Page 126 of Truck Up

But the thought of facing her rejection, of seeing the disappointment in her eyes, is almost unbearable. Mom never pushes me away. She always welcomes me with open arms, no matter how lost I am.

I shove my hands into my hair and let out a deep growl. I’m being stupid, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

Logically, I know the only reason Amelia pushed me away was because of my dumbass mistakes. Not because she doesn’t want me. I did this. Not her. But yet my stupid brain is still telling me she abandoned me.

It’s only been a few days since the poker game. I’ve barely given her the time she asked for. But I’m not known for my patience.

The ache in my chest is like a virus, and it’s infecting every ounce of my being. Even my rational thoughts. Without my angel, I don’t have the strength to fight my demons.

As sick as it may be, I need Mom right now. She understands my addiction, my struggles, and my pain like no one else can.

I push the door open, and I’m immediately hit with the pungent smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something else I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s a mix of rotten food, foul body odor, and feces.

It chokes me, and I have to cover my mouth with my shirt just to enter.

“Mom.” I call out. I’m met with silence.

There’s a haze in the air that stings my eyes. The stench is thick and worse than anything I’ve ever experienced before.

That’s saying something considering my past. I’ve exposed myself to some seriously dangerous situations, and on more than one occasion, woke up in a very questionable environment.

I take a step inside and almost trip over a pile of bottles. The clank of glass fills the air as they roll across the floor. When they settle, I half expect to hear Mom yell to be quiet. She hates loud noises. Especially when she’s strung out.

But again, I’m met with silence.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the air quality and stop stinging. I rub them with my thumb and fingers to wipeaway the tears that formed. When they come into focus, the first thing I see is a pile of cocaine on top of a broken piece of glass with a rusting razor blade beside it. It both disgusts me and feeds my urge for a hit.

My hands, my feet, and every inch of skin on my body itch to feel that high coursing through my veins.

I take a step back and close my eyes. I should run back to my bike and race away from here. But my feet are rooted.

Next to the pile of cocaine is a small bag of weed with just enough for a single blunt. Knowing my mom’s suppliers, that bag is laced with something far more dangerous than cocaine. The stuff they’re selling these days can ruin a man with one drag.

Cracking my neck, I ignore the drugs.

“Mom! Are you here?” I call out again.

I’m met with silence.

Heading deeper into the apartment, I check the kitchen first. Trash and dirty dishes cover every inch of counter space. It looks like every dish she owns is dirty. Typical.

Something that looks like dried up pasta sauce is splattered all over the floor. It’s going to take some serious soaking to get that up.

“Hello?” I call out as I turn down the hallway. I don’t make it but a few steps before I freeze.

The bathroom light is on and she’s on the floor. All I see is her hand and hair splayed out in the hallway.

“Mom!” I run to her and fall to my knees. Her hand is cold as ice with a grayish tint. The smell in the bathroom is far worse than that of the living room. It’s covered in vomit, piss, and shit.

But it’s her lifeless eyes that gut me.

“No, no, no.” I cry out. I press my hand to her neck, looking for any sign of life. There’s no pulse, and she’s not breathing.

I fall back and lean against the wall opposite the bathroom. I should call someone, but I can’t get myself to move. Instead,I stare at her. Studying her face and body. Based on the sunken look of her eyes and dried vomit around her mouth, she’s been like this for a while. Hours? Days? I’ve no way of knowing.

It’s been a few weeks since our monthly visit with her. Chase and I weren’t due for our Sunday cleanup and dinner for another week. How long has it been since someone was here?

“Fuck!” I bang my head against the wall and stare at the ceiling and fight the tears.