in a dead language - vmon

iv.

When I reach my destination, I knock on your door and I keep knocking until a yell echoes through the hallway, followed by the door being pulled open and slammed so hard that the whole wall shakes and I can hear a knickknack fall from a shelf somewhere my eyes can't see.

I don't wince, but I can taste blood in my mouth. I don't wince, because it's just a man who hits the bottle before breakfast and beats his kids whenever he feels like doing so.

I know the world all too well and I understand the need for an escape all too well to judge a man for being drunk right after waking up, but nothing excuses the way he treats you and tries to treat your sister.

"Stop banging the door," he slurs, then calls me a slur. "His friend bit the dust. He's skipping school today."

"Is he okay?"

He chuckles and coughs, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve before taking another swig of his beer. I want to choke him with my hands. "He's a tough kid. Now fuck off, I'm busy."

He slams the door shut before I say another word, but it's okay because I owe him no words. I owe him a fist in the face and the taste of blood in his mouth. You fantasise about kissing me on the mouth before his eyes then putting a bullet between them.

(I wonder; what would upset him more? His son kissing a boy or aiming a gun at his head?)

Your sister, on the other hand, wants to run away and be a rock star, because she's too young to pretend to accept that kids like us don't get to have futures like these.

I walk around the building so that I'm standing across the window of your bedroom. I pick up a pebble and throw it with practised ease. It hits your window with a loud thump then falls silently into a pile of leaves. A puff of white autumn air leaves my lips. I wait. Nothing happens. I pick up another pebble, then another, then another. I pray nothing shatters, but deep down I crave it.

I leave. It's cold and I have school. I hope you are warm.