Author's Note:


Monday 27th April, 1992

Dear Stranger,

My name is Katelyn McGregor and I am thirteen years old. Perhaps you remember who I am; perhaps you have kept my letter from a year ago; perhaps you don't remember me at all. It is of no consequence really, I doubt that when these letters stop you will remember the girl who decided to reveal all her secrets to someone she cannot see or hear...

There have been many times in my life when I have wondered why we have parents. A person may argue it is because they raise us, teach us right from wrong, encourage us to strive in everything we do, and say, "I love you" as they tuck us into bed at night. But, in my experience, they are nothing more – and mothers in particular – than people who are there to remind those unfortunate enough to end up with loveless parents, that living is a constant chore.

In the mornings, I waken to the sound of an alarm clock, a small fleeting reminder that it's another day of another year. It is then that I proceed to wake up the rest of the household, and no matter how hard I try I can't wake the sleeping lump that is my mother. I leave her exactly where she is and move on to get ready for school.

When I return some seven hours later, nothing has changed, save the movement and placement of my mother, who has gone from bed to couch, a bottle of whiskey – which I presume has been her breakfast and lunch – held loosely in her hand. It's a common sight, one I see quite regularly. I try my best to get her to eat regular food, even doing so much as to threaten to take away the alcohol she so desires, but to no avail. She is as stubborn as I am, perhaps a little more so.

I am always still awake when the life form that is my mother finally moves. It makes me cringe to watch something so awful, and yet so heartbreaking at the same time. It is a regular routine for her: get up, drink; move to couch, drink; get up, drink; shower, drink; change, drink; and then proceed down to the local pub where she'll drink some more, get drunker than drunk, and come home with some random for a shag. I can always hear them, because I am always still awake when they get home, thinking, hoping, praying, that she'll see the light and stop what she is doing.

The randoms leave around two o'clock every single time, and that's when I decide to check up on her. Beside the sleeping figure, a small wad of cash sits. My mother knows that men leave money for her. I can still remember the first night she brought a man home. Before she left to do what they were going to do, she sat me down and said, "When men leave, there will be money left. I want you to come in after they leave and take the money, and keep it for yourself." Each time I fulfil my promise, those words echo in my ears.

I cannot honestly say I appreciate my mother doing something like that to get money, but I do respect that she is trying to give me something – even if it's not her true love and devotion.

Unfortunately, it is late here, and I must sleep. For now, kind Stranger, I thank you for reading, and I bid you a pleasant day – or night, in my case.

Until next time,
Kate McGregor