Being Wrong | ✓

Part 1

Author's note: Published version now available! This version will always stay up for free, but if you're a re-reader or even a new reader who would like to read a more polished version of this story with a few extended scenes, that's something you can do now! Links in my profile.

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The music coming through Charlie's earphones just about managed to drown out the more cacophonous music coming from the stereo, but there was no avoiding the physical thump of the bass. It felt too similar to the hard, fast beat of a panicked heart for him to disentangle it from his own anxiety.

Pairs of legs walked past the table Charlie sat under in the kitchen, some bare as far up as he could see, some clad in wrinkled jeans. Nobody bothered him. Nobody knew he was there. Charlie had mastered the art of disappearing.

Charlie was six songs into his Best of the Nineties tape when a familiar pair of legs approached the table. His dad hadn't seen him hide himself away in here, but he knew Charlie well enough to find him. Charlie hit pause on his walkman as his dad crouched down.

Pinprick pupils met Charlie's gaze as his dad tossed three fifty dollar notes into his lap. "Keep that safe, okay? Don't lose it."

Charlie nodded as he gathered the notes, carefully folded them, and shoved them deep into his pocket. For simple things, he was reliable.

Charlie's dad was just starting to get up again when someone laughed and dropped to the floor next to him. A young man, maybe university aged, with spiked up hair and a can of beer in his hand. "What are you doing on the floor, mate?"

The guy grinned broadly when his eyes landed on Charlie, but Charlie's dad's face was flat and annoyed. Even high he looked tired, old. He hadn't shaved in days and he'd started looking like he needed a haircut a few weeks ago.

"Why are you under a table, kid?" the guy asked, then grabbed Charlie's walkman without waiting for an answer. "Hey, you have one of these! One of these, uh, things."

Normally Charlie was passive, quietly nonresistant, but his walkman was the one thing that mattered to him. He lunged forward and tried to grab it back, but he set himself off balance and it took barely more than a nudge from the guy to tip him backwards. His head thunked hard against something solid, sending pain strumming through his skull and scattering his thoughts. It took Charlie a moment to realise he'd hit his head against the table leg.

"Oh shit," the guy said, but he was laughing. Charlie's dad chewed at a hangnail and glanced around like there were places he'd rather be.

"Ryan, what the hell?" a female voice cut in. A woman, tiny and asian and around the same age as the guy, crouched down in front of the table. "Jesus, Ryan. What's a kid even doing here, anyway?"

"He's sixteen," Charlie's dad interjected.

"He's your..." She looked between Charlie and his dad. "He's your kid? You can't bring a kid here. Holy shit, dude, he's clearly not having a good time."

"He's sixteen," Charlie's dad repeated. Charlie didn't like the edge to his voice, the growing agitation in his movements. The press of the building emotion in the small space under the table melted into the throbbing pain coming from the back of Charlie's skull and created a confusing mix that disconnected the parts of Charlie's brain capable of complex thought.

"And that's too fucking young!" She twisted around and scanned the room. "Azza, he can't have a sixteen year old kid here, right?"

There was a beat of silence before whoever she'd called out to responded. "Uh... nah, mate, maybe not. If the cops get called, you know?"