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I slam the front door before trudging up the steps of the old apartment building that my mother has insisted on living in. The normal smell in the stairwell alone was enough to make me gag, but today for some reason, the smell was more putrid. It is stronger on the second floor landing, which leads me to believe that the crazy cat lady who lives in 2A is neglecting the litterboxes again. Well, either that or she had died and the stench was her decaying corpse. Nevertheless, I continued up the stairwell. The carpet on the steps between the third and fourth floor had a new stain on them. Or maybe it was a clean spot. Whatever it was, it looked out of place.

An older gentleman passes me coming down the steps just as I cross over the stain. He lives above mother and I, and I can often hear him yelling at his imaginary animals or stomping around in a rage of some kind. He's a frail old thing with sunken in cheeks and eyes that were too far back in his head. He grumbles something as he moves past me, lightly brushing up against my side. I grimace and try to surpress the need to shudder in disgust. I'm almost certain he hasn't bathed in some time.

Nothing more catches my senses as I leave the stairwell on the fourth floor and make my way toward the door that reads "4C". The walk upstairs has done little to appease my anger, so I slam our apartment door as well.

"Honey, don't slam the door. Remember what Mr. Stevens said the last time you broke the hinges," the smooth tones of my mothers voice carries out from the partially open bathroom door.

I roll my eyes. 'Mr. Stevens' is our landlord and superintendant. He doesn't like me much because he fancies my mother and thinks I'm the reason his marriage proposals go un-answered. In truth, my mother turns him down because of her career. "The hinges were hanging off. If stuff in this building was actually up to code, then a little thing like me wouldn't be able to cause such damage," I answer back, moodily. I slide out of my worn black leather jacket and throw it on the living room sofa that doubles as my bed. I need a cigarette. Unfortunately, I'm more than certain that my mother has smoked all mine while I was out of the apartment today, and I'm down to my last five bucks.

"Keep complaining, Cleo, and you won't need to worry about the shape of this building anymore," my mother replies, dashing out of the bathroom.

This was a common threat with my mother, always threatening to kick me out. I wish she'd do it already. "Did you leave me any smokes?" I ask, not even bothering to look at the woman. The sight of her nearly makes me sick. "Or did you steal every one of them?"

"Call it paying rent, sweetie," she replied with a chuckle. I hate when she calls me pet names, it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. "I thought you were out with Mark tonight, why didn't you bum a couple off of him?"

I finally turned to look at the woman that gave birth to me. My eyes narrowed into slits. "Because Mark is no good trash, that's why," I reply, the anger I feel towards my former boyfriend straining to make it's way to the surface of my voice. I keep my voice level and low, like doing so wins me some kind of battle against the boy.

My mother laughs at me, "another one broke up with you, huh?"

I whip my head away from her and sit down heavily on the lumpy sofa, content for the moment to stare at the grease stained wall in front of me. Mark is the reason for my anger today. We went for a walk around the block just so he could break up with me because he'd rather be with some two-bit slut that will end up just like my mother, no doubt. He's not the first to break up with me for more or less the same reason.

"You have to learn how to handle a man, Cleo, or you'll be alone forever," my mother continues to drone on. She thinks she's the expert on men because she gets paid to lay on her back and act as if the current customer is so much better than any of the other faceless men she encounters. I decided long ago that I would never be like her. I decided long ago that I despised the mere thought of her.

"If I'm alone forever, it will be a better life than you've chosen," I mutter angrily.

"You're an ungrateful brat, you know that?" She replies, voice becoming heated. "I'm out there every night making a living for us, and you come home and treat me like dirt. You have to learn some respect, girl."

"Respect?" I repeat, turning back to look at her, my eyes blazing. "That's a funny notion coming from someone like you, mother." I spit out the last word with a vehemence that I never had before. She can't preach respect when she's standing in front of me wearing a tiny metallic tube top, a torn jean skirt that is barely considered legal in public, and boots up to her thighs. "Shouldn't you be getting to your corner?"

"Don't be a smart ass, Cleo Lune," she tells me as she checks the time blinking on the microwave in the small kitchen off the living room.

"I'll be anything I want, mother," I reply with a superior tone in my voice, "because one day, I'll be out of here and I'm never looking back."

My mother chooses to laugh mockingly at this. "You'll never leave, you'll be stuck here forever, just like the rest of us."