5475 days. 782 weeks. 180 months. 15 years. It’s been 15 years and nothing’s changed. I watch the clock as seconds go by. Tick, tock, tick, tock. My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek in anticipation. 2 minutes, 1 minute… 12:00 am. 5476 days. A sigh escapes my lips and I sit up, carding a hand through my greasy, unwashed hair. My legs swing over the edge of the bed and I shuffle quietly out my bedroom door. My mom is up, in the kitchen leaning against the cabinet, eyes tired and glazed over. As I enter the kitchen, her gaze shifts towards me.

“Honey, what are you doing up? Go back to bed.” She insists. I don’t respond. Instead, I walk over to her and reach for her hand, hidden behind her back. A half-empty bottle of beer is held tight around her fingers. I take this moment to notice the empty bottles discarded on the counter. She avoids my eyes, looking down at the chipped floor tiles.

“Mom, you said you’d stop.” I remind her. She nods, eyes wet with tears.

“I know honey, I’m so sorry. I...He was there. I saw him.” She slurs, letting a few tears escape from her dull brown eyes. I thought she was getting better, but now I’m not so sure.

“Mom he’s gone. It was just your eyes tricking you. It’s okay, he’s gone.” I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. She shakes her head, closing her eyes tightly to fight the tears that are trying to escape.

“I know what I saw, and I saw him. He was there. He was right there,” she pauses and wipes her tears. “He’s-oh God. What if-what if he’s mad at me? What if-” She trails off, voice going weak. For a moment she stares blankly, eyes frozen in fear. Her hand twitches nervously and her shoulders slump.

“Mom, It’s fine. He’s not gonna hurt you any longer.” I reassure her. She snaps out of her trance and takes a moment to wipe the dried tears from her cheeks.

“Are you mad at me?” She turns her body to face me. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, and they gleam with sorrow.

“For the drinking?” She shakes her head.

“For...you know, I...I killed him, right?” She turns her head away in shame, fumbling with her fingers anxiously.

“I’m not mad.” I state. She looks at me, surprise evident in her features. It takes a moment for her to speak again, as if she’s still processing what I said.

“You’re not?” I shake my head.

“You did what you had to do. He was hurting you. He was hurting me. He was a bad father. He treated us like we were nothing.” She nods and gives me a sad smile.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” She asks me, changing the subject. I shake my head.

“I haven’t fallen asleep yet. I’m worried about my goal.” She grabs my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re too young to be worrying about that now. Plus, you’re going to see a counselor in the morning. You’ll be fine,” she says. “Why don’t you go back to bed?” I nod and she ushers me into my room.

I lay down on my bed and pull the covers up. She smiles and pinches my cheek.

“You have nothing to worry about, okay? You’re going to do great things.” She leaves the room and gently closes the door.

I’m left surrounded in darkness. The clock continues to tick. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever find my goal. Would I even reach it? My mom told me not to worry, that I’m too young to think about it yet; my best friend was always happy. He passed away when he was ten.

That day, people celebrated. They celebrated him for being completely content; no worries, no wants, no regrets. I didn’t attend his passing day. I didn’t want to. All I did was cry, and cry, and cry. I had cried for the loss of my only friend.

I sit in silence, waiting. Waiting for morning, waiting for my goal, waiting for my passing day, waiting for the clock to stop ticking. But the clock ticks on, quietly, but clear. Tick, tock, tick, tock.