for a lovely friend: i promised i'd do this for you
Home is not home. Home is not a place where you don’t feel
safe. Friday evenings the caretakers at the Salvation Army encourage those who
still have families to pay them a visit. I take the longest route home, drag my
feet to the door. Every week I convince myself that it will be different, that
they’re probably too old and tired to shout anymore, but the raised voices seep
under the door and ring through the hallway and taunt my irrational hopes.
Friday evenings I stand in the doorway and try to get them to notice that I’m
home. My father’s too incensed to notice, and my stepmother hates me anyway. Friday
evenings I sit at the sofa listening to them quarrel and throw things. When I
cannot take it anymore I run to the room and shut the door and pray that my crying
drowns them out.
He’s just arrived at the Salvation Army. New kid. I join him
at the swing and I learn that he has just lost both his parents. His calls
himself Pri. Fifteen, just like me. I tell him about the rabbits in our
playground and the one time we saw a snake, but it’s six-fifteen now. I have to
go. I feel bad when he asks why. And I hate my parents, I wish I was the
orphan. “Don’t say that,” he says. “And don't feel bad. Actually, I’d love to
visit your family, if you’re okay with that.” “No, you don’t want to, they do
nothing but argue all day.” But he insists.
I struggle to put the key in the lock. The sound of
something being hurled against the wall. He notices, puts his hand over mine,
gives me a smile, and for a while the smile is the only thing in the world that
matters. I turn the knob. They’re arguing about how he left the lights on again
and can’t he be a more sensible person they don’t have any money how will she
survive with his bullshit – “mum, dad, this is Pri.” They turn to look. “What
the hell you bring a boy back for, bloody bastard why your daughter such a prostitute-“ “Stop cursing my daughter you fat piece of shit-“ I look up at him
nervously, apology in my eyes, our hands tightly clasped behind our backs.
“Hey, look,” he whispers. “Your dad just called her a fat
piece of shit.” He imitates my dad in hushed tones: “fat piece of shit, you fat
piece of shit.” A giggle escapes my lips. For the first
time, I don’t cry.
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