New perspective

The Runaway

      Chapter 1

The sun was shining down on us, making the hot august day even hotter. Grace was sweating, but somehow she was still ahead of me. We finally made it.

 We looked up at the old apartment building. It was filthy with mold growing everywhere. A mouse ran by my feet as I shivered. Somehow this filthy, old rat-infested apartment was home. 

I took a deep breath and unlocked the old door. We walked through the moldy halls and started trudging up the stairs. 

We walked all the way up to the 5th floor and walked down another mold-covered hallway. We reached the end of the long hallway and stopped at a door. Room 113, home.
We unlocked the door and crept inside. 

The apartment wasn’t the fanciest, it never was, but it all we could afford after the plane crash that killed my father.
My mom is jobless, never even trying to get one. Leaving us three in the most disgusting building in the city, if not, the state. 

It was a 2 bedroom apartment, each bedroom having its own bathroom.
There’s one bedroom for my mom, and one for Grace and me. The living room, and the kitchen where the only other rooms in the apartment.
The living room had brown painted walls. Well mostly. The paint was peeling and falling to the moldy, stain covered hardwood floor.
Leaving most of the walls white. Not that they stayed white, there were orange splotches of who knows what on the walls. And no matter how hard we tried, it never came off. The round, wooden coffee table had to be sanded down. And the couch had way too many holes. There was no TV in the living room, the only one we owned was in our mother’s room. Not that we were allowed in there, but it’s not like we want to go there either.  

Grace peeked in the living room then looked back at me.
“She’s there, be quiet, and try to sneak past the living room without getting caught. Follow me.” Grace whispered at me,
I followed as she crept past the living room.

“Hold it right there.” 

Oh no, not good. 

I turned around to see her, the evil woman who imprisoned us in our own home, and the cruelest person I know.
Who also happened to give birth to us. Our mother.
Though we were supposed to call her Delilah, hating the fact she even has kids. And hated to be reminded, by us calling her mom, or anything near mom.

She stumbled toward us, I could tell she has been drinking, as usual.
As she stumbled our way, I glanced over at Grace. I could tell she was anxious. 

“Where do you think you going?” She called to us.

 “To our room,” Grace said calmly. Mom took a coffee cup from the table,
be we both knew that it was not coffee that was inside the cup. She kept on walking forward, as she took another drink out of her coffee cup. She stumbled forward, towards me. 

She was close enough that I could smell the vodka from her breath.
Gross
. I looked inside the coffee cup and saw a clear liquid. But I knew it wasn’t water. 

“May we be excused?” I asked her. 

Instead of a response, she slapped me across the face, leaving my face burning with pain.
I stumbled back and my back hit the wall. Everything became blurry, and before I knew it I was crying. 

The tears came slowly at first, and then the came rushing down my face.
My tears came, but I didn’t make a sound. No sob could escape my mouth.
I was too scared of what would happen to me if I made any noise. 

By now, I was used to this. After all, it happened daily.
But no matter how hard I tried, I ended up bawling every time. I don’t know why she hits us, but what I do know is it hurts. 

“Don’t talk to me without getting my permission” she practically growled at me.

I didn’t dare say anything besides nod my head.
The tears had stopped by now, but I knew my face would be red for another hour or so. 

“Where were you all day,” Delilah said. It was sad she didn’t pay attention to our lives, but then again, she never has. 

As if she was reading my mind, Grace said “Maybe if you noticed us, you would know”
That snappy comment earned Grace a slap to the face, harder than mine.