“Why’d you run off?” she asks me as she walks over the sofas and flops down in it. She picks up her cigarette and ashes it, before putting it into her mouth. She takes a deep inhale and seconds later a cloud of smoke circles around her face that’s covered in sores. “Were you playing a game or something?”

I nod, because telling her I was playing a game is much better than telling her I was hiding from her. “Yes.”

She takes another breath off her cigarette and then stares at the row of cat figurines on one of the shelves lining the living room walls. Each row on the shelf is organized with figurines, according to breed. She did it once when she was having one of her episodes from too much medication, the one that makes her stay awake for a long, long time, not the stuff that makes her pass out. The glass clinking together and her incoherent murmuring had woken me up when she was rearranging the figurines and when I’d walked out she was moving like crazy, frantically trying to get the animals into order or “something bad was going to happen.” She knew it was—she could feel it in her bones. I think something bad already did happen, though. A lot of bad things actually.

“Luke, pay attention,” my mom says. I tear my gaze away from the figurines, wishing I was one of them, so I could be up on the shelf, watching what’s about to happen instead of taking part in it. She switches her cigarette to her other hand and then leans to the side, grabbing her small wooden “medication box.” She sets in on her lap, puts the cigarette into her mouth one last time, and then sets it down so she can turn on the lamp. “Now quit messing around and come here, would ya?”

My body gets really tight and I glance over my shoulder at the front door, crossing my fingers that Amy will come home and interrupt us long enough that I can find another place to hide. But she doesn’t and I’m stuck out here. With her.

“Do I have to?” I utter quietly.

She nods with chaotic frenzy in her eyes. “You need to.”

Shaking, I turn back around and trudge over to the sofa. I take a seat beside her and she pats me on the head several times like I’m her pet. She does that a lot and it makes me wonder how she sees me; if I’m kind of like a pet to her instead of her kid.

“You were a bad boy today,” she says as her fingers continue to touch my hair. I hate it when she does that and it makes me want to shave my head bald so she won’t be able to touch me. “You should have come when I called you.”

“I’m sorry,” I lie, because I’m only sorry I was found. I need to find better hiding spots and stay in them long enough that she’ll stop looking for me, then maybe I can become invisible like Amy.

“It’s okay.” She strokes my cheek and then my neck before pulling her hand away. She places a kiss on my cheek and I shut my eyes, holding my breath, trapping in a scream in because I want to shout: Don’t touch me! “I know deep down you’re a good boy.”

No, I’m not. I’m terrible because I hate you. I really do. I hate you so much I wish you were gone.

She starts humming a song she made up as she removes the lid from the box and carefully sets it aside. I don’t even have to look inside it to know what’s in it. A spoon, a lighter, a small plastic baggie that holds this stuff that looks almost like brown sugar, a thin piece of cotton, a half a bottle of water, a big rubber band thing, and a needle and syringe that she probably stole from the stash I use to give myself insulin shots.

“Now you remember what to do?” she asks, and then starts humming again.

I nod, tears burning in the corners of my eyes because I don’t want to do it—I don’t want to do anything that she tells me. “Yes.”

“Good.” She pats my head again, this time a little rougher.

I don’t watch her as she opens the baggie and puts some of the brown sugary stuff onto the metal spoon along with some water, but I can pretty much visualize her movements since I’ve seen her do this a lot, sometimes twice a day. It really depends on how much she’s talking to herself. If it’s a lot then she brings out the needle a lot. But sometimes, when she gets quieter, it’s not so bad. I like the quieter days, one’s where she’s either focused on cleaning or stuck in her head. Or I’ll even take her being passed out.

She heats the spoon with the lighter as she mutters lyrics under her breath. She actually has a beautiful voice, but the words she sings are frightening. After the spoon is heated enough, she ties the rubber band around her arm, I sit on the couch beside her, tapping my fingers on my leg, pretending I’m in there instead of here. Anywhere but here.

I hate her.

“All right, Luke, help me out, okay,” she finally says after she’s melted her medication into a pool of liquid and sucked some into the syringe.

I turn toward her, shaking nervously. Always shaking. Always nervous, all the time. Always so worried I’ll do something wrong. Mess up. She instantly hands me the syringe and then extends her arm onto my lap. She has these purple marks and red dots all over her upper forearm from all the other times the needles have gone into her. Her veins are really dark on her skin and I don’t like the sight of the needle going in just as much as she does like it. Like a routine, I point the needle toward her arm near where all the other dots on her skin are.

My hand quivers unsteadily. “Please don’t make me do this,” I whisper. “Please Mom.” I don’t know why I even try, though. She’ll do anything to get her medication. And I mean anything. Dark things that normal people wouldn’t do.

“Deep breaths, remember?” She ignores me as she wraps her free arm around the back of my neck. “Remember, don’t miss the vein. You can mess up my arm or even kill me if you’re not careful, okay?” She says it so sweetly like it’s a nice thing to say and will make me less nervous.

But it makes things worse, especially because part of me wishes I’d miss the vein. I have to take a lot of breaths before I can settle down inside and get my thoughts from going to that dark place they always want to go, reminding myself that I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t.

When I get my nerves under control the best that I can, I sink the needle into her vein, like I’ve done hundreds of times. Each time it gets to me, like I’m sticking the needle in my own skin and feeling the sting. I wince as her muscles tense a little underneath the poke of the needle. As I push in the plunger, the medicine enters her veins and seconds later she lets out this weird noise, before sinking back on the couch, pulling me down with her. I hurry and pull the needle out before we fall down completely onto the couch cushions.

“Thank you, Luke,” she says sleepily, patting my head with her hand as she holds me against her. Her throat makes this vibrating noise, like she’s trying to hum again, but the noise is trapped like I am.

I press my lips together, staring at the wall across the room, barely breathing. After a while, her arm falls lifelessly to the side, her hand hitting the floor as her eyelids flutter shut and I’m temporarily freed from her hold.

I sit up, sucking the tears back, hating her for making me do this and hating myself for doing it and being secretly glad she’s passed out. I toss the syringe down on the table, then I push to my feet. Using all my strength, I rotate her to her side because sometimes she throws up. I have a house full of quiet now, just how I like it. Yet, at the same time I don’t like it because the emptiness gets to me. What I really want is what all the other kids have. The ones I see at the park playing on swings while their parents push them higher. They’re always laughing and smiling. Everyone always seems to be, except for me. Every time I get close I always remember this feeling I have inside me right now, this vile, icky feeling, mixed with hatred and sadness that makes me sick all the time. It always wipes the smile right off my face and I don’t even bother trying anymore. Happiness isn’t real. It’s make-believe.