I lazily open my eyes, looking at the snowflake-texture ceiling of my bedroom. I groan at the ring in my ears and the cheap apartment pressing into my back, old, forgotten legos, pencil graphite, and all. Sitting up is difficult; so I pull myself up with Madelyn's crib. I notice a blood-stain on the carpet and check my nose. God, damn it.

The soft fluff of a tissue is rolled and pressed into my nostrils. My Mother doesn't even freak out when she sees- she's convinced that I'm anemic. I pitch the Cottonelle when it dries up, my nose whistling when I breathe.

"Bloody nose again?" Mother pours Schweppes Sour into a glass, then whiskey.

A Whiskey Sour. Her classic. I remember when I'd make her one sometimes to help her wake up. Sometimes a Bloody Mary if her stomach was upset. Or a Sex on the Beach when she felt festive, or a Strawberry Daiquiris if she felt like something fancy. I don't even know, sometimes she'd just swig Bacardi to wake up for her Pastor to come by, just to keep her fresh. I remember when she was drunk she let me have a Jägermeister shot, and my God was it gross. I wish I could drown myself in all her drinks…I'd forget it all.

Her mouth spews words toward me, but my Voice Command Application isn't picking it up. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Did you say sleep forever in a wooden box six feet under? I can do that.

"Ivorie Rose!" She spats.

I shake my head, ruffling my feathers. "Sorry. Zoned out."

"Maybe you should see Doctor Bidwell. Or your Neurologist, Doctor Bu'Ve. I think the seizures are flaring up."

Once little Ivorie was nothing but a bonebag, her brain wasn't working right, so she flipped the fuck out and had seizures, from absent to grand maul. I know, inconvenient.

"Haha, thanks, but I don't need a Doctor; just tired." I look around and tremble in surprise. "Holy shit I'm in the kitchen."

She laughs. I always get vertigo, anhedonia, or whatever. "Yeah, dork. Anyway, I have to get ready, Maddye has an appointment."

I nod. Now she'll go up to her room, look in the vanity and tell herself that she'll be okay, that it's just outside. Nothing to be afraid of. Ha, I wish. The world is an irrationally scary place. It's completely rational, I lied, but the reason I stay and go is because I have nowhere else to be; my emancipated ass (Mother thought I should take responsibility) could get a job, apartment, and take care of myself, but I have no willpower. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Mother left her Sour behind, half-finished. I down it and scrub the dishes until my knuckles are burning white and my hands are prunes.