The So-called Boyfie | MewGulf ✔

Part 22 💖

^PC to the rightful owner 

(Unedited.. plz ignore the mistakes:))

The apartment was not as tiny as the last one, and the floors at least had heaters beneath the smooth boards. Mew even had his own room this time, he thought with a pleased expression on his eight-year-old face. It felt good to rest his tummy on the boards in the back corner of his room, on top of a pretty blanket that his mommy had given him for his birthday.

His dad was out there with his clients again, selling guns. That is all his dad ever did, was get guns that were smuggled into Thailand and sell them to men with tattoos. Mew kind of thought that the scars on his back looked a little like tattoos, and he liked to pretend that he was in a gang like his father.

No one knew guns like Ankit, people came from miles around to see how his great father could fix their guns or sell the ones that he had already fixed or get rid of 500 of them in two days. Mew was almost proud of his father, except for when he got angry.

Mae had sent Mew to his room earlier when one of the scars on his back had torn, making him bleed through his shirt. His dad was upset that he had gotten blood on the carpet, and he had started yelling at him again. So, Mew played with his cars on the floor of his bedroom, wishing that the scars would hurry up and do their job so that they would quit itching so goddamn bad.

Goddamn was his favorite English word nowadays. He had said it on the playground, and all the other kids had giggled at the delicious fun of learning a foreign swearword. They had always admired that Mew was so daring as to be able to say things like that.

He had learned it from one of daddy's work associates, a kind man named Mr. Wichai. He always brought American candy in his pockets with him when he came to visit daddy, and Mew never got into trouble when he was at their house, so Mew liked him a lot. Mew played with his trucks again when he heard men yelling in the living room, and Mew got worried. Maybe someone was upset about the guns again.

He wandered out of his room to the hall. He wanted to make sure his mommy was okay, but he could not see her anywhere. He hoped that he had gone out to the grocery store or even to go over to her friend's house because when daddy and his friends started yelling sometimes his mommy got hit. Mew did not like that.

"Mew," his daddy bellowed, "Mew, get over here..."

Mew sighed. He wished he had stayed in his room to play with his trucks, but he knew better than to make a face. He walked purposefully over to his daddy, knowing that if he lollygagged it would be worse for him. He could already smell the liquor on his daddy's breath.

"Mew, why don't you make a few welcoming gifts for our guests?" his daddy asked.

Mew obediently slid the marble tile out from under the coffee table. He placed it carefully on top of the scarred wood, carefully sniffing the air. He smelled boiling water. He knew that probably no one else could smell it, but he knew it was there, and he felt the tears pricking at his eyes as he very carefully pulled out a thin cotton piece of paper and sprinkled green leaf onto it in a fine, straight line. His eight-year-old fingers did their very best at picking out the black seeds, and then he folded the paper in half and started rolling it between his fingers as tightly as he could. He licked the edge of the paper where the sealant was, and then he smoothed down the edges and twisted off the ends. He lit the joint, holding a zippo to the end while he sucked in to pull the fire into the rolled paper, and then gave it to one of his daddy's friends before he sat down to make another one.

Soon, all the men had their pot and Mew stood at the edge of the living room, shaking like a leaf. Did he do it right this time? Were they all happy? He did not make any mistakes, did he?