Charity clumped down the stairs, helpless to quiet the sound of her boots on the creaking steps. The thoughts within her twenty-something mind were all awhirl, partly from the cocaine she had snorted off her desktop and partly from the festive plans she had for the night ahead.
Not for the first time, she wondered if the boots and miniskirt she wore went with the heavy woolen sweater she’d chosen to complete her outfit. It was the iciest, most bitterly-cold New Year’s Eve in her recollection and her desire to go out battled briefly with her sense of caution. It was a battle whose outcome was in little question. To be anywhere but home with her harridan of a mother was an option she could not ignore.
Shrugging her coat on, she hoped to escape the house without the old woman’s gin-soaked diatribes. Charity simply had no tolerance for the unwarranted criticism of someone who had little room to chastise anyone for their behavior. Before she could turn the doorknob, the voice she most dreaded pierced the quiet.
“Don’t go out that door, missy. I know you’re intent on drinkin’ and druggin’ and whorin’ the night away but you can just forget all about that! You go out tonight and leave your old mama all alone you can just keep on keepin’ on and not show your hussy face back around here.”
Unwilling to entangle herself in the drunken ramblings, Charity spoke over her shoulder only a single word, “Whatever!” before she was gone.
This story was written for the weekly Trifecta Writing Challenge flash fiction word prompt: whatever.