Page 29 of Truck Off

I work tirelessly for what feels like hours before I finally make headway on the place. Thank fuck it’s only a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment or else this would take days.

I scrub the bathroom until the counters, tub, and toilet shine white again. The living and dining room are clean and look presentable. I’ve got one load in the dishwasher, and then I mop the bathroom and kitchen floors.

Now that all the trash is out and the dirty surfaces are clean, it smells better. At least I can breathe through my nose without gagging.

Mom is still passed out on her bed, so I gather her laundry while a sink full of dishes soaks. It doesn’t look like she’s done laundry this past month either.

I take all her dirty clothes and towels to the small closet just off the kitchen where there’s a stacked washer and dryer. I get the first load started and then wash the dishes I’d left in the sink.

Once her kitchen is spotless, I lean against the counter. Rubbing my hands down my face, I sigh in exhaustion.

How the fuck can anyone live like this? This isn’t living. I’m not even sure it’s surviving.

Doing this every month drains the life out of me. I’ve been taking care of Mom like this since I was fifteen. Back then, I did it for her. I did it because I thought I could be the reason she stopped using. And if she stopped using, then so would Christian.

That never happened. There hasn’t been a single time in my thirty years of existence that Mom hasn’t used.

When I finally figured out that she’d never give up her drugs, I stopped doing this for her. Now I do it for Christian.

“God dammit!” Mom’s tired and slurred voice calls out from her bedroom. That means she’s figured out I’m here and that her drugs are likely gone.

I rest my hands against the counter and drop my head, bracing myself for her anger. A few moments later, I hear her footsteps come down the short hallway. I feel her presence before I hear the huff expel all the air from her chest.

She doesn’t speak, and I’m sure if I turn around, she’ll be leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me. No matter how old I get, she still tries to reprimand me like I’m a child.

I ignore her and go back to washing her fucking dishes.

“Did you get rid of it all?” she finally asks, her words laced with frustration.

“Don’t know why you’re asking. You know I did.”

A low growl escapes her, followed by the sound of a chair crashing to the floor. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see her shaking hands run through her hair.

There was a time when Mom was a beautiful woman. When I close my eyes and let my childhood memories break free, I see her long, dark, shiny hair flowing in the wind. She had a stunning smile and amber-brown eyes that sparkled. Everyone says I got her smile. It’s not a compliment. Not anymore.

Now she’s haggard. Her hair is always a tangled mess. Her eyes are dark and sunken without a sparkle in sight, and her skin is dull with a gray tinge. She looks worn hard and completely spent. Whatever beauty she had faded a long time ago. All that remains is a shell of a woman addicted to drugs and bad men.

“You have no right to be here and throw away my stuff.”

The anger and hatred I see in her eyes should upset me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore. Mom never showed me love. I never gave into her demands and temptations like Christian. Therefore, I was disobedient and unruly.

“Since I pay the fucking rent on this place and it’s my name on the goddamn lease, I’ll come and go as I please. I’ll also throw away anything and everything that I find in here that I don’t like.”

I don’t know why I bother to say all that. It’s the same damn speech I give her every month. It’s like the two of us are stuck in a loop that neither of us knows how to get out of.

Instead of arguing with me about it—because she knows I’m right—she spins around and leaves me alone in the kitchen to finish doing her dishes.

It doesn’t matter how pissed Mom gets at me for coming in here and cleaning up, she can’t do a damn thing about it. The landlord knows the deal, as does Ricky, our local law enforcement.

I close my eyes as I let my head fall back. I’m doing this for Christian. Not her.

I repeat those words over and over again until my heart rate calms, and my frustration subsides. Getting mad at Mom doesn’t help. That’s what she wants. She loves to piss me off, hoping that will make me leave and never come back.

But she doesn’t take into account just how much I love my brother. I’ll do anything to protect him, even put up with her bullshit.

* * *

As soon as Christian arrives, Mom is all smiles. She’s always shown Christian more affection than me. Even when we were little, she preferred him.

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