Chapter Five

Ash

R olling up to my usual spot on the side of the road, I struggle to get out of the van quickly enough. I stumble to the door clumsily, in a rush to get to Mom. Approaching, I can hear her screaming, followed by a bang. As I burst through the door, a rush of adrenaline propels me through the hall, my heart pounding in my chest. The living room comes into view, and my eyes widen in shock - Rich has my mom pinned up against the wall, his voice booming as he yells inches from her face. "Where're my fucking keys?"

Rich stands several inches taller than me, and he towers over Mom. He's also got a bigger build, and his face bears a striking resemblance to Mom's gaunt features. His skin is showing the effects of the drugs, with sores appearing in and around his mouth.

I yank his shoulder, telling him to get the fuck off her. In a split second, he whirls around and delivers a powerful blow to my face. The intense pain leaves me feeling dizzy and sends me crashing to the ground. Blinking through the pain, my right eye throbbing as my vision starts to return. Getting a black eye from Rich is a common occurrence for me, but you'd think I would've figured out by now how to avoid his punches. Yet, my impulse to shield Mom takes precedence over my rationality.

Once again, Mom is screaming.

Filled with rage, Rich directs his venomous words at me. "You don't tell me what to do, you piece of shit! I bet it was you who took the truck keys." This is all about drugs. He still hasn't found the keys to get to them.

Rich grabs me by the scruff of my hoodie and hauls me up, grabbing me around the neck in the same spot he had Mom.

"Where did you hide them?" A spray of spit lands on my face, accompanying his words, mingling with the unpleasant scent of smoke and unbrushed teeth. His greasy dark hair hangs in his eyes.

I twist my face away from him, desperate to avoid the urge to vomit, but that's a dangerous move on my part.

The force of his slap brings a sudden jolt to my cheek, leaving a lingering pain in its wake. "Don't you fucking dare turn away from me, boy. Gimme the keys," he yells.

"I don't have them." I meet his gaze, his eyes black as night.

Rich erupts in anger, accusing me of lying, and then he forcefully punches the wall next to me. Startled, I instinctively flinch.

"Fine, I'm gonna tear this place apart until I find them."

He goes straight to my room. The noise of him banging around reaches my ears, and I go over to Mom, who is now seated on the couch. The way her pink hoodie and blue jeans hang on her emphasizes her slight frame. Falling to my knees in front of her, I'm struck by her deteriorating condition—the bags under her eyes have become more prominent, and her once vibrant green eyes are nowhere to be found. Her pupils are wide and dark, a telltale sign of her intoxication.

"What the fuck is this?" Rich is standing there holding my money tin, the one I keep hidden under a floorboard in my room. Fuck.

"That's mine," I say, rising to my feet, my voice filled with confidence I didn't feel.

"The fuck it is. You been stealing from me?"

"What? No, it's mine from working."

As I reach out to grab it, a sudden blow to my stomach knocks the wind out of me, and I find myself once again sprawled on the floor. While enduring his continuous assault, I curl into a fetal position, doing my best to defend my head, only to leave my back defenseless, resulting in yet another painful strike.

Rich abruptly stops as my mom's feeble voice reaches our ears, and then I hear another cry, only this time it's her, not me. Peeking out from my position on the ground, I witnessed the heartbreaking sight of my mom collapsing onto the floor.

Will I forever be stuck in a life where I have to defend her over a situation she won't leave? How long am I going to give up my own happiness, dreams, and self-worth in an attempt to help someone who shows no interest in being saved? It's disheartening to witness someone choosing a life of abuse, disregarding the support I've offered, instead opting for a toxic relationship and addiction, forsaking her own blood. Despite my own foolishness, I can't resist pleading with her one final time.

"Please, Mama," I sob, my voice trembling. "Come with me. We'll get you the help you need, I promise. You'll get better. We'll find a new place, a fresh start."

"She doesn't need any help. There's nothing wrong with her. Is there, Grace?" Rich's sickening grin accompanies his words. Using her hair as leverage, he pulls her up into a sitting position. She moves her head in a shaking motion.

"She never wanted you," Rich continues. "Your own pa didn't love you enough to take you with him, so you were left behind. You're nothing but a nobody, Ashley. A worthless piece of nothing."

If I wasn't in this situation, I would laugh at his words. He is the one who's nothing. An abuser and an addict, nothing more. But there's no point arguing with him when he's this unstable. When I look over at Mom, she turns her bloody face away. She refuses to even glance in my direction. The combination of his sharp words and her complete denial of his claims feels like salt being poured into my already raw wounds, causing excruciating pain.

Rich's laughter resonates in my ears. "You actually thought she'd pick you. She knows her place," he states while letting go of her hair and forcefully pushing her head away.

Getting to my knees, I feel the strain in my muscles as I try to maintain my balance while ignoring the pounding pain coursing through my body. With a swift movement, Rich grabs my chin, his fingers applying so much pressure that I can almost hear my bones creak, and I know there'll be a bruise.

"You're just as pathetic as her."

From the corner of my eye, I see Mom with her head bowed, blood trickling from her lip onto the once beautiful patterned carpet.

"You can't save her, little boy. There's nothin' left to save. Both of ya are pathetic. Neither of you could ever make it out in the real world without me."

Rich's hand loosens its grip on my chin, only to be followed by the repulsive sensation of his saliva hitting my skin.

"When I get back, this place had better be spotless. I'm going to see Dozer."

Startled by the loud slam of the door, I hastily use my hoodie to clean the revolting spit from my face before crawling over to Mom.

"Don't," she says sharply.

"Mom, let me help you."

"I don't need your help. You heard what he said; I'm fine."

"But..."

"Just go Ash."

"What?"

Her thin, skeletal face finally turns to me, adorned with dark rings and a split lip from Rich's hand. "I told you to go, get out. I don't want you here."

"Mom, don't say that. I'll help you clean up; we can just go back to how things were." Ignoring the tears cascading down my face, I plead desperately with her.

"No," she shouts defiantly, her words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. When she looks me directly in the eye, I see the determination in her gaze. She speaks each word slowly and distinctly, ensuring that I can clearly understand what she is saying.

"I. Don't. Love. You."

Taking a deep breath, I'm hit with unbearable pain that is worse than any hit I've ever taken from Rich. My heart, already shattered, breaks into a million pieces, each fragment piercing me with a deeper agony.

"You... you don't mean that." I cry softly, tears streaming endlessly down my face.

Using the sofa to help herself up, she struggles to stand while I stay on my knees. Clutching her side, she makes her way to the kitchen, the pain obvious with every step she takes. She reaches for a cigarette and lights it. For a few seconds, her face is hidden by the swirl of smoke.

"I'm pleading with you. Please don't do this." Her response comes in the form of a simple gesture—she turns away from me, and that says everything.

All this time I thought she would eventually leave with me, but she's choosing him. The pain in my chest is so consuming that it paralyzes me, my broken heart aching with every breath. Maybe I am nothing. She chose him .

Holding my own ribs, I pull myself up and slowly make my way to my room.

When I glance at myself in the wall mirror, the sight of the bruise slowly taking shape around my eye, the red handprint on my cheek, and the black, thumb-size mark on my chin serve as a haunting reminder I'll inevitably end up like her if I don't leave. Who is this fractured boy I see in the mirror, and when did he abandon himself?

I have to let her go.

How can she not care about the pain caused by Rich or the childhood I missed out on because of the choices she made? I'll never be able to force her to change. But I can.

I can .

My spirit has crumbled enough from this never-ending cycle that's consumed years of my life.

I can move on , leaving behind the memories that once weighed me down.

I can be better, by pushing myself to learn and grow.

I can put myself first .

I've spent so long focusing on her survival that I've never even thought of my own. I'm twenty years old, a man now. With painful clarity, it occurs to me that part of adulthood is knowing when to walk away.

The pain of leaving Mom behind, unsure of what will happen to her, weighs heavily on me. But it's not my job to fix something I didn't break. I identify what's salvageable for a living. Staring at my reflection, I know maybe I am, but the woman in the kitchen who just chose the devil's own over me isn't.

As I look around the room, I take in the mess. My bed covers are ripped, and my remaining clothes have been tossed all over the place. The end table is flipped on its side, and the floorboard is still open where Rich discovered my hidden stash. I hurriedly pack the remaining items into my worn-out backpack, picking up my things and squeezing in everything I own, which isn't much. With one last look around my room, I take a deep breath and walk toward the front door, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the empty hallway. I walk away without glancing back, just like Mom did.