The days following the mother and the Carters were unbearable. My mother's vigilance turned suffocating. Her watchful eyes were everywhere—like a hawk circling, waiting for me to slip. Any time I lingered near the door or even dared to let my gaze wander toward the window for too long, her voice would cut through the air like a whip.

"Don't even think about it, Emily," she'd snap, her tone as sharp as shattered glass. "You'll regret it."

For a few days, she left me to sulk in my room, where I nursed my bruised pride and a growing knot of anxiety in my stomach. But solitude wasn't her style. Soon, the reprieve ended. She found new ways to remind me who held the power in the house, tightening her grip until it felt like I was suffocating under the weight of her control.

"Since you're so eager to leave," she said one morning, slamming a mop and bucket onto the kitchen floor with a force that made the tiles tremble, "why don't you make yourself useful around here? This house isn't going to clean itself."

The bucket was old and cracked, the metal handle rusted to the point of flaking. When I turned on the tap, the water ran brownish, carrying a metallic tang that made my stomach turn. I hesitated, staring at the murky liquid swirling in the bucket.

"What are you waiting for?" she barked from behind me, her voice startling me into action. "It's fine. Just clean."

Her glare pinned me in place, a look I'd learned early on not to defy. My protests died in my throat as I bent down to lift the bucket, its weight pulling at my arms as I carried it to the kitchen floor. My hands shook as I plunged the mop into the filthy water, the damp, sour smell curling my nose.

The day stretched endlessly. The harder I worked, the more she found for me to do. I scrubbed floors on my hands and knees until my fingers were raw, the dirty water seeping into my clothes and clinging to my skin. I wiped down walls stained with years of neglect, my arms burning with the effort. Trash bags, heavy and reeking of stale beer and spoiled food, piled up around me, and I dragged them outside one by one, the sour stench lingering in my nostrils long after.

Each task was punctuated by her shouts.

"Missed a spot there."
"Is this how you think floors should look?"
"Do it again."

By evening, I collapsed at the kitchen table, too exhausted to even cry. My body ached in ways I didn't know were possible, my hands trembling from the strain. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but there was nothing to eat—at least, nothing I dared touch without her permission.

She was in the living room, sprawled on the couch with a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. The television blared with yet another soap opera, her laughter at the over-the-top drama grating against my raw nerves.

"Did you clean the bathroom yet?" she yelled, her voice slurring slightly.

"No," I mumbled, barely audible. "I'll do it tomorrow."

Her response was immediate, her words slicing through the haze of my exhaustion like a knife. "You'll do it now," she snarled, pushing herself up from the couch. Her movements were unsteady, but her glare was unwavering. "You don't get to decide when you do things around here. This is my house."

I bit my lip, my jaw tightening to hold back the scream clawing at my throat. It wouldn't matter. It never did. Arguing only made things worse. So, I dragged myself to my feet, my legs trembling beneath me, and shuffled to the bathroom.

The tiles were sticky with grime, and the air reeked of mildew and something acrid I couldn't place. The cleaner she handed me was harsh, the chemical fumes stinging my eyes and making my head spin as I scrubbed. My hands burned where the liquid seeped into cuts and scrapes I hadn't noticed until now.

"You're so ungrateful," she called out from the living room, her words dripping with venom. "Do you think anyone else would put up with you? You're lucky I keep you here at all."

Her words were a drumbeat in my ears, each one driving the knife deeper. My vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall, my throat tight with the effort of holding them back. My reflection in the bathroom mirror stared back at me, hollow-eyed and pale, a ghost of the person I used to be.

The water situation was another problem entirely. The tap water wasn't safe to drink—something my mother had been ignoring for weeks, despite the murky residue it left in the sink and the sharp, metallic tang that clung to the air every time the faucet sputtered to life. The pipes groaned like an old beast in protest, reluctant to give up even a trickle of the stuff.

"It's fine," she said whenever I brought it up, dismissing me with a wave of her hand, her attention fixed on the TV. "Just boil it if you're that worried."

But there was never any gas for the stove. We were always "a little short this month," though the fridge was somehow never without its glistening army of beer cans. The sight of them, packed neatly in rows on the otherwise barren shelves, was infuriating. Bread went stale, milk curdled, and leftovers turned into science experiments. But her beer was always there, untouched by scarcity.

My stomach churned at the thought of drinking the water raw, the memory of its foul taste lingering like a bad dream. Yet, the gnawing thirst clawed at me all day, growing worse as I spent hours scrubbing grime from the walls and sweeping endless dust that seemed to multiply no matter how hard I worked. My tongue felt like sandpaper, and the inside of my mouth ached for relief. By evening, desperation won out.

I stood in front of the fridge, the cold air rushing out in a weak, gasping sigh. My hand hovered over the beer cans, the metallic sheen of their tops catching the dim light of the kitchen. They were sleek and inviting, the condensation making them look so much colder than they probably were. The thought of choking down warm, metallic tap water again made my stomach churn. This seemed like the only alternative.

I hesitated, fingers trembling, before finally grabbing a can. The sharp hiss as I cracked it open felt almost like a betrayal.

"What do you think you're doing?" My mother's voice sliced through the air like a whip. I spun around, the can still in my hand, its weight suddenly unbearable.

"I'm thirsty," I snapped back, my voice a mix of defiance and desperation. "There's nothing else to drink."

She stood in the doorway, her silhouette swaying slightly, backlit by the flickering blue glow of the TV in the living room. Her makeup was smudged, her lipstick bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth. She stared at me, her glassy eyes narrowing as she processed what I'd said. Finally, she shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling with careless ease.

"Fine," she muttered, her voice tinged with mockery. "Maybe it'll toughen you up a bit."

The bitterness of the beer hit me like a slap the moment it touched my tongue. It was rancid, sharp, and unrelenting, but I forced it down, gulp after reluctant gulp. By the time I finished, my head felt heavy, like someone had stuffed it with cotton. My limbs tingled, and my body swayed unsteadily as I tried to stand. I stumbled, nearly knocking over the chair behind me. My mother laughed, her voice dripping with amusement.

"Not so easy, is it?" she said, shaking her head. "Lightweight."

The rest of the evening passed in a hazy blur. Cleaning felt like wading through quicksand, every movement slow and clumsy. My focus slipped away like water through my fingers, and I dropped the bucket twice before finally giving up on scrubbing the floor. The room spun as I staggered to bed, my stomach a swirling mix of hunger and the nauseating tang of alcohol.

Lying there, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, I swore to myself I wouldn't do it again. But as the sun rose the next day, bringing with it another wave of relentless thirst, I found myself back in front of the fridge, staring down those neatly stacked cans. Their shine seemed taunting this time, but my need outweighed my resolve.

This was survival, I told myself. Nothing more.

This became my routine: endless chores during the day, beer to keep from dehydrating, and collapsing into bed every night with aching muscles and a pounding head. Morning light would spill through the thin curtains, but it never felt like a new day—just a continuation of the last. Each dawn brought the same backbreaking monotony: scrubbing floors until my knees bruised, hauling buckets of water until my arms burned, and fixing whatever needed fixing because nobody else would. By midday, my shirt clung to my back with sweat, and the air felt too thick to breathe.

My mother seemed content with the arrangement. She rarely spoke to me unless it was to bark another order. Her sharp voice cut through the suffocating silence of the house like a whip, and her disapproval lingered in the air long after she'd gone back to whatever she was doing. To her, my role was simple: obey and endure. The house wasn't just a building; it was a cage, each chore another bar locking me inside.

In the evenings, the beer became my only solace, though it never dulled the gnawing ache in my chest. I drank not for pleasure but for necessity, a bitter antidote to the relentless heat and exhaustion. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the yard, I would sit on the creaky porch steps, staring out at the nothingness. The world beyond the property line felt like another universe, unreachable and taunting.

I tried to think of ways to change my situation, to find some kind of escape. I sketched out plans in my head while scrubbing dishes or sweeping the porch, but every idea crumbled under the weight of reality. No money. No support. Nowhere to go. It was a cruel game, and I was losing. Even the Carters' house, once a place of warmth and laughter, now felt like a distant dream. I could barely remember the sound of their voices or the way it felt to be welcome somewhere. The memories slipped through my fingers like sand, leaving behind only an ache I couldn't shake.

One night, as I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, the familiar mix of exhaustion and despair settled over me like a heavy blanket. The moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and the faint water stains that marred the plaster. I traced the patterns with my eyes, willing myself to sleep, but the thoughts wouldn't stop.

I made a silent promise to myself, one I repeated like a mantra. This couldn't be forever. I didn't know how or when, but I would find a way out of this house. Out of this life. I had to.

But promises made in the dead of night can feel impossibly far away come morning. The next day greeted me with the same routine, the same hopelessness. And yet, something had shifted. A seed of defiance had taken root. It was small, barely a whisper against the roar of my circumstances, but it was there. As I picked up the broom and began sweeping, I clung to that whisper. Someday, somehow, I would break free.

I began to notice little things—things I might need when the time came. The few coins my mother left on the counter, the sturdy pair of boots in the corner of the closet, the old road map tucked away in a drawer. These weren't plans, not yet, but they were possibilities. I started to pay attention to the world outside the house. The way the neighbor's car sputtered when it started, the schedules of delivery trucks that passed by every Thursday, the trains that rumbled in the distance at night. Every detail felt like a thread I might one day weave into an escape.

For now, though, the house held me captive. The chores demanded my attention, and the beer numbed my frustration. But every night, as I lay in bed with aching muscles and a pounding head, I whispered my promise again. This can't be forever. I won't let it be.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen. The noise was sharp, metallic, and relentless, slicing through the fog of my aching head. The stale taste of the cheap beer I had forced down the night before lingered on my tongue. Every muscle in my body protested as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Yesterday's cleaning frenzy had left me sore, my hands blistered and raw from scrubbing floors until my fingers pruned.

I shuffled downstairs, each step heavier than the last, and found my mother in the kitchen, her back hunched as she rifled through the cabinets. She muttered under her breath, punctuating her search with sharp slams of cupboard doors. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, some crusted with food so old that the smell had taken on a sour, nauseating edge.

"You're up," she said without turning to look at me. Her tone wasn't welcoming; it carried the weight of an order. "Good. I need you to take care of the yard today."

"The yard?" I repeated, my voice flat and groggy.

"Yes, the yard," she snapped, finally turning to glare at me with her bloodshot eyes. "The grass is overgrown, and the place looks like a dump. It's embarrassing." Her words were clipped, venomous. "Or do you want the neighbors to think I'm raising a lazy kid?"

I bit back the urge to say what I was really thinking. The neighbors already had plenty to talk about, thanks to her shouting matches with them over property lines or parking spaces, and the nights she blasted the TV loud enough to rattle the windows. But I knew better than to argue. Arguing only made the storm worse.

She thrust a rusted pair of garden shears into my hands, the metal cold and rough. "Get to it," she barked before turning back to her rummaging.

The yard was a battlefield. Grass and weeds reached up to my knees, choking what little life remained in the flowerbeds. The broken fence leaned at a dangerous angle, threatening to collapse entirely. Rusting lawn tools and discarded bottles littered the ground, turning the overgrown jungle into a minefield.

As I hacked away at the overgrowth, the dull blades of the shears tore at the weeds more than they cut. My hands throbbed with each squeeze of the handles, the blisters from yesterday's cleaning now split open and raw. Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes and soaking my clothes. My arms burned, my shoulders ached, but the thought of stopping wasn't an option. She was watching.

Every so often, her shadow darkened the window. The curtain twitched as she checked on my progress, her voice cutting through the stillness of the morning. "Work faster! You've been out there for hours, and it still looks like a mess!"

I gritted my teeth, swallowing the words I wanted to hurl back at her. My jaw ached from clenching, and my chest felt tight, the anger and frustration threatening to bubble over. But I pushed it down. I always did. There was no other choice.

By the time I finally finished, the sun was high overhead, beating down relentlessly. My clothes clung to me, damp and sticky with sweat, and my fingers were too stiff to release their grip on the shears. I collapsed onto the porch steps, my entire body trembling with exhaustion. My breaths came in shallow gasps as I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, letting the warm breeze wash over me.

The door creaked open, and I didn't need to look to know she was there. The sound of her heavy steps and the faint clink of a beer bottle were enough.

"You missed a spot," she said, her voice cutting through the brief moment of peace. She pointed toward a patch of weeds near the fence, her lip curled in disdain.

I stared at her, my chest still heaving, and for a moment, I thought about saying no. About telling her I was done, that she could take her rusty shears and her endless demands and handle it herself. But the thought evaporated as quickly as it came. Defiance came at a price I wasn't willing to pay.

"Can I just have a break?" I asked instead, my voice barely above a whisper.

She took a long sip of her beer, the amber liquid catching the sunlight. When she finally lowered the bottle, she shrugged. "Fine. But don't get too comfortable. There's still the bathroom to scrub and the trash to take out."

Her words landed like a weight on my chest, crushing whatever hope I had for a moment's reprieve. I didn't bother responding. There was no point. Instead, I leaned back against the steps, letting the sun warm my face. It wasn't much, but it was the closest thing to peace I'd felt in days. And in this house, peace was something to hold onto, even if it slipped through your fingers the moment you reached for it.

That evening, my thirst returned with a vengeance. My throat felt as if I had swallowed sandpaper, each breath scraping against its raw edges. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the fridge, knowing what lay inside: a half-empty case of beer and nothing else. The faint hum of the appliance mocked me, a cruel reminder of how empty the rest of the house was—not just the fridge.

The idea of drinking beer again made my stomach churn. Memories of the night before, when I had gulped it down too fast and ended up sprawled on my bed with the room spinning, flooded my mind. I swallowed hard, the scratchy dryness in my throat overriding my hesitation. I reached for a can, the cold metal chilling my fingertips. With a reluctant press of my thumb, I cracked it open. The sharp hiss of carbonation sliced through the silence like a whip.

"You're getting used to it," my mother's voice drifted from the living room, her tone carrying that familiar edge of disdain. She lounged on the couch, a can of her own perched lazily in her hand. Her eyes were glued to the flickering light of the TV, its droning dialogue filling the room with an empty sort of noise.

I didn't respond. What could I say? I raised the can to my lips, the bitter, acrid taste hitting my tongue and making me wince. It was disgusting, but I forced it down, each sip a reluctant act of defiance against my own gag reflex. This time, I drank it slower, pacing myself to avoid the nausea and the terrifying vertigo that had overtaken me before.

"You're welcome," she added, her voice smug and hollow, as if she were doing me some kind of twisted favor. She didn't look at me when she said it. Her attention stayed fixed on the TV, but her words hit me all the same.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurl the can across the room, let it explode against the wall, and tell her how wrong this all was. No kid should have to drink beer because it was the only option. No kid should have to endure the acidic burn in their stomach, the dull ache of disappointment settling in their chest like a lead weight. But I didn't. The words stayed trapped in my throat, swallowed back along with the beer.

Instead, I drained the can in silence and set it down on the counter with a dull thunk. My mother didn't even flinch. I turned and trudged back upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. My room was waiting for me, my only refuge from the chaos downstairs. The air inside was still and quiet, a stark contrast to the storm raging in my mind.

I closed the door and leaned against it, letting the cool wood press into my back. My gaze swept across the cluttered floor and the bed with its crumpled sheets. This was my safe space, but even here, the bitterness lingered—not just from the beer, but from the unspoken truths that gnawed at me day after day.

Collapsing onto the bed, I stared at the ceiling. The faint smell of beer clung to my breath, a constant reminder of what I had just done. It wasn't normal. None of this was. But somehow, it had become my reality, and I hated every second of it.

That night, as I lay in bed, the silence of the house pressed down on me, thick and heavy. The faint creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath the shifting weight of the house made the quiet even more pronounced. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting faint silver patterns across the walls. I traced them absently with my eyes, letting my thoughts wander to the Carters.

I wondered what they were doing. Was Jasmine sprawled out on her bed, her nose buried in one of her books? She always had a way of getting completely lost in a story, her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently as she read. Was Mrs. Carter in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she tidied up the last remnants of the evening? I could almost smell the comforting scent of her cinnamon tea, a smell that always seemed to linger in the air around her, as though it was a part of her.

And Mr. Carter... was he in his study, meticulously working on one of his intricate woodworking projects? His hands always moved with such precision, his brow lined with quiet focus. I imagined them there, together in their home, warm and whole. The thought of it filled me with a bittersweet ache. I missed them more than I could put into words. They had become my safe haven, a place where I could simply exist without judgment or fear.

But I knew my mother wouldn't let me go back. Not now. She hadn't said as much in words, but the stiffness in her voice whenever the Carters came up told me all I needed to know. Something had shifted in her after we left, some invisible wall erected between us that I couldn't seem to scale.

I turned onto my side, clutching the edge of the blanket and pulling it tighter around me. The days ahead stretched out before me like an endless, gray road. I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up. Pretending everything was fine, holding myself together when it felt like I was splintering apart inside, was exhausting. But for now, I didn't have a choice.

The clock on my nightstand ticked softly, each second dragging into the next. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing, to push away the ache in my chest. Inhale, exhale. But the ache didn't go away. Instead, it grew, pressing against my ribs until it felt like I couldn't breathe.

I opened my eyes again and stared at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. But my thoughts wouldn't let me go. The memory of Jasmine's laugh, bright and carefree, echoed in my mind. I could almost hear it now, as if she were right there beside me. And Mrs. Carter's warm, inviting smile—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners and made you feel like you belonged. It was a smile I had never seen from my mother, at least not in a long time.

A single tear slipped down my cheek, and I wiped it away quickly, as though someone might see. But the tears came faster, and soon I couldn't stop them. I buried my face in the pillow, muffling the quiet sobs that shook my body. It wasn't just missing the Carters that hurt; it was the knowledge that I had finally tasted what it was like to be part of something good, only to have it taken away.

All I could do was wait and hope that something—anything—would change. But in the stillness of the night, that hope felt impossibly far away. And as I finally drifted off to sleep, my dreams were filled with glimpses of what I'd lost, flickering like fading candlelight in the darkness.