Hello everybody! The story you're about to read is actually a translation from the German original. I'm therefore not the actual author, but have her permission to translate it all. This is the first part of a three-part-series, where the third one is currently being written and uploaded in German. For those of you interested in the source material, I'll link the story below. I hope you'll be having as much fun reading this story as I had, and am currently having, while translating it.

.de/s/5172a0a30001b5740680cf09/1/Family-Portrait

She was back.

I could sense it the moment the doorbell rang.
Checking the fluoresced digits of my alarm clock, which was telling me that it was 11pm, gave me certainty, so to speak.
She'd always come at night when it was dark and the streets were empty.

I didn't have to hustle oud of my room, run downstairs and race to the entrance to find out who was standing there.
Just like I'd surely had done it three years ago.
Just like I'd always done it. But I wasn't 13 anymore. I was 16.
And I knew the game that was starting once more when my grandma opened the front door. I knew it and I was done with it. So done.

I turned to lie on my side, pulling the covers over my head and trying to fall back asleep. Preferably for the next three months. She never stayed longer than that.
The longest she'd endured were five months, the shortest four weeks.
But generally, she stayed three months.

I could already feel a dull anger rising up inside of me.
I tried to supress it.
If I thought about it any longer I wouldn't find rest anymore.
I'd lie here numbed, with clenched fists and tightened muscles.
And the next morning would be awful. She wasn't worth all that.

I exhaled and tried not to think of anything.
Tried to think about Jake from class who I fancied a lot and about the upcoming school dance and what I was going to wear to that event.
In short: normality.
The normal life of a 16-year-old girl with all her little problems.
It felt like standing in front of a wall painted over and over with flowers. Yet everywhere little black spots started appearing and they only seemed to grow the more I looked at them.
Franticly, I tried to paint over them. Quick, quick, before they grow anymore! If I can't see it, it'll disappear eventually!

My jaw hurt. Without realising it, I had started clenching my teeth tightly.
My pyjamas, only consisting of an oversized t-shirt, were drenched with sweat.

I swung my legs out of bed and reached for my jeans, lazily hanging over my desk chair, to get to the pack of cigarettes I kept inside the back pocket.
I opened the window, lit one of them and blew the smoke outside.
Under my windowsill I could hear a soft murmur of voices.
I recognised the hoarse but vigorous tone of my grandma and her answers.
They sounded quiet, glum and desperate.
From time to time you could hear a sob.
I wanted to press my hands to my ears to shut out her whining, or rather drop to all fours and start hammering the flour, throwing wicked insults at her.
Instead I sat there like a statue, listening to her bright, clear voice.

I knew the frailty that was now audible in every nuance would fade over the next few weeks.
Her strength and determination would return.
Impatience and annoyance would follow swiftly, chased by the big silence.
Then she'd disappear. In the middle of the night, without a word.
Just like how she came.
Just like it had always been.

I was so over it all. I flicked the cigarette out of the open window, closed it and went back to bed.
Fortunately, it was finally quiet downstairs.
My pulsed had started to calm down a bit and I managed to supress the thoughts about the following morning, which I wasn't anticipating.
I fell asleep.