"128" It happened. She got up and sulked across the room, embarrassed by what had just occurred. Slowly, look away. She tried to laught at herself. Her children were grimacing. She lost it. Literally. It happened so fast, she thought to herself. Could it be from the 128 ounces of poison she had already consumed. Or could it be from the lack of eating all day. She might as well have been hooked up. Intraveneously receiving the poison. It would be quicker that way. No having to get up all the time and guzzle down as much as she could, this was an attempt to hide her disease from her kids. They knew. They saw her passed out everyday from it. She was unhealthy, beaten, destroyed. She succumbed everyday to what she now realized was her life. She could not stop it. It controlled her. They hated her. Her children. They paraded about, making fun of her, saying she had lost her mind, or shouting out from the other room "mom's losing her mind again!" She knew it was true. She had tried many times to stop it, bu could not do anything. She was possessed by the gallons of toxins she basically inhaled each week. She was dying. Deal almost. Everyda was the same. Wake up, scrounge for change (he took away her card and money) hope the kids stay asleep while she sneaks out to the local liquor store. Buy the eight pack of the sixteen ounce cans for which she longed. She drank the cheapest beer, to accomodate for the problem. Atleast she was frivolous with the little money she had. Go home, drink. She talked on the phone most of the day. Mostly because she was so alone. Alone all the time. She would forget to make lunch, and forget to thaw anything for dinner. Fortunately her kids were competent enough. They knew how to work the microwave and heat up instant corn dogs for a quick lunch. Once he came home they ate dinner at a restuarant, wildly asking millions of questions. They were entraped by the short time in which they actually recieved attention. They were smart kids. She was usually quiet at dinner. She just watched, knowing he was the reason for their pain. It would not affect them until they were older of course. They knew something was wrong, but they had grown accustomed to it. She hated herself for ruining more peoples lives. Powerful. The disease was powerful. It had already spoiled her first three. Two of which had moved away, rampantly screaming obscenities at her. The third, the oldest, still came back, and still called. She had hurt her the worst. Even sent her to a mental institution. She bottled it all up, the oldest. She still loved her even though she drank. Mostly because she felt the compulsory need, as all children do. Ashley Ebert