Filth

I've seen the looks people give us. My mum and dad are about sixteen, seventeen. People give them nasty looks. They are dirty. There is grime on their faces, filthy clothes, matted hair streaked with mud, and they smell awful. It isn't made much better by the fire.

The fire is coming from a bin. Daddy set it alight, the rubbish inside, and is now tearing a discarded newspaper and throwing bits in in an attempt to keep the fire going. He's kind of noble. He doesn't like children. He never has. He seems bent on looking after me anyway. Even though there isn't enough food to fill bellies if both of them eat, he makes sure Mummy's had enough to eat so she can feed me. I'm only a few months old, you see, and often I can hear Daddy's stomach rumble, especially if he's holding me. He does eat, just he's scared of letting us starve.

Mummy is sick. She is coughing, her chest heaving violently, as she stands as close to the fire as she can without hurting one of us. That is quite close, though, because the fire isn't very big. We are all wrapped up warm, but the cold still stings through our skin. It is winter, and the wind is high and icy. It threatens to blow the fire out and I know that they are scared. I am wrapped in layers of cloth, but I am still cold, and I am crying. All I can hear is myself and the wind, and part of me knows my parents are talking, but I can't make out the words.

Sometimes I wish I could sleep the rest of my life away. I've never been much of a life lover. I guess part of me knew I was destined to end up here, looked down upon by all society. A young father, a homeless runt. 'What use is he or his bastardised family?' I'm the kind of guy the whole world wishes didn't exist. If I go home, to my father, I will be beaten to death for my 'lack of responsibility' and 'besmearchment of the Peterkin family name'. I don't think he cares that I am gone. I think all I was to him was a fuck buddy. I look across, to Angel, who even looks beautiful now, when we are at our worst, and down to the baby in her arms and do my best not to pull a face. Infants are hideous things. Their faces are twisted and crumpled, and they are covered in unusual wrinkly things, and right now, red faced with mouth open, that awful caterwauling that will haunt my nightmares...I can't take it, but I can't move away without risking freezing. I stomp my feet and wonder if she can quieten it.

More pressing matters arise as the fire dies away and we are left without our source of heat. I try and get it going again, I really do, but it doesn't work. The smouldering rubbish has no more fuel to give. Angel huddles close to me and I think to myself that anything is better than home, with my father.

We keep the baby hidden from people. One of us will hide away, scared of getting our child taken away from us without any attempt to help us as well, and the other one will keep their head down and put their hand out, looking for money. People pity me more or something, because I always make more than Luc does. It's sick.

I can't go home. My foster parents are so strict they didn't want me to so much as look at a boy, and when they found out I had a baby...all hell broke loose. I can't go back, and I'm pretty sure they don't want me back.

I don't need glasses to see, only to read. I can't do that right now, I got rid of the glasses ages ago. Dirty, cracked glass and snapped frames. It was of no use to me. In the state they were in, they obstructed my vision rather than aided it.

There's a dusty feeling in my throat. It's almost like I can't breathe. I feel tired, and I just want to sleep, and Lucas seems to pick up on that. He nods and sits, gesturing for me to do the same, and the three of us sleep, huddled together against the cold. This is love, the way we care so much for one another.

My name is Charlotte. This is the life I live.

If I go home, I face death.

I have no home to go to. To turn up on the doorstep would merely merit a door in the face.

My mother has bipolar disorder. My father has PTSD. They're an interesting pair, and very different in many ways.

And yet, this isn't the end of the story, because we're all three still here to tell this tale. I get into school. At some point, they must pick themselves up, get back up the ladder.

Because don't get me wrong, this family isn't a dying star.

This is love, the way we care so much for one another.

Nobility. I give myself so that others may live. I sacrifice my own wellbeing, for them, my girls.

My family

My daughter.

My girls.

And we're fighters.

Survivors.

Defeat all the odds

And come out the other side.

You have a bug in your hair.
When you hear the story from him, just remember, I'm up and down, I can't control my temper.
I don't like seeing you upset.
You just what?
I dunno if he's a whore or not.
Half the time I'm not even aware I'm doing it.
Did I hear 'voodoo crap'?
I'm just sick of hearing you whine on about your problems!

And in the night, when myriads of nightmare visions and echoing voices fade away, sat bolt upright in a proper bed in a warm room with my wife sleeping peacefully by my side, I don't quite feel at home. At the same time, I am the safest I have ever felt.
I hear all the noises in the house, even when it's loud. There are creaky floorboards and drippy taps, and the thudderthudderthudder of fingers drumming on wood, and the house smells of pine. An almost Christmassy smell, and I do like it, because it makes me think. It makes me think of red baubles and sparkles.
It's a place without judgement, or at least with as little judgement as possible. It isn't a house as such. It's a residence. It's a home, but we're not the only ones living within its walls, but I feel I have all I need. People here are only here to support us, with coming off the street and with our illnesses. We are allowed to stay together. A loving family. All I have ever wanted.


Now all that remains is to wrap this in a bow, give the finishing spit and polish. Happy birthday, Shannon, with love, Musket and the Mouse Killers.