Sunlight filtered through the blinds, adding very little light to the cramped, dark, smoke-filled living room. He watched the sunlight hit the swirling clouds of smoke with fascination. There was a pattern to the seemingly random movement of the smoke clouds. Order within chaos. Or perhaps there was no pattern, and nothing was truly predictable. But he knew that wasn’t the case. He knew that every day, without fail, his mother would stumble out of bed, light up a cigarette, and blow the smoke in his face. Then she’d grab her fifth of Skol vodka, take several swigs, flip on the tube, and watch those horrible daytime TV talk shows, the ones with the stupid rednecks having sex with their sisters.

His mother’s homme du jour was putting on his pants and heading out the door. He tossed a plastic baggie in her direction before exiting. Didn’t even say a word. Men like him care about one thing and one thing only. Derek’s mother was such a whore.

Of course, Derek never told his mother his thoughts. He never told her much of anything. He was too young to have an opinion, or so his mother thought, so he kept his mouth shut. Derek knew more about the world than his mother gave him credit for. He was five.

His sister, Stacy, was fidgeting in the crib. He knew it was only a matter of time before she started bawling her eyes out, and his mother started screaming at her to shut the hell up. Derek searched for her bottle. He knew Stacy was hungry, and he would do anything in his power to avoid a scene. But that only works when Mother does her job and buys formula for the baby.

No food for Stacy today. No food for Derek either. Mother was cooking her medicine on that little silver spoon she always used. “It’s for diabetes,” she had told him once, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t medicine, because once she took her shot, she’d pass out on the couch. Just like when she drank. Except she was nicer. He hated it when she drank.

The TV annoyed him. He hated it. He hated his mother. He hated his sister. He hated the cramped living room, filled with smoke and needles and bottles of vodka. He glared at the burn holes in the carpet, left by his mother when she’d pass out on the couch, cigarette dangling from her stupid fingers. Everything was stupid.