“It all started with a kiss,” or rather, that’s how mother used to tell the story. As of now she was lying on the couch. Was she crying or laughing? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that she was sick and drunk, and soon to be no more. I stood with and empty bottle clutched in my cold hands, listening to her story with moderate interest, she tells it almost every day now.
         “He was so nice, a true gentleman, gave me everything I could want,”” she says, like it meant something. She was talking about father again, or at least one of her men friends. I like it when she doesn’t lie.  Maybe she says over and over.  Maybe, maybe, maybe, if fate had been so kind as to ask what she wanted, she would be better off now. I had ruined everything.
         She throws another bottle, and it clunks on the floor, not shattering. I saw myself in the brown glass for an instant, before I picked it up. She’s defiantly crying now, the clear salt water falls from her face to the cushion, and I notice she’s face down, still chocking out the story through the vomit and blood. She cursed the names of everyone she knew, even people she didn’t.
         It is my fault, she’s telling me that right now.
         She coughs and cries, reaching for something. I take two steps back.
         “Help me, help me, help me, damn you...”. Two more steps back.
         She collapses, and I run. I’ve killed someone, someone who hated me. I’m at the corner of the room, the corner of the apartment. Downstairs is business as usual, music and hollers. Mother doesn’t move. I pull on a coat, dusting it off as I go, and start unlocking the door to leave. It takes five minutes to undo everything. Mother stirs and moans. I whisper that I’’m leaving for some air and a cigarette, and leave.
        It’s cold outside, but then again, it’s cold everywhere. I shakily pull a case from my pocket, and start asking around for a lighter. Normal people say I’m to young, much to young, that it was filthy and disgusting, but I know they think I deserve it deep down. I finally find someone who doesn’t care, and fill my lungs with black relief.

* * *

         School is many different things to many different people, but to me it is escape. I go there when I want to, it’s not as if the teachers care.
         They don’t want me there.
         Everyone is a mindless drone, doing one task over and over to prepare themselves for a future jobs of doing one task over and over. The school has been there almost as long as the city, and there are too many children. Much too many. They, or I should say we, fill the classes and halls, doing our assigned tasks at our assigned times, striving, caring, hating, and being
indifferent to it all.  I used to go to the bathroom to smoke, just to piss off the other girls who were giggling and trying make-up and adjusting their tight clothes to impress some boy who doesn’t what her face is like. But now it’s too crowded with smokers, the stalls are never unoccupied.
         Everyone wants relief.
         I do not care, indifference is the key. I don’t know my teacher’s names and I don’t fill out their little ““I’’d like to know you”” sheets at the beginning of the year. I won’t let them know me.
         I count the hours until lunch. That won’’t make any difference, but it is something to do. The electronic bell rings, a grating, loud sound designed to be inexpensive and receive attention. Everyone shoves into the halls laughing at the clowns and being insecure about themselves. Mrs. Whatever yells about homework, and someone cusses back.
         Indifference.
         Lunch is just as crowded and noisy as the school, and the crumbling walls can’t withstand the kicks of the clowns much more.
         I find a table. Not a normal table, just a plastic one with plastic seats and a plastic frame. A group of girls wander over, squealing and giggling in their tight clothes, fake lips, and make-up masks. Can like we like sit here like? she asks. No answer. Like okaay then, she says, rolling her eyes and giggling, looking to her fake friends to back up her revelation. More giggles, it is accepted, and they sit.
         These are the type of people who talk as loud as they can, and always look behind their backs. I make sure I am ignored, and listen in.
         Like, like, like, like. That is their main word. A word added to lengthen and add meaning to useless statements, as well as make them arguable, for they aren’’t the truth, just ““like”” the truth. They talk louder when a boy approaches, and call and croon to him, as though he was their king.
         Brainless.
         He walks over, grin on face and hands out, searching for a hug. Or perhaps something else. The girls gladly give him what he wants. Whores. They talk louder, squealing and giggling, and yelling to everyone they can see.
         We are the best, we are popular, we are a team of haters and posers.
         Attention whores.
         Lunch ends, everyone forgets their meaningless conversations, and go back to their meaningless tasks. There is a formula for everything, and we reluctantly discover that efficiency will get you everywhere, while quality leaves you drowning. It ends, and start to walk home. A circle of fake friends blocks everyone’s path to leave. They discuss how much they hate their parents because they would buy them this or that, and how a job will solve all their problems. Or how the unfair boss fired them, or unworthy lover dumped them.
         I push past to leave.

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