Wild Hearts

Enough

When I was young. Like, really young, I didn't have a permanent home. Mum lived in a dingy flat, and dad was... Well out of the picture. He came back... Years down the track, and mum forgave him, but it was rough.

She didn't have a car, a decent job. We shared simple meals of tinned food and cheap takeaway. Mum really struggled. I was slower to develop. What took other kids a predictable route to learn, took me years longer. I wasn't potty trained till I was six. I had trouble communicating what I meant. She cracked open and I would just stare at her while she sobbed on her bed, wanting to do something, say something...

So I wasn't much of a talker and I couldn't articulate what I meant. My stimming meant I was all over the place, limbs jerking and punching. Lots of screaming, making the biggest scene, then hiding in mum's shoulder from the big scary world. Mum had no help. I would refuse to walk, like ever. She eventually found a pram from someone's lawn, but it was clear why it was thrown away as it fell apart not long after she claimed it.

All this meant mum would carry me to the nurse when I was sick, stepping around the shadows that terrified me. The hospital was four blocks away. I asked her one time if that made her angry. She replied, "a bit, but as long as I was holding you in my arms, that was enough."

I thought she was teasing me, saying I was heavy. She simply shook her head and explained.

"Aiden, I would carry you up and down the country if it meant keeping you healthy and alive. Trust me, my arms ached like hell, but would I do it all again? For you, a thousand—million times yes."

And so for all the fights, the disputes over my freedom and how I could look after myself, I just remember the lengths my nineteen-year-old mother went for me, no parents, no father of her child to support her, no friends willing to help, and no smiling face willing to take a scrappy-looking teenager and her equally scrawny-looking child, and I can't stay mad at her. No, not for long.

***

I half expect mum to be waiting in her room, light on, legs crossed, dad in the dining room looking half-dead. Mum will lead me to the table and then they'll scold me until I never want to leave the house again.

But it isn't like that. I close the front door with a soft click, and scurry up the stairs to my room, throwing the blanket over me as if there still might all be a trap, just a clever one saved for the last second when hope becomes a possibility.

Breathe... Breathe... Breathe.

I close my eyes and pull the blanket down to my neck. The last thing on my mind before sleep claims me is an image of Ryder's easy smile. We made it to the bus stop and he made little comments. Corny jokes. He told me he'd see me around and I wanted that. God, I mean, but I actually want that!

Ryder joked that he would surprise me at my window, sneak me away like those teenagers in movies. I said I would like that, and I meant it. A little chaos and breaking the rules was delicious to a plank of wood like me.

Sometimes you wake from a dream too good it leaves you hollow. Don't let this be a stupid bloody dream. Let Ryder be my friend. For once, can I ask this messed up universe for something in return, something to make it all a little more worthwhile?

***

Sometimes, if dad is still here, he makes me eggs. Or pancakes. Or both. Some kind of compensation, some excuse to make themselves feel better after everything. Well, dad is here, but he barely glances at me as I enter the kitchen, just rips a piece off his toast. Great, they've already started without me. The rules...

Hiding myself in the pantry, I scowl when I see the corn flakes haven't been replaced. This isn't right. If... if I don't have the same thing, I'll... I can't yell at them. Even if I wanted to. And trust me, usually, I would. Today, I'm a wuss.