She's only six years old, just a little girl, but she knows that this picture is usually reversed. She's holding her mother's hair back and leaning away from the toilet, but the disgusting smell of vomit still makes its way to her nose. She's standing as far away as she possibly can and almost being sick herself and her face is still tearstained.

Young girl, don't cry. I'll be right here when your world starts to fall. Your tears will dry you'll soon be free to fly.

"I'm so sorry, darling," Cat's mother chokes out. She jumps forward and leans back into the toilet again. Cat doesn't know what to say. She knows that whatever she says her mother won't remember anyway, so what's the point? Her mother smells horrible – not just the vomit, everything about her Cat despises at the moment. When she's finally finished, her mother collapses on the floor beside Cat. Cat sighs. She's used to this, but it doesn't make it any better. Cat runs into the next room, fetching a blanket and some pillows. She puts them under her mother's head and then leaves, closing the door behind her.

Next she goes to the kitchen. Cat knows that her mother will want something to eat afterwards, and she also knows that all she'll do is slur out an incoherent sentence and then want whatever she's supposedly said. Cat doesn't really know how to make much; she's had to do this many many other times but really doesn't know how to turn the oven on, or even heat something in the microwave.

She makes toast and puts jam on it. Then she pours a glass of orange juice and puts them both on a tray, ready to give to her mother.

She goes back into the bathroom, anticipating the worst. Timidly, she peeks round the door frame, forcing herself to open her eyes, "Mommy?" She asks, uncertain.

"Go away, sweetheart," It's a nice enough sentence but there's venom in her voice and it makes Cat flinch away from her. She puts the tray down carefully and leaves, though she desperately wants a hug or something of that kind.

Cat's mom has always been an unreliable, nasty, hateful person. Alternatively, she could be happy, free, lovely and caring. It all depended on her mood. She never knew what would happen. Through all of that, though, she still loved her mother to pieces and hated it when she pushed her away. Whenever she could, she'd hug and kiss and cling onto her mother like a baby monkey. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Caterina Valentine loved her mother dearly. Just no one knew quite how much, and no one knew quite how little Mrs Valentine cherished her only little girl.
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In an entirely different place - far away from Cat or her mother, a little Jade West sat in a small house, looking up at the various posters on her bedroom wall. She could hear her mother in the next room. She was being sick – again. As well as "a splitting headache" as she'd put it.

"She made her bed," Jade muttered bitterly, thinking of the disgusting stench of alcohol last night. "She can lie in it." Usually that's what she thinks about her less than impressive mother – especially after last night. She touches the bruise on her left cheek. Her jaw still aches but she won't cry, what's the point? No one will come for her. Once or twice, when it first started happening (not that Jade can remember a time when it didn't) she helped her mother, gave her some water and food. She wasn't at all grateful, and smashed the glasses afterwards. Whether it was on purpose or not is another matter but to Jade, it didn't matter whatsoever. Whatever damage her mother had caused was done now, and there was no going back. Mostly, Jade tried to avoid her mother; even more her father. Not that he came round much anymore, not since he got a new wife that is. So Jade was left staring at her posters all summer long. She didn't really have anything else to do besides that and taking care of her mother – she'd rather watch paint dry. Which was probably about the same affect looking at her posters had, thinking about it. That's not entirely true; she'd look up at them and want to be just as famous as the faces up there.

"One day, my name will be in lights; one day I'll prove my mom wrong."

When you're safe inside your room you tend to dream of a place where nothing's harder than it seems.

Jade was a smart kid. She knew how to handle herself, how to just use what she needed because she knew otherwise, she'd have to wait. Her mother didn't go shopping much. Every now and again she'd call her dad and ask for money, say she wants a new toy, or she wants new games. He can't say no to his only daughter; his little girl! Too bad he's never there. She doesn't want his sympathy, she just needs money. When she gets some, she drags herself and her mother to the store – she's tried going in on her own but someone always takes her home. She protested heartily, she kicked and screamed. No one listened, they never do.

Jade listened carefully, tilting her head and creasing her eyebrows. She could hear her mother, but she wasn't vomiting anymore, but crashing about. That worried her; not for safety reasons, no, but for her things. She didn't want her mom ruining food or plates when she was the one who had to make up excuses to get them. She made her way down to the bathroom across the hall, where she saw her mom with a broken bottle of vodka at her feet. Jade sniffed, looking away.

"What a mess," She said, not entirely talking about the bottle.

There was not a doubt in anyone's mind how Jade despised her mother. Just no one knew how much.

A/N:

This is just a very short, three/four/five chapters maybe. :]