You Won't Feel A Thing

•Chapter 1•

Quinn

Streaks of sunlight poured into the small compacted barely furnished living room; nicotine residue stained the dark blue colored walls, the paint peeling in random spots over the last few years. My long legs pressed tightly into my chest as I sat on the old cottage sofa near the large double panned window, the light blue fabric worn out and covered in several rips and tears. My father would wake up on the weekends and ride out to the neighborhood dump site a mile down the road, he would search through the trash bins for furniture that was still in somewhat good shape and bring it back home. They never wanted to buy anything brand new, my mother was stingy when it came to money. She would track how much was being spent when either my father or I would go to town, but to her it was alright to spent however much she wanted on alcohol and cigarettes. At the age of twenty-three, I would have figured I'd have my own place by now. Even if I wanted to get an apartment somewhere far away from here, I knew that they would never let me step foot outside the door, not when I was still of use to them.

They didn't have to clean or cook, not when they had me as their personal slave. It was my job to make sure their clothes were washed and dried, food had to be prepared four times a day and if I didn't take out the trash it would pile up in the corner of the kitchen for weeks on end. I shuddered at the thought of the maggots wiggling about in the heavy-duty garage bag from two weeks ago, the overwhelming smell of rotten and sour food made my stomach churn. "Might have to get another job soon, I'm not making enough with just one to keep the bills paid," My father's raspy voice resonated from tiny kitchen area. I tapped away at the screen of my phone, selecting a variety of different songs to add to my overflowing playlist.

"Why do you have to work? Make your jobless daughter get off her ass and work. All she does is sit around all day." Technically no. Did you forget that I'm the chef, maid, and housekeeper around here? I do a lot more than just sitting around all day, unlike you. My mother had a knack for putting me down in every way possible, all she ever did was eat, sleep, and complain. but like she said I'm the lazy one. The chair screeched along the unpolished porcelain tiled floor as my father rose up from the table, shuffling down the hall. He roughly slammed their door, the walls vibrating from the immense impact. "Look at that, now you have gone and upset your father!" my mother screeched at the top of her lungs, she pushed herself off the counter narrowing those hazel-green eyes of hers in my direction.

The sound of her thrift store bought crème-colored heels clacked against the floor with each step she took. She stomped her way int to the living room, her face scrunched up and the corner of her chapped lipped mouth curved up as she sneered. "Can't you ever do anything right?", she spat. I raised my hand up, wiping away the spittle of salvia that drenched my face. She leaned closer till her nose bumped into mine, "Well, are you going to answer me or what?" The smell of whiskey and Marlboro light lingered on her breath. The smell was horrible. I could see the veins on the side of her neck pulsing, her wrinkled face was a little paler than usual. She stomped her foot like a child throwing a tantrum and shouted out in frustration, cursing under her breath as she pulled harshly at her hair. She gritted her yellow stained chipped teeth. I couldn't remember the last time she had gone to the dentist for a cleaning, there was no telling how much her teeth had possibly rotted over the years.

 I slipped the earbuds out of my ears. "Don't strain yourself too much, mother. You might have a heart attack," I mumbled under my breath. "You ungrateful little bitch, start pulling your weight around here or the streets will be your new home," she fumed. She turned on her heels, marching off down the long-narrowed hall to her room. Their door slammed shut hard shaking the doorframe. I turned back to the dark blue velvet curtained window, watching cars drive by. My playlist was almost complete, I slipped my earbuds back in my ears and continued scrolling through the songs that appeared in the recommended section of Pandora. A man close to my age dressed in a faded t-shirt and worn-out jeans jogged crossed the road, heading directly towards my house. He trekked through our uncut overgrown jungle of a yard, his light blonde hair glistened under from the sunbeams that shined down from the light blue cloudless sky. He bounced up the steps, running his fingers through his hair.