It’s the middle of the day, and the house already reeks of booze, piss, and dirty clothes as I enter my home, the door creaking on its hinges as if it were a horror movie.
Ha, I wish.
In all honesty, it’s much worse. Much, much worse.
The people in these walls are much scarier, much greedier, and so much deadlier.
I sneak inside, being mindful of my steps, one wrong move, one sound, and I’d be lyingbruised and battered somewhere in this house if I didn’t do what they want me to.
Henry and Elizabeth Miller are the worst of the worst. For the world, they’re my parents; for me, they’re the monsters that keep me awake at night and broken during the day.
And me? I’m that unlucky bastard who has their disgusting blood running in my veins.
I take in the untidy living room littered with empty alcohol bottles, my eyes roam to the kitchen to find it unclean, the dirty dishes piling up high. An exhausted sigh leaves my lips, knowing I’ll be the one to wash those today, too.
Just like I did them yesterday, and the week before that, and the months before that, and the fucking year before that. I can’t remember the last time anyone did any chore in this house—except for me.
My fingers already go numb at the prospect of washing those dishes in the freezing winter. It’s not like we have a dishwasher or even a geyser to get some warm water.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve been poor, not being able to afford the barest of necessities. And I’ve long stopped hoping for my life to change for the better.
My only option is to endure until I can get out of this hellhole.
With a tired shake of my head, I pad into the kitchen, careful not to step over anything that would alert them to my presence. Slowly opening the kitchen cupboards, I scour each of them, hoping to find something to eat.
They’re empty—obviously.
My body stiffens at the sound of heavy footfalls, getting closer with every passing second. I feel his looming presence before I see him. I turn on my heels, my worn-out backpack hanging over my shoulder.
The body of the man who scares me the most in the world materializes in front of me, stumbling into the kitchen. He looks like the older version of me with a drinking and a getting high problem—blond hair and sunken green eyes.
Though admittedly, he looks decades older than he actually is, with his wrinkled forehead lines and slouchy posture. But you’d be a fool to think he is weak. Or maybe it’s just because I’m still a kid.
Regardless, my father’s got a mean right hook, the kind he likes to often test on me. Pain flaresfrom yesterday’s bruise across my ribs at just the thought of his punches. I hate that I cower and stumble back into the kitchen counter when he walks closer.
“What are you doing?” He grunts, his breath reeking of cheap beer as he ruffles his unruly hair, looking at me like I am an insect and not his fucking son.
“Came in to clean the dishes,” I reply, cocking my head at the pile up.
His eyes turn to slits, my heart rate picking up as my stomach drops, already sensing what is coming. “Why isn’t it done already? Where the hell have you been?”
“To—I was at school,” I stutter, my body trembling with fear of the inevitable.
I flinch despite myself when his hand slams down on the counter beside him. “If you’re off gallivanting toschool,” he spits, “then who do you think will do the chores, you brat!”
That’s not my job!I want to scream, but I bite my tongue until I swallow the metallic taste of blood I’m so acquainted with.
“Stop wasting my money on your books and give a hand around the house.” My money, I want to correct him. I’m the one who’s keepingus above water. “Your stupid ass is not gonna be the next Einstein anyway,” he scoffs.
My self-esteem diminishes a little bit more. It’s not like I’m claiming to be the best at my studies. But I get good enough grades. Though the ice hockey program at our school is what keeps me going back.
When I enrolled in it last year, it was like I was transported to an entirely different universe. Stepping on the ice made me forget that the world is trying to eat me alive. It gave me an escape.
And when the coach looked impressed with how quick I was on my feet, he suggested I stay on the team. Since then, not a day has gone by that I haven’t stood between those pipes and stopped the pucks flying at me.
Hockey gave me purpose.
Naturally, I’m not about to tell him about it and let him take it away from me. He took my mother, my childhood, and he takes away the little I earn by doing odd jobs around the neighborhood.