It was raining again by the time final period ended. I left before Freddie could try and talk to me again, today I had bigger problem to deal with. I walked home the long way, purposely sauntering in puddles, trying to put off going home; but part of me knew that I should be running. I needed to get home. I knew how these days played out and by now it wasn't going to be pretty.

I walked up the path to my front door and braced myself before I opened it and walked into the living room. The smell of alcohol hit me first, not an unusual smell, but stronger than usual. A bottle of cheap vodka emptied of its contents was staring at me from the coffee table. An old friend, it winked at me, a casual hello coming from its neck. Other than the empty glass bottle there was no other evidence she had been in here.

I checked the kitchen, with no prevail. If I went upstairs I knew what I would find. With Mel this was always easier; she was able to keep a calm and sympathetic tone in her voice. I just got angry or upset, usually both. I walked the stairs slowly, taking one step at a time. I walked to her bedroom. I heard the crying before I opened the door.

I pushed the door open and looked in from the hallway. She lay in her bed her head enclosed by the pillows that only muffled her cries a little.
"Mom," I stepped into the room. It smelled of cigarette smoke, vodka and red wine. She lifted her head from the pillows and looked at me. Her blue eyes that used to be as pure as mine were now bloodshot and sunken into her skull. Tears of mascara ran down her skin that had a slight tinge of yellow. I walked closer to the bed and watched her as she picked up the bottle of wine from beside the bed and take a long swig. She cleared her throat and her face forced a twisted smile, "It didn't work," she slurred.
"I guessed," I mumbled.
"He called me a whore. Well worse than that, which I am!" she laughed in a distorted fashion that made my stomach turn. My mother always blamed herself.
"You're not," were the only words I could muster, because part of me wanted to scream at her, 'Stop acting like a whore and then maybe men won't treat you like one!'
As if reading my mind she spoke again, "They're all like it Sammy. They use you for their own pleasures and desires and then they ditch you. They can't feel love; all they can feel is their want for sex. Sex is what is always comes down too in the end."
"Well that's what happened to you. What if they really love you?" I argued back, Freddie came into my head, I knew he wasn't like that.
"Ha!" She laughed to herself and then went quiet, her drunken smile disappearing only for tears to fall again. Her voice was harsh with tears when she spoke again, "I loved your father Sammy, and I think he loved me, but even if he did it didn't last long."
I didn't say anything, the nights of my mother screaming filled my head.
"How much do you love him Sam?" My mother asked, her voice filled with seriousness now.
"Who?" I replied as Freddie entered my head again.
"You're seventeen, there's always a boy. I remember." She smiled. A sad smile, that brought tears to my eyes.
"He's not like that!" I screamed, tears pouring from my eyes I found myself running from to my own bedroom.