I finish cleaning up from my bath and hit off the overhead lights. The LED strip around my headboard sends a blue glow bouncing off the walls and words written on them. I added new ones the other day after Foster and the leaves and our mutual lies.

The world’s full of liars and the oblivious.

As I’m snatching my phone off the nightstand, ready to zone out in bed, a muted crash stops me. I stare at the pillows on the floor, unease washing over me while I wait. Another noise turns into a tightness in my chest. My shoulders. My jaw. My throat. Then the tear happens inside me. One part begs me to block the outside with more pillows. Or sit in the bathroom with the door closed again. The other demands I go out there. To fucking try. Even if it slowly destroys me every time.

Who am I kidding? Either choice chips away at my being.

When the screaming breaks through my barrier—muffled and so angry—I kick the pillows out of the way. The darkened hallway outside my room has an open banister where the living room opens up below. I look over on my way to the stairs to see what the fuck I’m running into. Like it will somehow matter. A destroyed lamp for sure and strewn fireplace tools.

The shouting only heightens once I reach the bottom of the stairs and see the rest. The entire dining table is upended, and every single plate, glass, and piece of silverware from dinner are scattered or shattered. Only an hour ago people occupied the knocked-over chairs. Soft music played.

The illusion tonight was a charming family unit. The doting wife who showed enough skin to feed her husband’s need to be envied by everyone around him. An angsty—and “incredibly shy”—stepdaughter, so hard to love, but they do because who else would? And the solid oak providing the security and safety every family needs. A king on his throne at the head of the table, surrounded by sycophants and false walls of gold. No one is aware the real walls are filled with rot and the king’s not wearing any clothes.

Or maybe they do know. They just don’t care.

I only have a few seconds to survey the damage before my mother slams into my shoulder, passing me for the living room. While I bathed the night off of me, she’s gone from seeming calm and agreeable to agitated and erratic. Pinpoint pupils now blown out. Pills to different pills or whatever else she’s using. I used to keep track so I could…

Help.

“I tried, Daniel,” she screeches. She whips around by the cold fireplace, thrusts her hands into her yellow hair, and pulls from the root. “I picked the dress you like. I only drank two glasses of wine at dinner.”