The smoke slowly filled her lungs, and she exhaled. I hated that smell. I sunk a little deeper into the couch and buried my nose in the blanket. She didn't have to smoke in the house, but she was probably unaware she even was. The vodka bottle was sitting on the kitchen counter, inches away from my little brother. What was she doing? She grabbed my brother by his arm and pulled him to the floor off the counter. I can see the finger marks on his arm from her tight grip. Three years of life and he already knew better than to cry, and he bit his lip. He sat on the floor until we heard her bedroom door close, and he ran over to me. I hugged him tight and walked into the kitchen, threw the cigarette butts out the window into the snowy bliss. Sometimes at night, I sit in bed looking at the window, dreaming I was at a ski club and my dad was alive again, my mom was sober, and my brother was careless. In reality, I was sitting in bed, bandaging my brother, and listening to my mother cursing and throwing bottle across the kitchen. I was scared. My brother was bleeding. My mom was drunk. My dad was dead. The next morning I would wake up and pull on a sweater, lock my brother in his room away from my mom, get on the bus like everything's fine.