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JESSICA'S STORY

I can smell the alcohol on her breath. It keeps on stinking. I can barely look. Her clothes are covered in vomit and saliva. She weighs twice my weight, but I muster up the strength to drag her. She lost her shoe on the eighth step. I’ll have to get it later.

Her hair keeps falling in her face as her head is tossing, hanging like a soap on a rope. Its pungent odor of cheap shampoo, vomit, and alcohol make me queasy. Her eyes are closed halfway.

The look of depression on her face is a familiar picture. She’s drooling out the side of her mouth. It makes her look helplessly ill. And she is ill. Even I acknowledge she’s ill.

Her hands dangle by my knees. They’re getting colder with time. I can’t reach the doorknob to her room because I’m too weak to support her. Her head weighs a ton. So I put her on her side. The couch is used to this by now.

I wonder if she can see me with her reddened eyes. They appear like slits in an air conditioner. They’re thin and dark, and emit a chill. Her face makes me sad.

The blanket will keep her warm if she leaves it on. I bring her mine too, in case she soils hers.

She’s so quiet. I frighten myself with fears sometimes. I worry that she’ll just stop breathing. The dampness in the air consumes her breath. It smells like death in my nightmares. It smells like this all the time. It’s this life I smell. I sink into my chair: my bed.

I’m no sweeter in scent than she. My shirt is saturated with her drool. It’s sticking to me and making me cold. I throw my shirt onto the shaggy carpet. I’m curious how much of this stench is absorbed by it. She’s a bundle of sadness lying two feet from me.

I wonder when she’s gonna wake up. I should go get her shoe, but I’m too tired. I’ll get it tomorrow. She’ll be made when she sees what she did to her car. But I’ll be in school, so it won’t be so bad. The light is dim and concealing in here. It’s one of those energy-saver bulbs.

I strain my eyes to watch her roll over. She’s not graceful. She’s not graceful at all. I can’t imagine her any other way though. I’ve never known her any other way. With lips so dry and chapped. I can’t help staring at her.

I look a lot like her. Her hair is longer than mine, but just as dark. When she’s not wearing those fake blue contacts, our eyes are the same. I have nicer teeth though. Hers have a cigarette smoker’s tint.

She’s starting to dry heave. Her tongue keeps creeping out. It’s an off-pink color. Every time she gags I try to see if she has taste buds.

I wonder if she’s conscious yet. I hope not. We’re out of aspirin. She’s complaining in undecipherable tones. Not that I ever understand her.

I can’t remember the first time she was drunk. I doubt I was alive yet. Well, maybe a zygote. So much for memories.

The dog is so dumb. He just sits beside her like she’ll acknowledge him. She’s sleeping you idiot! If only he was smart enough to go fetch her shoe. Microwave says it’s 1:45 a..m., but the clock says it’s only 1:00. I don’t care anyway.

I just noticed that the chair I sleep in is getting ratty. The fabric covering is a little-discolored and frayed. The dishes are piling up. So much to do. I close my eyes.

I’m in Hawaii. No. I’m on an island in the Caribbean. Too many volcanoes in Hawaii. It’s beautiful outside. Here it’s sunny and dry most of the time. And the air smells like oranges – clementines and tangerines. Smells are harder to pretend than visuals. I always try anyway though. I hear her fall.

Oh no. She’s up. Time to go home. I better help her. I think she’s in the bathroom.

The tiles have left funny little grooves in her cheek. Her eyelids are still too heavy for her to keep them raised. The makeup under her left eye is smeared. Her shoulders are hunched over, and her spine is pressing into the shower doors. Her hands, with delicately painted nails of red, soak in the toilet. She still can’t see.

In spurts, she coughs furiously. She misses the bowl. I can hardly stand to watch over her from the doorway. I know she’s still drunk. Her weary head rests on the rim. The ends of her hair, black as ashes, float in the mess she’s made. And what a mess she’s made.

By JHM, a teenager from New Jersey.