"Clean this up you filthy rat! I can't believe you would treat my stuff with such disrespect!" Her smokey screams filled the clouded air as she glared at me.

I quickly wiped up the floor attempting to rid it of yet another stain from spilt soda. I'd been cleaning the table, lifting up her glass to clean under it when she pushed me into the table causing me to drop it on the already stained cream carpet.

After I'd finished I wiped the few tears sliding down my cheeks and stood up. The tears were stupid, I should be used to this by now. I turned to go back into the kitchen before running into her.

"You missed a spot."

"Where?" I looked at my work confused. There was no more remains of the sticky soda in the carpet.

She walked over, glass in hand and dumped the rest of the soda that remained in the cup on the ground again. "There."

I sighed silently and got back down on my hands and knees to begin cleaning again.

She walked away calling to the man in the kitchen, her high pitched laughter filling the air. "Hey Derek! Guess what I just did!"

She sounded like a kid in a candy store. She looked like a wrinkled giant. She was cold. She was heartless. She was meaner than the devil.
She was my mother.

Maria stood at 5' 8" with graying brown hair and fierce green eyes. Skinnier but not by much. She was 45 years old but looked to be in her mid fifties early sixties. What alcohol and cigarettes does to you. She was the oldest of three children; the only girl. A tough fighter, who doesn't take no for an answer.

My father was quite the same. Derek was 6' 5" black hair old brown eyes. Almost as wrinkled as Maria but not quite. He was a twig but a strong twig. He hits harder than you'd think. He had the same love of alcohol as his wife.

Fortunately you would never know we were related just by looking at us. I was only 5' 6", hoping to get taller. My hair was straight and blonde framing my oval face. My skin was clear, my eyes a bright vibrant green. I was skinny, but not anorexic. I never understood how people could force themselves to throw up. My friends say I have a fear, emetophobia, of puking. Who knows.

I cook, I clean, I simply try to survive this place I call home. Everything is outdated and stained. Things had been broken from drunken fights then cheaply repaired. It was hell. My own hell in my own home.

A/N: Its kind of a sad first chapter but I promise it gets much much better! And way happier! :) don't forget to let me know what you think! :))