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He turns his head toward me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

I put my headphones on. Some song from the radio, sad girl voice, guitar that sounds like rain, lyrics that sound like my pain.

Maybe she looked at me and got tired. Maybe she thought I’d be fine without her. Or maybe she thought I wasn’t worth staying.

The sky looks endless and I feel very small beneath it.

He lights another joint and passes it to me. I take a drag then another sip, letting the world tilt a little. “Your dad’s an asshole,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You should run away.”

I laugh and look back at him. “Where would I go?”

“Anywhere.”

Why not… Anywhere is nowhere. Nowhere is safer than here.

“My dad’s also an asshole,” he says casually.

I laugh and pass him back the joint. “Guess it’s genetic,” I reply as he nudges my shoulder with his.

“Cheers to shitty dads,” he says, and we clink bottles.

The alcohol burns, the world softens around the edges, and the sky blurs into an empty and vast mix of colors.

If I were better, she would’ve stayed, and if she stayed, everything would be different. So this is probably my fault.

We stay like that for a while, smoking, drinking, and not talking much. Then his hand reaches out to offer me what's left of the joint. “See you tomorrow?” he asks, already half asleep.

“Maybe.”

He grins and whispers, “You’re gonna die young.”

“Promise?”

He laughs as I stand up and walk away from here. The sky is still spinning and my head and thoughts follow the same rhythm. The music is loud in my ears, my steps aren’t straight, I’m a fucking mess again. I think about Mom. I think about the way she looked the day before she was gone. I think about how she didn’t stay.

Did she look at me and decide it wasn’t worth it? Did I make her tired?

Did I make her leave?

My jacket scratches my arms, and the fresh scars sting under the sleeves. I don’t remember when this downfall happened. All I know is that I became both the knife and the wound, but I still wonder why I never healed.

Good daughters don’t drink after school. Good daughters don’t smoke. Good daughters don’t lie on asphalt and laugh. I’m not a good daughter. I never was.

Moms die, daughters survive, dads get angrier and pain is the only home left. And it sucks. I keep walking, repeating the same thoughts over and over and then I freeze.

I don't know how I got here. I walk a little further, even though the ground continues to move beneath me. The cemetery gate is open, and I stumble through. The names on the headstones are blurry at first. Then one becomes clear. And I stop.

Everything else disappears, as if my brain has decided that this is what I need tonight.

I stand motionless for a long time, without knowing exactly what I'm doing here. I think I was waiting for something. A reaction. A sign. A mistake in reality. Her speaking to me and telling me it will be alright. But nothing happens, so I laugh a little.

“Hi mom…” I say. My voice immediately embarrasses me. I kneel, my legs giving up a little, and then it hits me all at once. “I miss you,” I say, but it comes out as if it were a mistake to speak.