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dropped her off at Roberta’s unit next door.
    Tears fall from my eyes. I turn away and busy myself, pulling out a pot and filling it up with water. My moves are mechanical because I’ve done it a million times before. My mind is far away. I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to make money to tide us over these next seven days.
    I can’t ask any friends. They’re broke like me, and they’ve helped one too many times because I’m that friend. The one that asks for help when I need it and disappears because I’m always looking after Scarlett or working long hours to pay the late bills. I look like a user; the kind people warn others about. They’ve said it to my face too. Many have shut me out, kept me at arm’s length, told me that I make no time for them.
    They’re so black and white and it’s not fair.
    My hands are still shaking as I drop the remaining cup of pasta into the boiling water. I stare at the shells rolling and swelling with time. Then I empty it and drop it into the bowl. I grab the remainder of butter, plop it in and stir it around until it’s melted.
    There. Done. That’s…that’s Scarlett’s dinner.
    Pasta and a table spoon of butter.
    I bury my face into my hands and sob. I have a quick pity-party. It’s under a minute long like usual, but I feel the tension lessening and the pain parting as they fall. Then I steel myself and straighten back up, knowing I have to pretend.
    Pretend that we won’t lose the apartment in a fortnight when Jared asks for his rent.
    Pretend there’s breakfast, lunch and dinner in the fridge to last another week.
    Pretend we don’t have an alcoholic and drug dependant mother and I’m not the only person left in Scarlett’s life that gives a shit about her.
    Pretending is the hardest part in my life. I feel like an imposter. A failure. I want to make it all real and true, but I can’t. I’m a twenty-two-year old loser, born and raised in abject poverty with no way out, no means to start over and – even if I did – I wouldn’t.
    I will never abandon Scarlett. She is all I have, and I’m all she’s got.
    In our dark world, that’s just enough to make it through the day.
     
    *
     
    Scarlett eats in silence, not a single complaint uttered from out of her pink little lips. I watch her and my stomach grumbles because I’m as hungry as a stray dog and that pasta looks damn good. I turn away after a while and clean up my bedroom. It takes a long time.
    Mother made it into every drawer and every space in my closet. She has turned the entire bedroom inside out. Even the mattress is off the scratched frame, the sheets a ball beside a heap of my underwear.
    I think what disgusts me the most is she’d gone into Scarlett’s small toy box and littered the contents everywhere, like it’s not the only piece of treasure she owns.
    My anger is so thick I can taste it. It’s bitter and salty from the tears shed. It’s a welcoming emotion because it distracts me from the pang of hunger, from the depression and the feeling of losing the battle of life. The adrenaline is satisfying and gives me just enough energy to fit the sheets back over the bed and put away Scarlett’s toys.
    By then Scarlett is done her food and is helping me clean up what’s left of the chaos. We clean in silence, each of us looking at one another with a solemn look of understanding. This is not a surprise, which makes it entirely my fault. Scarlett sees my struggle and rubs my arm, a small act of affection to reassure me it’s not my fault.
    She’s wrong. She’s so horribly wrong.
    When all is tidy, I brush her teeth and settle her into our bed. It’s a double and it’s the only comfortable furniture in this place. I snuggle up to her and put on that deep voice of mine as I pretend Rumple is talking to her, telling her he’s had another great day with Princess Scarlett. She smiles – she has this overbite that melts my heart – and it’s just enough to make time stand