It’s grey out today, grey like ash, grey like the feathers of a pigeon. What little light comes through the clouds is pale and soft. It’s supposed to snow soon.
My name is Michael Hawke; people know me as a silly, immature guy with a Sex Pistols obsession. I sit at the back of a city bus, a knapsack and a trio of grocery bags at my feet.
The bus is packed with people - men in suits with briefcases, kids smelling like weed, women with little kids. An old man sits at the front, holding a walker in front of him. To my left is a skinny boy in a slightly oversized school uniform and a grey knitted sweater. He smells like juniper and he’s humming something - a Beatles song maybe.
I watch the outside world through the window, biting at my nails.
My head aches like it got hit with a cricket bat, so I quit staring at the sky and glance at the boy. He looks back at me with a somewhat amused expression, slipping his phone into his pocket and quirking his eyebrows.
“Yes?” he asks mildly. He has an interesting accent. And he’s attractive, too. He must be Greek, or maybe Italian.
“Nothing,” I reply with a shrug. “Sorry.”
He nods and looks down at the floor. “All right.”
The bus comes to a slow stop. “Smethwick Galton Bridge Station, Oldbury Road,” says the bus driver over the intercom.
I stand to get off - this is my exit. To my surprise, the boy follows me out. I rush across the street and straight to the house - a relatively nice two-story brick affair with a blue door.
Inside is far different - there’s a pile of mail just inside the door, the lights are off, the television is quietly playing some sitcom, and Dad’s snoring loudly upstairs. I nearly trip over our cat, Cleo, and wander around to tidy things up for Mom. The floorboards creak under my weight.
Quickly I head upstairs to put my knapsack in my bedroom and change into a more comfortable outfit.
I collect the mail, stack it on the coffee table, turn the television off, and take a number of empty beer cans to the bin. Open up the curtains, pet the cat, put away the groceries. Then clean the kitchen and wash the dishes from breakfast.
On coming back into my room, I lay down on my bed with a sigh, settling into a pile of blankets and humming a song. I take some worksheets and a pen out of my knapsack and start working - mathematics, English exercises, a paper from French class on verb conjugation.
Once I finish that, I go downstairs and make myself a cuppa coffee, a treat.
The growl of an ancient car engine pulls up nearby and I immediately stand up to go look out the window. And there’s Mom’s old rust bucket of an Aston-Martin Legonda, almost parked up on the footway.
I run to open the door for her, letting her in and then accidentally slamming it shut.
She walks in and drops her suitcase beside the door. “Hello, Michael. How’s your father? Asleep, I assume?” She smooths out her waitress uniform and walks around to sit on the sofa.
I nod and take her coat, hanging it up on the rack. “Yes, he was asleep when I got home. How was your day, Mother?” I answer, following her around to the living room and sitting beside her.
“Ah, it was busy and just positively exhausting. I’d quit my job and go back to college if I could, but your father doesn’t want to work, so that would do no good whatsoever. Anywho, how was your day?” she asks tiredly. She yawns and I feel my stomach drop. They’ll probably be arguing again tonight.
“It was fine. I got groceries, by the way,” I reply curtly. “And I’ve got work tomorrow.”
She starts cracking her knuckles, then turns to me and smiles a bit. “Is that so? Well, that sounds nice. You’ll be taking the bus and not the bike, right? I don’t want you to catch cold.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She nods again, then stands up and walks over to the stairwell. “Oh, well then. Can you go make dinner? I’m going to wake your father up.”
“Yes, Mother,” I answer, rolling my eyes as she goes up the stairs. I go to the kitchen and start making salad for the third time this week. The cat weaves between my shins. Mother starts shouting. The floorboards above my head creak. Father, too, begins to shout.
My, o my. That happened earlier than expected.
I groan at the thought. It’s sad how quickly they fall into the habit of fighting. I still hate them for it. They didn’t always fight. I think they were more peaceful when I was younger.
I continue chopping the lettuce, then move onto the cucumber and cherry tomatoes.
A thud comes from above. I jump slightly, hitting my right hand with the blunt side of the knife and dropping it. I kick it away reflexively and run to the stairwell, hesitating to go up and see what’s going on.
I blink, and upon hearing another thud and a cry, I go up the steps and into their bedroom.
Father has Mother by the arm, pushing her into the wall, glaring down at her like a mad dog.
She looks at me and shakes her head. “Everything’s fine, Michael. Just go back downstairs-”
I stand in the doorway, staring at the scene before me and panicking. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to let Father hurt her. Yet it’s like I’m trapped. I can’t leave but I can’t make a move to help the situation. I’ve tried to help before. I got between them and then he punched me into a wall. So how could I do anything? How could I help if all that I'd do was get bruised up and forced into guilt?
"Michael fucking Hawke," comes the familiar yet ever-stinging growl that is my father's voice. "Get your ass downstairs and make dinner before I give you a reason to."
I think for a second. And I feel weak. I'm seventeen. I shouldn't be so afraid of this man anymore. I'm not a child, for Christ's sweet sakes. I have to help. I want to help.
But I stumble back downstairs and continue making salad. Because I am weak at this point.
Author's note: I'm aware that this is really short, and I'm sorry! I know most stuff on this wiki is way longer. But I've been going through some really difficult stuff lately and so my motivation is way down. It's probably going to take a month or two to get Chapter II out. I'm sorry and I hope that's okay! anyways, stay safe, be healthy, and enjoy!