Page 1 of The Lost Ones

IMPRINTED TATTOOS

THE LOST ONE’S BOOK 1

NIKITA PARMENTER

Chapter One

"Sage!" My mother screams, most likely from the stained and sunken couch, where she is yet to move from today, "Get your lying, whore ass down here! Where the fuck did you put my vodka? I know you took it, you fucking slut!”

I sigh heavily and make my way down the rotting staircase, holding an arm to my bruised ribs. They’re still sore from the rage she flew into the last time she ran out of booze. I try to avoid the various stains of questionable origin that adorn the threadbare carpet when I finally reach the bottom of the stairs.

Our house is small and falling apart. I've tried to do as many repairs as I can myself, checking out library books on various things to help me do so but with limited money, and therefore limited supplies, there's only so much I can do.

It's a two-story craftsman with a bedroom and bathroom upstairs and the master bedroom downstairs, along with the outdated kitchen and a small living room. I have tried repeatedly to keep it at least clean but my mother flies into rampages often where she ends up destroying everything she can reach.

It's become a daily struggle.

The only rooms that I can stay on top of are my bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. My mother rarely bathes and is normally too drunk or high to make it up the stairs to use the bathroom, so it’s a lot easier to keep it clean.

Stepping slowly and cautiously into the dilapidated living room, I spot my mother tearing through the cabinets and discarding the minimal contents behind her. Haphazardly adding to the already destroyed living room. I quickly survey the mess. The couch cushions are scattered on the floor, there are empty liquor bottles strewn about, books ripped through, their innards strewn everywhere and the coffee table is upside down, the legs sticking straight up in the air.

"I haven't taken your vodka mother." I say firmly, hating the fact that my hands are shaking in fear. I clench them tightly in a bid to hide it.

"Don't fucking lie to me, you worthless bitch!" She screeches, spit flying from her lips.

I duck down just in time to miss the empty bottle she throws at my head. For a drunk she has surprisingly good aim. I learnt that the hard way when I didn't move quick enough the first time she threw one at me. I slowly back out of the room, never taking my eyes off her since one of her favourite things to do is to attack me from behind.

"I'll get you more, mother." I say slowly keeping my voice calm in a futile attempt to keep her calm.

"Damn right you fucking will.” She screeches again and I barely control the urge to cover my ears, fuck the woman is loud.

This time when she throws an empty bottle at me it glances off the door frame and hits my cheek bone but at least it didn’t shatter on impact, pulling shards of glass out of your own face is not fun.

My cheek explodes in pain for a brief moment before I push it away and effectively block it out.

When the beatings started to become a regular thing I had to find a way to deal with the pain or it was going to destroy me, and even at such a young age I outright refused to let her fucking break me. For obvious reasons she won't let me go to the hospital when she takes her violent tendencies a step to far, in fact I have never been to the doctors. Not that I can remember anyway.

I have a feeling that there is more to it than just not wanting to expose her abusive ways but I'm so busy trying to simultaneously keep her happy and avoid her as much as possible. As well as make sure I get good grades so I can get my G.E.D and get the hell out of this shit hole. I don't have time for any what 'if' questions or curiosity.

I spin on my heel and grab my purse on the way out, making sure I have my fake ID. I'm only eighteen but due to my mother’s drinking and the fact that she’s too damn lazy to step outside of the house, I was forced into getting a fake one. A quick look through my bag as I slam the door shows me that my meagre funds are even more depressing than I initially thought.

Well shit.

I haven't got enough for food this week and mothers booze. I can either get one or the other but definitely not both. I let a weary sigh escape and scrub my hands over my face. Out of the two options, not having any food is by far the lesser of two evils. I've gone without food many times before, I'm used to it now. I think there might be half a loaf of bread and a few crackers left at the back of one of the kitchen cupboards, I can rationthem.

I will be fine, I always am.

I make the long walk to the liquor store in good time, but I desperately miss my car. It was a pile of junk but it’s a hell of a lot easier to drive with bruised ribs than it is to walk. It may not have been pretty to look at but it got me from A to B, that's pretty much all I ask for in a car. I had to sell it last week because we were behind on rent again.

Sighing I mentally calculate how many bottles I can buy with what little money I have and how long they will last her until we’re repeating this whole shitty thing again. I hate doing this. I hate the look of pity the cashier always gives me when I come in with new bruises or a limp. I’m almost certain he thinks I’ve got an abusive partner, after all my ID says I’m twenty-two. Who would think that it was my own mother who was the one hurting me?

She actually rarely marks my face, so I’ve gotten away with telling the school that I’m just clumsy where they’re concerned, they accept it because it's easier for them. I’m in and out of the store within minutes and make my way back to the house. I will never call it a home it lost that title a long time ago.

As soon as I make it through the front door I’m thankful to see that my mother obviously still had enough alcohol in her system to pass out and she's now sprawled across the couch. Her greasy brown hair is streaked with grey, lying listlessly around her and her dirty clothes hang off of her gaunt frame.

I used to try and get her to clean up, to bathe and put fresh clothes on but she'd always get in such a rage and the beatings would become worse than normal, so I just stopped trying.

I quickly and quietly tidy up as much of the living room as I can and return it to some semblance of normal. Then place a bottle within easy reaching distance of her and put the other two I bought in the kitchen where I know she will be able to find them, before grabbing a few crackers and a couple of bottles of water and make my way back upstairs, stopping in my room to grab my clothes before I step into the bathroom.