Here we go again, I thought as the screams picked up in volume octave. I walked out the door, moving in practiced, silent steps, and headed to the garage, my safe-haven. Their sounds faded as I shut the door and reached for my bong. As I went through the motions—lighting it, taking in the smoke, letting the weed burn my lungs and relax my tensed being—I thought about it all. It had been two years since Evie first brought her shit to our family. Two fucking years, and it was like she'd never left.
Oh sure, things were fine for a while. Tracy stopped cutting; she even went to a teen rehabilitation center and was clean of all drugs for like six months. And as far as I can tell she still doesn't cut. Then again, she's hiked up on so many downers I don't think she could muster the energy to inflict any sort of pain on herself. She's still sneaking out at night; still giving Mom hell. She's probably turning tricks to pay for her drugs, seeing as she stopped selling.
I blew out the smoke and felt myself sink into a calm stupor. I reached for the radio, and turned the damn thing as loud as it can go. They would go at it until Mom could trick herself into believing that Tracy was on her way to bed, and until they were done butting heads for the day, the garage was where I'll be; falling out from the stresses of their world that I really didn't belong in anyway.
As I lit it again, heard the bubbles and felt as the smoke climbed into my mouth, I remembered that there was supposed to be a massive swell tomorrow. I continued to drop into myself; feeling no stress, thinking of no pain. Falling. Falling, and forgetting.