Broken (temporary title)

Chapter 1

"Feed the chicken."

"What?" I didn't catch his words.

"I said feed the fucking chicken," he says again. My eyes dart through the long, dead grass in front of our broken-down trailer, then quickly avert to a skinny little thing with feathers. It clucks softly, cocking its head to the side and hopping from foot to foot. I think it's a drunk chicken.

The chicken topples over and confirms my theory.

"Well?" My dad slurs from behind me again, collapsing to the ground, his bottle crashing as the two come in contact with the floor.

I nod. I'm not going to argue with him. He's drunk.

"Hey hey hey," Striker half laughs, half gurgles, almost falling out of his cloth 'hammock', a thing hanging from the tree right on the edge of our 'porch'. "Why don't you give 'im some o' this?" he snorts, holding up a bottle of something in the air unsteadily, a few sips of the stuff bolting out. Yeah, he's drunk too.

I just ignore him and break off some small pieces of stale nut bar that I have in my pocket. I slowly walk forward and off of the porch, scanning the grass again for the poor chicken.

It's nice out. A little cold, but fresh and calming. Much better than inside, where all you could smell is beer, vomit, sweat, and scents of whatever was here before us. Almost six years we've been here, and you can still smell rotting fish.

"Go!" I can hear Dad yell from behind. My eyes lock immediately on the animal, which I can see is even thinner up close. Just bones and feathers.

I throw the pieces of nut bar carefully towards the little thing, which is now silent. It gets to the food, investigates it a moment, then swallows it down as fast as possible, as if it will be taken away at any moment. Which may be a possibility, because I'm getting hungry and wouldn't mind some old caramel-chocolate coated cashews stuck together with who knows what. When it's done, the chicken clucks loudly. I shoo it off because it's morning and I don't want Striker to accidentally kill it when he goes out for his nap. He goes crazy when he's drunk, and those clear green bottles are pretty fragile. Plus, they get really sharp when they are broken, and that means the shards have to be taken away from Striker before something dies.

The scared thing scurries away at my shooing-screeches, and on its way out of the grass part of the lot, my eyes catch a piece of paper under the chicken's foot. I snatch it and unfold it. It's green!

I can't believe my luck. It's a dollar bill, ripped, crumpled, about as worn as our trailer, and about just as good. I laugh and shout in the direction the chicken ran, "Well, I guess good things happen when you 'feed the fucking chicken'!"

I grin and head back to the porch. The first thing I do is stuff the bill into my pocket, keeping it out of view. Striker has already passed out on the hammock. I go to wake Sahara, who's inside. I find Daddy rocking himself near the door, sniffing and whimpering. A good look around at the shattered, emoty bottles and I know he's making his way back to reality.

"I fed it," I say. He doesn't seem to be listening.

He points to a shard of bottle and chokes out, "More." I realize he hasn't actually been drinking this morning. The last time I saw him drinking was several hours ago, before the sun was even up.

I nod and nudge hum gently with the tip of my shoe so he could move overe. He doesn't budge, so I step over him and into the little dusty space we fcall our room, Sahara and I. She's still asleep. I don't blame her. I want to pass out too, but today is my turn to help out with the drunks and wake my sister up in time so that we could clean and go for work. I had the last few pieces of Cap'n Crunch this morning, but I'm still hungry. The grocery should be getting deliveries today , according to Sahara's calculations. That means we could go help with unpacking for a few real, fresh fruits in return. I haven't had an apple in a while, but Sahara and I shared a baby clementine a few weeks ago. We have school tomorrow again, so today is our only chance to get some food for the week. We always stay after school to help out for some extra cash for clothing and liquor for Dad and Striker, so our only time to help out at the grocery is during the weekend.

I give Sahara a slight shake in the shoulder. She opens one sleepy teal eye halfway, then sighs.

"Yeah, I know," I whisper, "But I've got a little surprise." Now both her eyes are open. She doesn't have to ask; I pull out the crumpled paper and try to unfold it as neatly as I can.

"Ohmygod," her eyes are big. "Where did you get that?"

I grin. "A fucking chicken."

She takes the bill from my hand, investigating it. "We could get chocolate," she finally says. I nod, still grinning. Sahara loves chocolate. I love anything that doesn't kill me. Chocolate is just fine.

Sahara puts her shoes on and we make our way to the wooden scraps left of the doorway. I quickly remember about Dad and snatch an extra bottle from the one good drawer above the sink, which is rusty and lets out only a few drops occasionally. The bottle is open and only half full. Damn you, Striker.

I throw the bottle towards Dad. He barely catches it, and gives me a slight, trembling nod in thanks. Then we take off.

Sahara hums some song while we make our way through the trees near our trailer. I remember that song. Our mother used to sing it to us when we were toddlers. I bet she's singing it to that little kid of hers, Albany, now as well. I'd do anything to choke that little brat.

Ok, I take it back. I guess that's not fair. It's not his fault he got stuck with "Mrs. Brent". It's her fault. It's her fault for everything.