Ian
Fifteen years earlier
Iget back from school and throw my backpack on the kitchen table, covering my face with my arm because the odour of cigarette smoke in a confined space makes me nauseous. I open the window, even though it’s freezing outside, to let a little air and light in.
I look around, and I realise the kitchen is exactly how I left it: full of dishes waiting to be washed and dirty, sticky ashtrays everywhere, full to the brim.
I pick up the letters that have been lying on the floor, and relief floods through me when I see an envelope I was anxiously waiting for – our welfare cheque.
I hide it before Mum can find it and decide to spend it as she pleases. I go to look for her, even though I know I’m going to find her in the same position where I left her this morning. I poke my head into her room and find a figure lying on the bed, wrapped up in the dark.
“Mum?”
“Mmm...” She turns to me.
I sigh in relief.
“Didn’t you even get out of bed today?”
“Sure I did,” she says, confused, as she tries to set her feet on the ground, knocking over a bottle as she does so.
I clench my jaw trying to control the anger as I move towards her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “Don’t pity me.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m just tired. It’ll pass.”
“Have you eaten anything?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think there’s anything to eat in the house.”
“I’m going shopping. I’ll make you something, alright?”
“Since when did you start cooking?” she asks, unaware of the significance of her question.
I don’t answer her, but instead go back to get the cheque, which I’ll cash in at the corner shop at the end of the road, allowing us to make it through until the end of the week, but making no promises for the one after that - or any that follow.
* * *
Present
I get out of bed dazed, even more tired than when I went to sleep. I can hear a racket coming from the kitchen. I sit up and look around to see Ryan trying to pull something out of the cupboard. I get up, putting my bare feet on the floor and march in the direction of the chaos that is currently invading my life, which I would have preferred to avoid.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, resting my hands on the counter.
“Jesus, Ian!” Ryan turns to me with his hand on his chest. “You’re as quiet as a mouse!”
“Can’t say the same about you.”
“I was just trying to make some coffee,”
I look at the clock. “It’s seven a.m.”
“I’m used to getting up early.”
I sit on the stool in front of him.
