CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

36: BUTTERFLY, TORN

            The snow that were a glistening fleece this morning is now a muddy sleeve tightly compressed over the sidewalks, well on its way to becoming a glaze of black ice. Folk, like me, who stubbornly wear trainers with little to no friction regardless of season, waddle along the pavement with the risk of slipping on every step.

I've had to retire my skateboard as a method of transportation, likely for the rest of the year, and so my trip home is extra tedious. At least after finally accepting how garbage the battery life is, I've started to bring my phone charger to school and I've got my "ten instruments playing at once" playlist as a companion on the way home.

I consider lighting a zoot but can't find the energy to roll it. The clangour of music keeps Beewolf out of my mind even if I can feel it on my back.

I unlock the front door to be greeted by the scent of garlic and cilantro. Kicking my trainers off, I pull out my earphones to hear Nicolás's "hello" from the kitchen over his own 90s simp music. I respond only with a lingering "uh..."

I shuffle into the kitchen doorway with my jacket still on to find him in front of the hob, stirring whatever he's cooking.

A grimace twists my face. 'How are you home already?'

Beewolf starts to whisper "what if" scenarios in my ear. Finding Nicolás's voice through it is like digging for a straw of hay from the Saw II needle pit.

'I've got loads of overtime so I asked to leave early.'

This don't ease my confusion in the slightest: it could be the apocalypse and Nicolás wouldn't leave work early. He only leaves work early when I get in trouble...

He smiles at me as he lowers the heat beneath the pot. 'Thought we'd eat together.'

'Er... right.'

I retract into the entrance to peel off my jacket. I carry my backpack with me as I edge into the kitchen, looking for tripwires on the path. None go off before I reach my seat though I'm not slightly relieved. The explosives are hidden somewhere.

Nicolás has already laid the table. He carries the pot over, lodging it between small dishes of sliced avocado, crema de leche, and capers. The aroma of guascas in his vegetarian rendition of ajiaco makes my stomach rumble, but despite having eaten only half a sandwich in the past four hours, I don't touch the food.

So far in my life, when adults have summat serious to talk about, they've either decided to say nowt (because they're not my parents and kids find everything on the internet these days anyway) or screamed it at me when I'm standing at the door with my shoes and jacket still on. Nonetheless, the air is so thick with "we need to talk" even I recognise it.

Nicolás watches me over his own untouched bowl of ajiaco. 'How are you feeling?'

Innocuous on the surface, the question is saddled with full artillery. I try to figure out the answer that'll set off the handguns and not an atomic bomb, simultaneously as I retrace everything I can remember of the past week for what I've done to load his weapons.

He has had enough of you.

I'm too difficult. He's going to kick me out. Send me to that group home.

Should I be surprised? I'm less desirable than the mould he has diligently tried to scrub out of this house.

Nobody wants me. Nobody is ever going to. Not even Nicolás.

I've barely started a nod when I finally catch on. The weight is cut off only to be replaced by an equally daunting nothingness that leaves me floating into space with no tether to owt at all. Oh...