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She’s stoned again.

It’s rare to see my mother sober, but I can always tell when she’s at the peak of her high by how loud she screams.

The soft glow of the night light brightens my room just enough to see the hands on the clock move. The faint clicking noise gives me something to focus on.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

At fifteen years old, you wouldn’t think I’d need a night light, but I’d rather see which one of my mother’s men are sneaking into my room after she passes out.

“You sorry piece of shit! Where’s my fucking cigarettes?” Her shrill voice shreds what little patience I have left for this bullshit. Gritting my teeth, I stare at the clock, counting the seconds as they go by.

This has been going on since my dad died two years ago. Mom couldn’t handle losing him and she started going to the bars, drowning her pain at the bottom of a bottle. She’d come home shitfaced, and I’d clean up her vomit and put her to bed.

I never complained.

Losing my dad broke me inside, but as long as I took care of my mother, I didn’t have to focus on my own pain. I buried my grief while trying to help her, but my efforts were for nothing.

She met a guy at the bar one night and he introduced her to cocaine. She became a different person. Sure, she was more upbeat and didn’t seem as depressed, but I barely recognized her anymore. Once she snorted so much of the shit, the high wasn’t as good, so she started shooting up heroin.

I knew the night she stabbed that needle into her vein, I lost my mom.

She didn’t care about me or anyone else.

Only chasing the high.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The men started coming into my room after she passed out. They touched and violated my body in ways that sealed their fate with the devil himself. A one-way ticket to hell, taking pieces of my soul with them. I tried to tell my mother, but she didn’t believe me. Instead, she accused me of seeking attention.

My hand slides under the pillow, gripping the wood handle of the kitchen knife I placed there a few days ago. I’m sick to fucking death of being used and abused. If she won’t protect me, I’ll protect myself.

Heavy footsteps fall on the old hardwood floor and a shadow appears under my door. My grip tightens painfully around the knife handle as my bedroom door creaks open.

Brad or Brandon, Brett maybe, creeps through the threshold, the alcohol on his breath filling every molecule of air in the small room. This motherfucker is the one who took my virginity without blinking an eye. He stormed in here a couple of months ago, and I woke up to him ripping my panties down my legs, forcing himself inside me.

The pain was excruciating. Begging him to stop raping me, I screamed and sobbed for my mother, praying through my tears for anyone to let it end. No help came and I eventually went to a place in my mind where I blocked out the pain.

The black void became my safe haven every time he slithered into my room. But after the last time, when he flipped me on my stomach and took me in a place I didn’t realize could be taken, I couldn’t block it out.

The terror. The agony. The blood.

After the assault, I laid in my bed the rest of the night, trying to figure out how I would survive this. The sadness and shame morphed into rage and my thoughts turned to how I’d kill him.

Closing my eyes quickly, I want him to think I’m asleep before I stab him. A surprise attack seemed like a solid plan so he can’t overpower me.

As he approaches the bed, my mother storms into the room. “Oh sure. Come get you some from the young whore.”

My body jolts at her hateful words and my heart shatters into a million pieces. How can a mother talk about her own child like that? She loved me before the drugs, but since she’s turned into a junkie, she’s a cold, heartless bitch.

My eyes snap open and the man’s name who I can’t remember backhands her across the face and she falls to the floor. His wild eyes find mine and he smiles.

I have to get the fuck out of here.

Shooting from the bed with the knife in my hand, I dart past him as he reaches to grab me. I jump over my mother’s body as she lies crying on the floor. Dashing through the doorway, I turn at the sound of cursing. He tries to step over my mother, but she latches onto his legs, causing him to fall. He hits his head on the edge of my dresser, knocking himself out.

My mother whimpers, and I stand frozen, watching her slowly lose consciousness. Between her fall and coming down from the heroin, she slowly passes out. I may be young, but I know this isn’t normal. No teenager should be subjected to this abuse. Her drug addiction not only ruined her life, but mine.

I’m alone and lost. No one is coming to save me.

In this moment, everything clicks into place, like the last piece of a puzzle.

I have to end this.

Closing the door behind me, I run into the living room, finding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I’ve never smoked a day in my life, but tonight calls for it. Bringing the tobacco to my lips, I flick the lighter, the paper burning loudly as I inhale. Falling into a coughing fit, my eyes water as my throat burns.

Fuck, that hurts.

As my hacking dissolves, I bring the cigarette back to my lips, inhaling again.

No coughing this time.

Glancing around my shithole house, I don’t feel sad or sentimental. All I feel is anger and resentment.

My mother threw me away for drugs.

For men.

She didn’t protect me from these predators. She didn’t believe me when I told her what they were doing to me.

Slowly, I inch my way back to the window beside the couch. Lifting the lighter once again, I flick it twice before the flame rises. The orange and yellow glow settles my racing heart, bringing a sense of peace to the chaos, snuffing out the anxiety.

There’s beauty in destruction and it’s time for me to lay waste to everything destroying me.

Holding the lighter to the curtain, the cheap material catches quickly, heading straight for the disgusting couch where mom usually sits to get high. The fabric drips as it burns and though it smells terrible, I stare into the flames a few moments longer.

A grin tugs at my lips as I head for the door. Stepping through the threshold, I glance over my shoulder one last time at the shitty house of horrors.

“Burn in hell, Mom.”