My stomach lurched and rolled into my throat. A sickly sweet acidic taste layered my tongue. I swallowed. Another foot made contact, my stomach contents lurched again.

"Get up, kid."

A fuzzy shape was standing above me. Mother's boyfriend. He prodded me with his foot.

"Get the fuck up."

The world dove in and out of focus, my cheek still pressed to the peeling linoleum floor. Hands grabbed under my armpits and propped me against the counter. He was staring at me, a mean smile. I hadn't seen him before. He must have been new. Mother was wrapped around his arm like a snake. The lights were bright. My eyes hurt. My head hurt. The world spun again.

"What?" I managed to slur out.

"What the hell do you think?" Mother snarled, but the corners of her mouth were lifted. She was always in a better mood after getting fucked.

I choked down another wave from my stomach. Shouldn't have drunk that much.

"Maybe it was the fact that I come home and you're laying shit faced on my kitchen floor?" She laughed, "Good thing Rob was able to wake you." She laughed again, her bleached blond hair falling into her face. I stared at her. She must have been really fucked up to be this cheery. Her blue eyes stared at me, but they were unfocused and wavering. She definitely had gotten some last night. And probably this morning.

I took step away from the counter, pain shot up from my ankle, bit my lip to stay quiet. I needed to get out. They looked hungry for something and I didn't want to find out what it was.

"Lay off on the booze, kid," Rob put his hand on my shoulder. It sent a shiver down my back.

"Don't you fucking touch me."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that."

"I just did."

His skin stretched over his cheekbones, hollow, pale. His eyes wavered back and forth, unable to focus. My words registered and a grin spread across his face.

"You fucking little bitch," he lunged towards me. His hand wrapped around my throat. I clawed at his face, kicked with my legs. Felt something tear, felt his hand loosen.

I looked at him. His face was bleeding.

Mother screamed, but not for me.

"Look what you've done! You ruined his face. You little bitch."

I sucked in air, my throat raw and sore. I had to get out of here. Had to leave. Before something else happened. Before something worse happened.

A gust of wind tore at my sweatshirt when I stepped outside, threatening to take me with it. I kept my head down walking away from the apartment. The sidewalk wouldn't stay still, the world around me shifted and blurred. I felt the familiar acidic sweet taste rise in my throat again. The smell of coffee filled the air but wasn't strong enough to cover the sour smell of liquor.

People were staring. They had to be. Who wasn't interested in a walking wreck? Everyone slows so they can get a better look at upside down torn apart cars. Tragedy is exciting to look at.

I ended up at the subway station. A thin morning crowd, stony faces. Some sipped on coffee, some ate breakfast while they stood. Some just stared into the black hole waiting for the train to crawl out. Waiting for it to take them somewhere they didn't really want to go. To jobs they hated, to make money for lives they hated, for families they hated.

Some people were just getting on because they had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go.

A hiss of brakes echoed in the hollow station as the train slowed. Glazed eyes stared out of dirty windows, pushing each other out of the way to be the first off, the first on.

We boarded the car. It hissed again leaving with a squeal of angry mechanics. No one spoke. Even if they wanted to the car was too loud for anyone to be heard. I picked a seat but had to bite my tongue as the car moved around and lurched me into the side. Everything still hurt. I stared at the window; glimpses of my reflection would stare back at me. I looked terrible.

A stitch had pulled out. It had bled running down my cheek. The wound felt raw and stiff.

My stomach pitched as the train slid down a decline on the tracks and I had to force vomit back down my throat. Again. I hated being hung-over. I closed my eyes and tried to keep it together.

I was lurched awake when it finally jolted to a particularly rough stop. My head spun for a moment when I stood, calmed after a moment. My ass was sore from sitting.

The station I stepped on was disappointing. It was too familiar.

I never used anything harder than whiskey. Mother, on the other hand, liked anything and everything. Uppers, downers, anything in between. I didn't want to miss the few bright moments I was given. All the dark made the shining memories that much better. Her memories could have only been a fog, a muddy image of what they should have been.

The moment I was old enough to go get her high without too much trouble, I became her errand girl. Most of the dealers knew me, knew my mother, knew I had the money. And knew if it was good enough, I'd be back for more.

I was a regular with Pinch.

His lair was a crumbled building, reeking of decaying bodies, sweat, alcohol. No one was actually dead, but people were rotting. They consumed, inhaled, shot up. Anything to take reality away.

Bodies were strewn over the floor, in dazed drug comas, floating on acid. I stepped over a few limbs and made my way towards Pinch. He and I met often; he knew exactly what Mother liked.

"Well, I'll be," he laughed, "Your mother run out again?"

He was a balding man, barely hanging onto the ends of his life. He was respected only because he had been dealing for so long and he was still alive. Most who were in the game played hard and died young. Not Pinch. He was in it for the long haul. No one pulled any shit with him. He grinned, his wrinkled face splitting.

"Naw, she got her new boyfriend takin' care of that." I didn't want to look at him, but he already knew. I was about to become her.

"Then may I ask why you are here?" Pinch smiled again.

"It's for me."

The old man nodded. Someone placed a plastic bag in his hands. The soft noise of people filled the room. Moans of ecstasy, screams of those in a bad trip layered through the hollowness.

The building was home to anyone who couldn't function in reality, home to those who didn't want to live if they weren't high. It was a cave for creatures of drugs. The stench of the place filled my nose, piss and booze spread over the floor.

Pinch opened the bag, rubbed a bit of the powder on his gums, sealed it back up.

"Some prime moxy here. You know what this costs, right?" He asked me, his eyes glinting in the smoky light.

I pulled out the bills, stuffed them in his face. He grinned, thin pale lips stretched over broken, yellow teeth.

"I've always liked you, Annie," He handed me the small bag, "Watching you grow up has been a pleasure."

"And watching you die has been mine," I mumbled.

He chuckled.

"Growing up like your mama, almost as pretty as she was too." Pinch patted my arm.

"I'm nothing like her," I stepped away. His gnarled hands sent a chill up my skin. He chuckled.

"Enjoy that like a good girl."

"Fuck you."

I moved away. As hard as I had tried not to be like her, it turns out I was hers after all. His bitter laugh followed me.

My ankle was screaming to stop moving, to just sit down and rest. The scar on my face was throbbing and the gnawing pain in my stomach had grown. I found a corner of the mess to call my own and collapsed against the wall.

I opened it.

Don't do this. You're better than this. You're better than your mother.

Made a small pile of the white powder on my finger.

What about the real? What about the real feelings, the real memories? Don't be your mother.

Dropped it under my tongue, it was bitter.

Too late.