I spent days telling myself I had no other choice than to crawl back to Mother, listening to her complain and laugh at my new face. I could barely managed to hobble from room to room. Mother was no help. She kept asking me to fetch her things, then would pause and laugh remembering I couldn't.

I counted cracks on the ceiling of my room, watched the sun rise and set through the tiny window. I picked at the casts on my arm and leg, tried to clean up once or twice, checked my phone for anything. A stupid dream that Axel would call, text. Something. Anything. Tell me I could come back. A stupid dream for a stupid girl.

Made the mistake of looking in the mirror. Wondered why anyone had bothered saving me at all. The cut across my face didn't look right, the stitches were in there, but it didn't really look like the clean hospital cared for wounds you see on medical shows. I couldn't tell if it was infected, there wasn't anything oozing, so I took that as a good sign. More bruises, but I was used to those. My clunky casts made everything hard. It was even hard to pee.

The days were getting shorter and the nights longer.

More snow piled on the ground. Mother had left again, off fucking one of her new toys. I was used to that, but she could have at least left some food in the place. I just wanted some fucking food.

My stomach lurched. Clothes that normally fit were loose, shirts that had been tight now fit well. It felt like I was wasting away, a shadow of who I was with the Fallen.

Bottles of beer littered the floor of my room. It was the only thing we ever seemed to have in stock. I searched the kitchen for something to eat, opening and slamming doors and cupboards, finding an empty box of crackers and some stale chips. I ate one, the dry chip coating my mouth. I growled and slammed one of the cabinet doors. It rattled the whole apartment.

"Fuck!" I shouted and threw open a drawer.

I was going to fucking starve in my own house.

Opened more drawers, dumped their contents on the cracked and faded floor. Bent silverware, broken pencils, scraps of paper, unopened, overdue bills covered the floor. My wrist cast hit the counter.

I yelped in pain. A numbing shock running to my shoulder.

"Motherfucker, you fucking piece of shit cast."

Dumped another drawer out. Kitchen knives fell to the floor.

The shiny metal glowed under the dim lights.

I picked one up, its edge smooth. Touched my finger to the tip of the blade, pressing down until it drew blood. It dripped off my fingertip to the floor. Sharp.

Sharp enough to cut through plaster. Maybe.

Sorted through knifes until I found the sharpest looking one, serrated with a heavy handle.

I started sawing. It sounded like an old engine trying to start, rasping through the silence. I gritted my teeth as I caught my ankle on the edge, more blood oozed out. I sawed faster.

The plaster fell into dust piles, chunks, and small pieces. I tore the final piece apart and I was free. My ankle looked horrible.

Fuck. Maybe this was really stupid.

It was still swollen, bruised with purples and yellows. The rest of my leg was weak, unused. I poked it. My finger left an indent in the puffy flash. Moved my foot, sucked in a breath when pain edged up my leg.

I heaved myself upwards, using the counter for support, keeping all of my weight on my good leg. Gingerly I let my right foot touch the ground and then put more weight on it. A noise escaped me. The animal inside was in pain, its leg ruined and being forced to use it. I bit into my lip trying to silence the creature.

But I was standing on both feet. A pulse of pain shot through with my heart beat, but I had both feet free. Tried to ignore the pain. I needed a victory drink. The animal groaned when I took a step, I bit my lips to keep it quiet, pain still escaped. The fridge was empty.

A mustard bottle stared back at me; a drip of yellow had dried and crusted on the bottle. I slammed the door shut. It rattled the room. My fist made contact with the side of the fridge.

Mother had to have something somewhere. Her room smelled like tobacco and sex, dresser drawers were flung open. Piles of clothes covered the floor. I knew exactly where to look. She should have changed the hiding spot by now.

The bottle felt good in my hand.

I took a swig. It burned my throat in a familiar, pleasant way. I went back to the kitchen, slumped to the floor. Kept drinking. Kept drinking until it didn't burn any more and I saw two of everything.

Footsteps in the hall. Not Mother's. I tried to make my eyes focus, felt something rising up in my throat. Blinked him into view.

He was wearing the dirty sweatshirt I gave him years ago. His jeans were torn. Stained. Sneakers untied. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't make out his words. He repeated.

"Why, Annie? Why?"

His voice was nothing more than a whisper through the raw air of the apartment. A sob caught in my throat, he had never spoken before. I crawled forwards, but he was fading away. Tears were running down his thin cheeks, leaving trails of dirt in their wake. He had never seen me like this before. I only ever drank in private, away from him.

I hoped he would be better than his sister. He never lived long enough.

"Don't go. Please don't leave me here."

He was silent and fading quickly.

"Caleb..." I trailed off as he faded into the walls, "Cal..."

The last time I had heard his voice was more than four years ago. He had been seven. I struggled forward closer to where he vanished, but the whiskey was taking me under. The edges of my world were blurry and getting dark. My heart felt like it was slowing, the beats getting more and more lazy. My eyelids slowly dropped and I was engulfed in darkness, silent and empty.