d2 . harley khoza

It's dark.

A smokey haze lingers over the kitchen table, echoing sounds of gunshots filling your ears as you peer into the dining room. Poker nights had a tendency to get out of hand when father was losing, the gun he kept strapped to his ankle flashing in the dying light when he got angry. The other men he dragged down with him were the same, quick to jump to a trigger, words cutting like blades to land a blow that would trigger a bullet.

You'd been asleep when the shots had plowed into your dreams. Violent eruptions of colour over the darkness of an already perilous nightmare. Part of you was almost thankful that your dreams had been washed away by the sound of bullets. Sleeping at night was often filled with unwelcome visitors, mostly images of your father wearing the thousand different masks that fit into his pockets.

He called your brothers mother. Lost in a cloud of drugs and thinking the world was out to get him (it was), he'd shot her. Point blank a bullet in the chest as she'd returned home from grocery shopping. He likes to tell you the story, spoken between mouthfuls of alcohol as he holds his belt over your own mothers head. It's a reminder, a promise that he'd do it again. There was no sign of regret or guilt for having taken her life, there was just contempt. He knew that your mother would never leave, that her fear was like chains that bound her ankles to this house.

You creep forwards, the room empty now. you know he's chased them all out, brandishing his gun as if it's the only thing that makes him feel big. He's a small man on the inside, and his moment of weakness must be taken out on those around him. You know what he'll be like once he comes back inside, and you'll be too scared to come downstairs for a day or two. The chilled air of the fridge is pleasant against the humid air that hangs around you. It's almost empty, just like always, any money earned in this house was thrown away on his drugs or booze.

After a moment, the delicate tick, tick, tick, of the kitchen clock stirs you. You reach into the fridge grabbing the block of cheese and a half mouldy loaf of bread before making your way back up the stairs. The door behind you opens and fear races through your veins, sending your hurtling up the wooden planks as quickly as you can. The painful thump of your heart against your ribs is barely recognizable as your eyes widen, head twisting to make sure he hadn't seen you. You pause, fingers clinging to the banister as you peer back into the kitchen.

The shuffling steps of your father's black leather boots make you stiffen. They don't come closer. A shaking breath slips past your lips as you gather the courage to move. It takes a moment, heartbeat echoing all the way to your fingertips as your gaze lingers. You hold your breath as you finally pry your hands off the banister, tip-toeing back to the room you share with your brother. It's hardly a room, walls filled with your father's junk -it's more of a storage space where the two of you have been given the privilege to live in.

The mattress sits on the floor, the torn blanket and rat bitten pillow almost falling off. You sit down, dust flying around you as you place the cheese and bread onto a wooden plank in front of you. Your brother isn't home at the moment, probably working. You're both trying to fill your pockets with enough money to escape, hiding a few notes and coins here and there so that your father doesn't become suspicious when he asks for his share.

A sigh fills the crowded room and after a moment you lean back, fingers pulling at the blanket until it covers your chest and hips. You're thankful for the warmer weather, fearful of what the winter will bring with it. The ache of nightmares pulls at you, promising yet another restless night as you push your hair over the edge of the pillow. Long red strands fall, green eyes staring into nothingness as you wait for the darkness to embrace you.

You wish your brother was here. It feels a little safer when he's home.