Paul lunged for the windowsill in a desperate attempt to unload the hefty cardboard box from his arms. With beads of sweat trickling down his face, he collapsed onto some of the cardboard to regain his breath. The room was empty apart from a pile of boxes. The moving shadows of the trees cast a shadow onto the floor from the one, murky window in the empty room. The hallway opened into the driveway, just about big enough for their car. The driveway sat unbothered and overgrown, neglected by the previous owners- if there had been previous owners.

Outside, with the car door ajar, Mother sat hunched over the steering wheel of their second-hand Ford Anglia, clouding the windshield with the smoke from her joint. The car radio whispered incoherent scratchy mutterings as the sun smothered everything on the deathly quiet street. Life seemed absent along the road with the exception of a man trimming his front lawn aggressively, while his eyes shone with abnormal happiness, with emptiness behind those eyes. Trees grew in perfect lines, shielding the roadside with their emerald foliage: a supposed perfect setting for a home.

Paul unwillingly peeled himself from the boxes, ready to face more torture. He slunk back out of the front door and grimaced as he took another box labelled ‘dishes’ into the house, knowing full well that the kitchen was closer. He heaved the boxes onto the kitchen counter above his fragile 8-year-old body and began to unpack, reasoning that he would be able to take another break. He pulled at the red and white tape on the box, as it screeched irritably when it tore from the cardboard.

Meanwhile, Mother ran her eyes over the street. They would live here for a long time. Attractive in a way. It would do.

Paul pulled the plates out first, climbing on top of the kitchen counter to jam them into the cabinets. He then jumped down from the counter to empty the knives and forks as they clattered onto the floor. He lunged but what he saw made him recoil in shock. The knives lay normally along with the spoons and the forks, but some forks- no, all the forks- were bent. He picked up two and studied them, all bent downwards at a 90-degree angle in the same direction. The prongs were moulded into thin sharp strips. It was metal. How was it possible?

Paul gathered as many forks as he could find, scooping them up, as evidence to show Mother. He scurried towards the car and held them out wordlessly.

‘What the hell is this?’ Paul took a step back.

‘I raised ya, Paulie, and this is how you repay me? We’re short on money and what do you go off and do? Ah, let’s go break all ‘a Momma’s forks. Well…’ Paul was trying to explain but his mouth was dry and empty of words.

‘Look, let me explain something to you, you little brat. Not everything is given to you in life. You have to earn it! What the hell is wrong with you?’

She pulled Paul into the car as he tried to muster an explanation. She balanced the cigarette on the windshield, still slowly exhaling smoke while she whipped the boy continuously with her hard bony hands, before expelling him from the car once more.

‘Get back inside!’ she commanded. Paul rummaged around on the floor for the forks and scampered into the house. He had upset Mother. That could not happen again.

Paul stood on the stool by the sink, rubbing his raw anus and began to wash the food-rimed plates with the sponge. Life seemed unfair as he looked down the street through the dirt-stained windows onto the driveway where his mother sat in the car seat with a ceaseless repetition of smoke diffusing into the clear air. He perused the identical houses opposite. Through each of the windows all seemed empty and dead.

Someone is watching him. His head is tilted downwards, his eyes bulging. His inhuman grin slithers up his face. He is not moving, not blinking. Run.

Paul stumbled back on the stool, cracking the top of his head on the hard kitchen tiles. The world tilted. His shoulder slammed into the door frame, rotating his body until he caught himself on the banister, ripping his baseball jumper as he tried to get to Mother. Hearing his cries, Mother turned from the car and gazed at him in fury. He pointed desperately towards the man’s house across the street and turned to look himself. The man was gone.

‘What are you playing at, boy? What in the hell…’ She moved her skinny, frail shell of a body from the car and examined Paul. He sat panting. Mother hauled him up by his armpits and slapped him hard across his face.

‘Man… in the window…’ he muttered desperately.

‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you today. Maybe it’s the move. But lemme make something clear: I don’t give a shit about you or your silly games. Get the hell outta my sight.’

The forks, the man… Paul sat with images going through his head as tears ran down his face. He laid back on the boxes, which crumpled slightly under his weight. Then the breaking of glass as he attempted to turn around and look before his neck was clenched in a lock as the cold, wrinkled object closed around it; a hand.

Mother sat back in the car, a sigh of relief. A moment of peace away from that damned boy. She was ready for another joint, already in her mouth, second nature for her now. Then she heard the sound of faint breaking glass from inside.

‘The f*** is it now?’ That was it. The boy would be pulp in a few seconds.

‘Paulie, what did you do? Paulie, what in the hell have you done this time? I can’t trust you with anything.’ Nothing. Well, he would have to come out sometime. Mother leaned against the windshield, examining the street, waiting for Paul. Then she saw something. There, behind one of the bushes. A commotion, a scramble of kicking legs, two figures fighting, arms thrashing and then a forceful shove. Then silence.

Something was wrong. Where was the boy? Why hadn’t he answered her calls?

Paul’s arms flailed about in fear, attempting to grab something as light began clouding the corners of his vision. He could hear his mother’s voice in the faint distance. Detached from him. His mouth gasped, trying to breath but his crushed neck terminated the air flow. Consciousness was barely in grasp when the dripping wet hand released.

Objects began emerging as the light dissolved from his eyes with the boxes speeding towards his face as he collapsed onto them and then tumbled onto the floor. He inhaled a huge breath. Life seemed out of reach as the world was coming into focus and his body jerked. His mind was shattered and his hands grasped the floor in an attempt to get back up while his body reminded him in a desperate struggle to breath and it just seemed so easy to die. He threw himself onto the boxes and slammed his body against the wall to pull himself into a standing position.

He had to tell Mother. Surely, she’d understand now. He lurched through the hallway recoiling off the walls and staggered onto the driveway.

The car door was thrown wide open, almost cracking on its hinges as Paul noticed a single scratch piercing the car door. A joint lay on the floor, gently flickering as dusk settled and engulfed the world in orange.

Mother was gone.

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