I wake up, my head hurts.
I remember, everything else hurts.
Rumor has it, alcohol displaces the water in your body. A hangover is nothing more then dehydration. This fact floats to the surface of my conscience.
There exists words for Tami and me: delinquits, criminals, animals, untouchables, dredgs. I would say 'brackish' but images of liquor come to mind. The hangover resurfaces.
Nasuea finds its way into warm saliva that rise from my jaw.
I rush for the bathroom.

I suppose we got off lucky. Whatever Tami gave me she had more of. There's a fair chance we would have been in alot of trouble. But no, instead of some nameless disciplinarian driving the car, it was Steve, the man who came to tell my mother and me about Alisha's death. The man who slept with my mom. I could go on about him, but why bother? Nothing stays the same, he'll leave, we'll remain.
The point is, we got off easy.
After we realized what kind of car it was, we instantly became sober, or at least tried.
The spotlight, the crackle of a radio, you see it on television and wonder how real it is. Trust me, it's pretty dead on.
All we could see was this light in our faces. Images of punishment being forced onto our retinas. Behind the light came a voice.
It must have been what all those profits experienced when they said God talked to them, just without the religious meaning.
The voice said something, ask me now for details and my answer is destined to be 'sure'. I assume it asked us our reason for being out this late. The voice probably asked if we had been drinking. It probably asked us our names. No, scratch that. I'm positive it asked us for our names. Another thing I'm positive about? Once it heard my name the light turned off.
As if it made any difference, I'm still seeing a green spot as I hover over the toilet.
After the light turned off, the voice got out of its car. At the time, he looked familar. Now I recognize him as Steve, my mom's boyfriend. His attitude was nice, patting our backs, or patting us down; I'm not quite sure. He even pushed our heads down as he ushered us into the back of his car.
A real gentlemen.
The interior of the car smelled nice at first. A few minutes later it smelled of vomit. Driving and drinking don't mix well with me.
My last memory of last night was Tamie calling me a 'fuck head' after my vomit got into her shoes. After that, I assume I fell asleep.
Passed out is a better phrase.

And now my mom enters as a parent. I'm sitting on the couch, head bowed examining the carpet. Same routine, except this time I know I'm in trouble.
I've been awake for an hour or so. After I was finished retching a moment passed before the phone rang. After it rang thrice I was fairly sure my mom wouldn't pick it up.
Tami's voice greeted my misery, she was telling me about last night, and how she's not really in trouble, just forbidden to associate with me. I count back through my memory banks and come up with the number seven.
Has this type of thing really happened that often?
"You've finally done it. Steve woke me up with this today."
My mom throws an envelope at my face; judging by the impact I get the impression that she's reached a new level of anger with me.
I sit there on the couch, my arms lay at my side. Instead of the floor, my gaze now rests upon the envelope. Neither of us are moving. If I pick it up, I'm obligated to read the thing. If I read it, I'm liable to know how horrible of a person I am.
And that isn't exactly what I want.
Before I know what's going on, she's screaming at me. Spittle is flying from her mouth and tears are running down her cheek. It truly is a retched and pathetic sight to behold. A normal person would feel sympathy for her; I truly have destroyed something here.
Just remember those words to describe Tami and me; add 'fuck up' to the list. I really am trying, one has to believe me on this. My concentration is trying its hardest to cling to her words but the rest of me is drifting back into my memory.
This type of occurance seems to be happening too often. Lately my memory impresses itself upon reality and instantly I'm reliving the past.

A crunch in the pine needles, the moonlight wavers.

Her anger is send me back. I remember how, before that fateful day on the couch, this anger was directed at my dad.
The living room fades, the couch is now my brother's bed. Alisha's alive again, sitting right next to me. Both us are crying.
We're so scared.
Haden, my brother, is trying to comfort us, but he's in his teens at the moment with more important things in his life then his two sniveling siblings.
If this is truly a flashback and not a dream, right as Haden told his girlfriend he loved her, my mom screamed 'fuck you' at my dad.
They were married for two more yerars after that night.
Fuck you, the words bring back the living room and my mom is exiting the room. I wish I had paid closer attention to what she said; how else am I supposed to know what's happening with my future?
Rephrasing is in order, am I being punished.

I'm laying on my bed. Back in the living room on the couch, next to the impression of my body, lays the letter Steve gave my mom.
A total of 45 minutes passed between her departure and my opening of the letter. It said alot of things. It started off almost like a love letter. The first few paragraphs were nice but it got to the point nice a quickly. Despite how nice a person she was, Steve couldn't risk staying with my mom any longer. It had nothing to do with her apparently, just me. Steve used some pyschology, saying that him staying would threaten me and force my mom to choose between him or me.
He might be right, or Steve might have been looking for a guilt free way out of my mom's trouble life and jumped at the first chance. To be frank, neither would surprise me, nor does it really matter all that much to me.
To be truthful, I feel like a bad person. I've suspected it in the past, but this is the first time one of her boyfriends has actually left her because of me.
I know i'm going through some awkward phase where I'm naturally inclined towards animosity. Albeit, most of my peers seem to have outgrown it by now, I'm stil in my awkward phase. The truly pathetic part is this is my fifth year.
I don't mean to ruin things, I just do. Just call me aresol boy.

I wake up again and the drool has made my pillow case stick to my cheek. My stomach has an emptiness in it that will never be abaited by food. The same relationship exists between my life and my parents.
The phone looks like a quick fix to the problem. I only know one number though. Now Tami's mom is telling me I shouldn't call this number anymore. Sadness? No. Confusion is the more appropiate term. People speak of quality. They speak of ethics. Speak is all they do, and I'm left sorting through the madness. Everyone has a quote, book to recommend, movie to lend, and an accute fear of actually helping. The confusion sets in when I'm left alone trying to figure out what I need to make my life happy. But walking down the street anbreiated isn't the right solution. The real slap in the face comes when the reprimand offers no solution or suggestion.
Once again, I'm on my own.
The phone rings.
Hope rises.
A hand lifts the reciever.
A familar voice sounds, its not Tami.
A different kind of nausea surfaces, the curtains fall into place.