambling across the floor and under the bed. I knelt down and the smell got worse. I turned my head away and stuck my arm under the bed and blindly fumbled my hand around looking for my keys. I felt something cold beneath my fingertips and quickly withdrew my hand as a reflex. I slowly inched my hand back and wrapped my fingers around the cold object. It felt stiff and I could tell there were patches of hair covering it. My heart sunk and a lump formed in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes when I pulled it out. I felt something tickle up my hand and I opened my eyes. I flung a spider off and dropped the object. I brought my hand to my mouth and tried not to vomit. Lying there before me was my cat. My dead, rotting cat. The same one I had grown up with. The same one that provided soft purrs when I would lay in bed and listen to my mother's cries everytime my father's hand crossed her face. I took a better look at my cat. My dear, sweet cat. You could see the outline of her skeleton. Moist burned the rims of my eyes. I knew the cause of her death. There was no doubt in my small mind that she had starved to death. How long ago was it that I last touched her soft her? When was the last time I paid attention to the things I cared about?

I ran for the door, grabbing ahold of that same old door knob I always hated to touch. I quickly walked down the dim-lit hallways, my shoes shuffling against the worn out carpet. I felt so trapped. When I got to the end of the hall I paused for a moment. Why was I always running away from my problems? I shook my head and ran down the stairs, the echo of my footsteps trying to catch up to me. I pushed the doors open and stepped into a colder world. The streets were covered in dark shadows and the moon was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. I started walking down the street, my back against the moon. It wasn't very quiet anymore. You could hear police sirens and men yelling. A guy with blue hair bumped past me.

"Watch where you're going, asshole", I said to him, keeping my head lowered.
"Franny?", he asked. I don't think I answered him aloud because he said my name a second time.
"Hey, Franny! Are you okay? 'Member me, Mark?", he said with a smirk on his face. I looked up at him and nodded and tried to force whatever smile would come out of me. He began to walk with me.
"Hey, so I hear you're working for Billy now. Shit. Why didn't you come see me?" Mark and I had a little bit of history. I knew I could have went to him for help but there was still a part of me that wanted nothing to do with him. There was still a part of me that wanted to prove I could make it on my own.
"So, ya hear Stacey and Clint hadda kid? Apparently she almost died givin' birth. That shit is crazy, hey?" he looked at me and I could tell he was just talking to fill the silence between us.
"No kidding", I replied, trying to sound interested. I really didn't feel like having him around me, but I figured it was better than being alone.
"Where ya headed, Fran?", he asked, "Billy's havin' a party. You wanna come with me?", he was looking directly in my eyes and I felt my cheeks go red and I hoped he just thought I was cold.
"Yeah," I said, "yeah okay, I'll go with you". I followed him down the dim streets. We didn't talk much the rest of the way there, which I was okay with. The thing about Mark is that he's really simple. People don't expect much from him. I mean, when he fucks up people just think, "Oh, that's just good ol' Mark". But you see, if I fuck up then it's a really big production. And that's what happened between us. I fucked up.

When I was a young girl, around six years old, I can remember sitting on rough beige carpeted stairs, peering through the wooden handrails watching my father beat my mom. Some days it wasn't so bad. He'd slap her, marking his territory with his red handprint on her cheek. Other days he'd take kitchen ware, anything that was within his reach; glasses, pots, plates, and he'd throw them at her. I remember one time this blue plate wouldn't break so he smacked it against her shoulder until it shattered into little bits. The next morning my mom was up at dawn cooking eggs and bacon, like she always did. She could barely flip those eggs with her injured arm and when she sat down at the table all she did was smile this weak smile. There was a glaze over her eyes and I knew that was the last time I would ever really see her as my mother.