Silence was prominent at the private, idyllic hideout that the young couple chose to frequent. It was as if the solitude that the over-hanging branches and monstrously tall trees provided was the perfect escape from everything, all their worries and problems floated away as soon as they set foot there. It was the two of them against the world and no-one could take that away from them. Imogen was on her way, according to her last text and Connor, already there, was trying distract himself from the painful urge circulating its way through his body. The feeling of nausea crashing around his blood stream was making him feel dizzy but he was not, under any circumstances, going to break his word. He wasn't like her; he was better than her.

Ten minutes passed and Imogen still hadn't arrived. Connor closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the bench. The lighter he'd bought yesterday was still sitting comfortably in his pocket; it showed the extent of his willpower that when his mum took it from him, he watched her carefully as she placed it in her handbag and when she went to bed that night, he retrieved it. It made him feel like a drug-addict, stealing from his own mothers bag but it was for good reason. He wouldn't use it. It just provided him with a... friend, of sorts, however stupid it sounded. From a young age, he learnt the best way to drag yourself through life is to just keep yourself to yourself. Friends asked questions, and questions are always awkward when you have an alcoholic teacher for a mother. He'd taught himself to lie, cheat and manipulate when it was truly necessary, and the first time he discovered how effective fire was, it was a revelation. He no longer felt lonely - the raw crackling of the flames, big or small, were like a voice, a voice that told him everything would be fine. He was alone in this battle, and he never would be. As he fondly remembered the first time he committed arson, Connor's hand acted as if with a mind of its own; before he knew it, his hand delved into his pocket, pulling out the disposable lighter. One click... and with immediate effect, his breathing regulated, his mind emptied.

Suddenly, the object was pulled out of his hands sharply. Opening his eyes, Connor saw Imogen stood directly in front of him, glaring at him. She had intended the look to come across as an empty threat; as soon as she got his call, she knew exactly what had happened with his mum.

"I-I wasn't going to, Imogen." Connor's voice was strained, and Imogen sat down gracefully next to him.

"I know, I'm not angry with you. It's just.. I can't think about you doing anything like that again." She grabbed his hand, interlinking their fingers. Neither spoke for a moment, relishing the quiet, until Imogen broke the silence. "So, what happened with your mum, then?"

Connor explained the situation, although he didn't actually know what had gone on between his mum and grandmother. "I don't think I can deal with this all over again. I should have known that it wouldn't last, but I was stupid enough to believe that she had changed. I finally let my barriers down to her, Imogen, I started to trust her. I've been such an idiot."

"You're not an idiot. But if she was sober for a while, maybe she'll have more control over it? Maybe she's just trying to cope with what happened today.. it could all stop again tomorrow." She realised how ridiculously naive her words were but they slipped out regardless; she was struggling to find the right things to say to reassure him when he was clearly in such desperate need for support.

"No, no, I know what you mean, though. Some alcoholics have control over their drinking but if I know anything, it's that the one thing she can't do is control it. I don't want to make this about me, but I just feel like it's all my fault."

"It's not your fault, Connor. It's hers."

"It's her choice to drink, yeah, but some of the things she was saying, Imogen.. they were awful. Things about the fire, saying I wasn't normal and she's right, isn't she? When I found out the real reason she's drank all these years, I felt guilty, but now I'm past caring. I don't care about her, or what she does anymore."

"You still love her, don't even try to deny it." Imogen spoke gently. "You know that she's not drinking to hurt you, don't you? I'm no therapist but drink is her comfort blanket, just like fire is yours."

"Why are you defending her?" Connor asked, removing his hand from her grip.

"I'm not! What I'm trying to say is.. well, the doctors said she'd get really ill if she carried on drinking, yeah?"

He nodded, wondering where she was going with this.

"Then you have to do what you've been doing your whole life. Get her to quit, for good. You might be upset now, and I understand that but if anything happens to your mum because you weren't there when she needed you the most, you'll live to regret it for the rest of your life."

Connor sighed. "Can you please stop being right all the time?"

"No can do, sorry. It's a gift." She giggled, but when her boyfriend stayed stony-faced, she had an idea. "Listen, you know the gym in town? Well they're based in Glasgow and they want a meeting with my mum tomorrow morning about her doing some classes in the local branch or something.. I don't know, I'm not really interested. My point is, they're putting her up in a hotel tonight so I've got the house to myself. If you really don't want to go home tonight, you could stay at mine?"

"Okay." He managed to contort his face into a genuine smile. "I'll have to nip home first though, there's something I need to do."

"What?"

"Check whether my mum is still breathing."

...

Irritating music lingered towards Connors ears when he arrived home. It was nearing 6 o'clock and he was hoping that by the time he got here, his mum would have anethesised herself to the point where she'd passed out on the sofa. It would avoid an altercation, but luck was never on Connor Mulgrew's side. Christine was leaned against the kitchen counter, undoubtedly attempting to steady herself. Glass of wine in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other, she eyed him blankly.

"Oh, look who it is, my darling son." She slurred, triggering feelings of disgust into Connor. "I didn't expect you to be back tonight."

"Yeah, don't worry. I'm not staying."

"Where are you going?"

"Imogen's." Their conversation was painfully awkward. Sighing, Connor realised he needed to get something off his chest. "Listen to me, Mum, just listen to me, don't make any sarcastic drunken comments or anything."

Surprisingly, Christine switched off the radio, gesturing for him to say his piece.

"I know why you started drinking all those years ago.. and it's horrible. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone, and I'm so, so sorry. But I just don't understand this, you were doing well, really well, I was actually proud of you for once! I went to clear my head and I realised that this isn't about me, it's about you and I can't force you to give it up. So, whatever. Do what you like, but things are going to change. I'm not going to let this effect me any more, so drink as much as you like, but I'm not looking after you. I'm not making sure you get up the stairs carefully or getting you up for work in the morning. From now on, this is just where I'm living until I go to Uni."

Connor nervously stretched the sleeves of his cardigan over his hands and awaited his mothers response. When Christine was silent, he started to wonder if he'd finally got through to her. Wrong, again.

"Well, would you listen to Martin Luther King over there?" The alcoholic scoffed. "You about done? Good, then it's my turn. You listen to me. Personally, I think you need to grow up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You need to realise that the world is not a nice place, son. Things are not going to be handed to you on a plate and bad things will happen. Please don't think that I don't love you, because that could not be further from the truth. I really do want to help you get through your rough patch, I don't want you to end up like me, a wreck, because that's what I am, Connor, I'm a wreck. I want to help you and in my heart I know that the only way I can do that is by drinking. To help you, I have to start off by helping myself."

Although it was unnerving to hear her admit to loving him (he couldn't remember the last time she did that drunk), Connor wasn't having any of it.

"Bullshit."

"...Excuse me?"

"You're just talking complete shit. Don't act like you're there for me, Mum."

Strangely, Christine's eyes filled with tears. "But I am, I am! I want to help you, son. Why won't you believe me?"

"Okay, one question. What would you choose? Me or the drink?"

Prior to this question, Connor felt compelled to stay at home tonight. He was worried that something would happen, that the alcohol would suddenly come as a shock to her body and despite being disgusted in her, he still cared. That was Connor's downfall - he was too caring for his own good. After he asked the question, though, Christine's reaction cemented his decision.

Her eyes lowered to the floor. She didn't speak, not one syllable.

Connor darted upstairs, grabbed some clothes and was out of the door before Christine could stop him.

Out in the open and in the kitchen, both mother and son shed a couple of tears in unison.

Their fractured bone of a relationship was now fully broken, and the hope of ever fixing it floated away with Christine's every drink.