Sofia Vez

The motel room smells like whiskey and fruit-like fragrance, a little too strong, that stirs discomfort low in my guts. The air is thick, suffocating even as I lie still in the bed, very aware of my mother's restless figure tossing and turning beside me. She is asleep yet very much fighting the demons.

The ceiling fan is spinning so slowly, drawing the creaking sound I can't seem to ignore. I've been lying too still in the bed, waiting for hours to make sure both my parents are ...