There was a time when walking through the front door felt like stepping into a warm embrace. The house hummed with laughter, the aroma of simmering dinners wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. Home was my sanctuary, a place where light lingered in every corner.
But that warmth has been replaced by something colder, harsher. Now, the walls echo with sharp voices and the jarring crash of broken glass. It’s like the house itself is crumbling, losing the love and safety it once held.
I clutch my pillow tightly, pressing it against my ears, but the sound of shattered china smashing against the walls seeps through anyway. The pain always pulls at my chest, and despite myself, tears fall silently down my cheeks. Each drop feels like a little surrender to the chaos that has taken over my family.
The sharp creak of footsteps on the stairs jolts me awake from my frozen despair. Hurriedly, I wipe away my tears, blinking rapidly to clear the sting in my eyes, desperate to hide the evidence of my broken heart.
My door swings open, and my mother stumbles in, her movements unsteady and sluggish. I leap up from the bed without a second thought, moving to steady her wobbling frame. My room is my refuge, the one place I’ve managed to keep untouched by the violence and frustration that poison the rest of the house.
Every piece of glassware in the kitchen seems to vanish overnight, shattered in fits of rage or despair. To protect what little I have, I keep my own plates and cups tucked away in my dresser drawer—fragile treasures in a fragile world.
"Mom," I whisper gently, wrapping an arm around her to keep her upright. Her fingers find their way into my light blonde hair, gripping tightly enough to make me flinch but not enough to hurt. I bite back a sharp sound, reminding myself she doesn't mean to cause pain.
Her voice is thick and slurred as she murmurs, "Azzy... we ran out of liquor."
My heart sinks. I had hoped, foolishly, that maybe tonight would be different—that maybe she wanted to talk about something real. But the hope is fragile, and it shatters like the glass underfoot.
"I'm sorry," I say softly, guiding her to sit down on the edge of my bed. She’s heavier than I am, and holding her up is like balancing a fragile storm.
"Go get me and your father some more whiskey," she slurs, a crooked smile spreading across her flushed face.
I tuck a stray lock of her dull dark brown hair behind her ear, my fingers trembling as I brush away stray strands from her faded blue eyes—once so bright and full of life.
"Mom, you know I can't," I say firmly, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
A deep, menacing voice cuts through the room, making my heart leap into my throat. "Why the hell not?"
My father stands in the doorway, his presence like a dark cloud. When sober, he’s imposing but bearable; drunk, he’s unpredictable and frightening.
"I-I'm nineteen," I stammer, twisting my fingers nervously in my lap.
"Donny doesn’t care," he growls, slurring his words. "Go to his shop and get it."
I glance between them, fear and desperation battling inside me. "I don’t know where Donny’s shop is," I whisper, barely audible.
His hand slams against the doorframe, the sudden noise making me jump. "It’s right beside Irene’s Bait Shop," he snarls, eyes cold and unyielding. "You know where that is. Now go."
I sink back onto my bed, looking at him with pleading eyes, silently begging for even a sliver of sobriety, an ounce of mercy. But he doesn’t relent.
"Go before I get my belt," he threatens, and the memory of past beatings flashes through my mind, icy and raw.
Only when he's drunk, I remind myself, swallowing the lump in my throat. Slowly, I pull on a navy sweatshirt over my head and slip into a pair of worn flip-flops.
Living in this part of Tennessee has its downsides, none more so than the easy access to moonshine—the poison my parents turn to when their demons take hold.
My father presses a crisp twenty-dollar bill into my hand, his grip rough and careless. I take it without a word, the weight of the money heavier than it should be.
"Be careful, doll," my mother calls softly, her voice fragile as I step out the door.
I fish my phone from the pocket of my sweatshirt, the screen glowing 10:38 p.m. in the quiet dark. The night feels colder than usual, pressing in on me as I make my way down the stairs.
In the kitchen, shards of broken glass glitter in the dim light, reminders of the last storm that tore through our home. I step over the shards cautiously, promising myself to clean it up when I return.
Outside, I grab the keys to my beloved older model Toyota Forerunner—the one constant in a sea of uncertainty. Sliding into the driver's seat, I take deep, steadying breaths, my routine ritual whenever I face the steering wheel.
Driving terrifies me, the road twisting and turning like the emotions inside me. But the passenger seat is worse—filled with memories of my brother Jake, whose absence leaves a hollow ache.
My mind drifts back to simpler times, riding with Jake, his easy grin lighting up the car like sunshine. "Azzy, you want ice cream?" he’d ask, his arm lazily draped over the wheel.
I remember grinning cheekily, the warmth of his presence a stark contrast to the cold nights now. "What a silly question!" I’d tease, feeling safe with him beside me.
He’d push his Ray-Bans down his nose, eyes twinkling above the frames. "You’re crazy, Az." The memory blurs as tears prick my eyes, and I blink them away, forcing myself back to the present.
I park a short distance from the town square, hoping to avoid the late-night crowds. During the day, the square bustles with life—smiling faces, lively chatter, and the simple joy of community.
But at night, the charm fades. The streetlights dim, leaving patches of darkness and a quiet that feels too heavy. The contrast unsettles me, making the shadows seem deeper and the silence louder.
Stepping out of the car, I pull my arms around myself, seeking comfort in the fragile barrier of my own body.
Laughter drifts down the street behind me, loud and carefree. It’s the sound of the bars on Red Street coming to life, a reminder of a world I don’t belong to.
My slow pace means the group catches up quickly, their footsteps loud against the pavement. They stumble past without a glance my way, their presence both a shield and a reminder of my isolation.
As the noise fades, I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves. I remind myself why I’m here—why I have to make this trip tonight, even if it feels like walking through a storm.
The night isn’t just dark outside; it’s dark inside, too. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a sliver of light waiting at the end of this road.