text: I grew up in a piece of shit. Well, I suppose it’s called a mobile home. But it sure seems like a piece of shit. It smells like one too. Cigarette smoke, cat pee and the raw sewage smell from the nearby plant create a trifecta of nasal nastiness. My mom and dad don’t seem to notice the smells. Perhaps they have gotten used to it over time. Or perhaps smoking meth daily did something to their sense of smell? All I know, is that when the chemical stench of it is added to the cigarette, pee and sewage smells, I HAVE to avoid my parent’s room. I share a tiny bedroom with my twin brothers, Bud and Al. For being twins, they are not similar at all! I’d say about as similar as the Minnesota Twins and the Twin Towers. Bud is always smiling. I sometimes wonder if he even *knows* how to frown. He’s genuinely the funniest, kindest person I have ever met. Bud is always there for me when I need him. Loving relationships are almost nonexistent in our family. Bud is the only one I truly love. Al on the other hand, is a huge asshole. Don’t get me wrong, he can be fun occasionally. The fun never lasts very long though. His anger is always present, millimeters beneath the surface. His violent outbursts terrify me. I hate Al. My brothers never get along, and this evening is no different. They always fight about the same issue. Constantly, they argue about who gets to spend time with me. “Come on, you spent the last three days watching Youtube videos with Bud. Why can’t you do something with me this evening,” Al asked pleadingly. I replied, “You’re an angry asshole, Al. Why would I want to do anything with you?” Al appeared hurt, stung by the truth that I spoke. “It’s not my fault,” Al shot back defensively. “How could I not be angry, living in this stinky ass, meth den of a trailer.” Always kind and loving, Bud stepped in with a gentler tone. “I know it’s not your fault, but I still think he should spend the evening with me,” Bud urged. Suddenly, I heard a loud crash from outside my bedroom. Oh no, I know this sound too well! It’s the sound of my parents bedroom door flying open. “Shut up,” I yelled angrily at my brothers. “You really did it this time.” The thumping of a meth addict’s frantic footsteps followed, crossing the tiny trailer in a matter of seconds. The torn sheet that served as my bedroom door was ripped down, with one violent jerk. My father’s face appeared, his eyes unpredictable and wild. Fear gripped my heart and sank my stomach as I looked at this miserable excuse of a man. I know exactly what he will say to me.