Behind These Hazel Eyes

She sits there, in the last booth on the left, staring out of the misted-up window. It’s raining outside, the droplets pattering on the windowsill like drumsticks on a hi-hat.

She glances back at the coffee, warming her freezing hands, then back at the window. She’s not particularly beautiful; she has a forgettable face, useful for blending into a crowd. She’s nibbling her chapped lips, an old habit she hasn’t been able to give up. Her nose is red from crying and the cold, and the grey beanie thrown casually atop her messy curls is doing nothing to keep her warm.

But it’s her eyes that are unforgettable. Twin pools of swirling browns and greens, churned by too much pain and suffering, lined with too much mascara in an attempt to make herself beautiful. This is a girl who’s suffered, who’s known great loss in her sixteen years of life. Her eyes scream the words her mouth never will, betraying the battered, broken soul that lies within.

She raises her mug to her lips and takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid. Wincing at the taste, or lack thereof, she places it back down on the table and sighs.

“Excuse me, miss?”

She looks up to see a waitress, presumably in her mid-to-late thirties, an apologetic expression on her face.

“We’re closing now,” she informs her with a touch of regret. Sure enough, the café is empty, the low lighting giving it a creepy glow. “Have you got somewhere else to go?”

The girl merely nods in response, unable to form comprehensible speech. Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her oversized hoodie, she attempts a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. The waitress smiles back apologetically, and moves to clear the table.

Silently, she makes her way out of the café, shutting the door quietly behind her. The cold hits her like a slap in the face and she shivers, hugging her arms across her chest in an attempt to preserve what little warmth she has. She bows her head low to the pavement, avoiding eye contact with passers-by as she shuffles down the crowded street. There are too many people for her to be comfortable, and she suddenly wishes she was back in the empty café, alone with her misery.

It doesn't take her as long as she would’ve hoped to get back to her house. It’s a terraced house like millions of others across the country, with nothing distinguishing it from any other. It bears the traditional battle scars; peeling paint, graffiti, smashed windows, a back door hanging off its hinges. The usual.

Setting the broken gate out of her way, the girl trudges up the path to the aged front door, desperately in need of a lick of paint. Scratch that. It needs a visit to the scrap heap. A faint smile plays at her lips as she roots in her pockets for her keys and fumbles with the lock.

“Mum?” she calls, shutting the door gently behind her. “I’m home.”

No reply. It isn’t unusual. There’s the faint buzzing sound that indicates a television, so she traipses down the hallway, stifling a yawn, and pushes open the living room door. Sure enough, she sees what she expected to see. Her mother’s lying in her chair, dead to the world. She would’ve looked dead, were it not for the slight rise and fall of her chest. An empty bottle hangs from her frail, delicate hands.

The girl knows what’s happened. It’s what always happens. With a barely audible sigh, she tugs the bottle from her mother’s grasp and sets it on the table. She clicks off the television, tossing the remote aside, and turns back to her mother.

“Mum,” she says, shaking her gently. “Mum, you have to wake up.”

Her eyes fly open wildly and she jumps in the chair. “Joseph? Joseph, is that you?”

The girl winces. “No, Mum. It’s me. Dad’s dead, remember?”

Her mother visibly deflates. The light clicks off inside her and she retreats further into her chair. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying and the girl can tell the bottle wasn't the only one she’s been through that night.

“Come on,” she says softly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She wraps an arm around her mother’s shoulder and helps her to her feet, no longer surprised by how light she is. Whispering soothingly in her ear, the girl helps her upstairs and into bed, where she promptly falls asleep. She envies her mother for that. She knows that she herself will be up until the late recesses of night, kept awake by the threat of nightmares.

With a sigh, she trudges out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her. The door safely closed, she slides down to the floor, hugging her knees into her chest. Her body shakes with barely-suppressed sobs as she buries her head in her knees.

Slowly, she gets a hold of herself. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she gets to her feet and walks into her room, ready to start another night of nightmares.