Break Me (Phan)

Daniel Howell
Saturday 17th October

I grumbled to myself, the wind licking at my face as I approached yet another building with my hand-written CVs. The papers were crinkled from where my father had left bottles on top of them, with liquid residues along their rims, and the ink ran smudged across their pages. My clothes were slightly torn in places, and by far too small for me because despite my father having money in his bank, he was persistent I had to pay for my own clothing from the age of thirteen. I'd taken to stealing cash out of his wallet and scavaging local charity shops for something half-decent to wear throughout the past five years. He doesn't understand that I can't get a job if I look homeless, therefore I can't earn the money to buy clothes. Although, I think if he was going to comprehend a concept it would be that his son needs food to survive.

I felt my nerves send small pricks along the surface of my skin as my blood ran hot throughout my arms and chest. I stopped walking, my limbs feeling too heavy to drag along as my brain pounded memories into my conscience of the last time I tried asking my father for anything. I ran my fist up to my skull, straining the strands of hair away from my scalp before violently slamming my foot into a storefront wall.

I sighed, entering another shop door and asking for my CV to "be passed to the manager for the consideration of giving me a career". I didn't even care if they hired me out of charity by this point. I promise, a few months of pay and I'll be out renting a room away from this town. So fucking far away my father will never touch me again.

I dug my chipped nails into the back of my neck as I approached the doorstep of a bookstore. I looked at the entrance, checking the time on my phone as I confirmed to myself this was the correct time for the interview. That was another kick in the teeth: living in the remote end of town leaves less stores to offer jobs. Even so, most of the stores along the main road are family businesses or specialist, luxury-skills shops such as florists or bakers. That left me with two bookstores, five clothestores, a library assistant, or working with the creepy guy who sells garden gnomes who I know for a fact has been looking to hire someone for months but blatantly rejects me on his doorstep.

I let a breath out, opening the door to the shop and walking around the back where I was asked to go for my interview. I sighed, my nails slicing off the tags of skin from around my nails as I provided myself with a seat. The walls were clinically white as I peered around me for something to distract myself with.

A while later a man wearing a blue collared shirt peered around a previously shut door, "Daniel Howell?" he asked. I nodded, standing up and offering my hand out to him. He shook it, eyeing me up and down, and it was this moment I realised I wasn't getting the job. He smiled anyway, "Come on through."

The interview passed smoothly. What could a bookshop want for experience exactly? It was near the bottom of the food chain of jobs, before literal fast food which didn't exist in this up-tight neighborhood. So, this is what I had to start with, therefore I had to make it work. I flashed a fake grin at the end, shaking the manager's hand before letting myself out. I turned round once more, nodding a goodbye, thinking to myself, "Please let me have this..."

I slid around the door, adding to the many chips of paintwork along the frame as it shut behind me. I glanced up, my chest dropping as my eyes caught sight of another young man sitting in the chair where I was only ten minutes ago. He grinned, but I only sighed as a weight pulled me out of the building, "Selfish git." I thought about the man as I scuffed the tips of my shoes along the pavement, "He could get any job, especially with his dark hair and people-person aura." I held my chest slouched against my back, jogging up the stairs to my house. I stopped before opening the unlocked door, peering down the path to the park at the end of the road, deciding which route I should take. I groaned, heaving the door open as I decided I didn't want to deal with any judgemental stares.

My father groaned from beneath me. I stood still in my tracks, glaring behind the unusually heavy door as I found him lodged in front of the entrance. I sunk my top teeth into my bottom lip, scowling at the hands that had been over me, which were now grasping onto a bottle that had emptied over the floor.

He turned onto his back, enabling the door to widen enough for a teenager of my size to squeeze through. I did so, pressing my back into the wall as I cautiously watched his eyes hang over me. His lip upturned, showing his top teeth as his eyes sloppily pinched together, "Danny!" he laughed, his arms clawing up the wall and the bricks creaking under his weight. I wanted the stones to swallow me into the other room. He balanced himself on two feet, his lip pouting forwards, "Mmm. Do me a favour will you, boy?" he slurred, tipping the empty bottle upwards to catch the last drips of wine against his tongue. My knees were buckling beneath me, but my head nodded. He cackled, "You're a good boy. Now...tell, me..." his eyes were drooping again and I felt a sigh of relief quietly disperse out of my lungs.

"Please...please just oh God fall back to sleep." I pleaded into the emptiness.

"Good, boy...you are...get me some toast..." his weight was heaving himself back against the floor.

"Okay, Steven." I agreed, passing by him as I kicked a smashed bottle out of my way on my route up the stairs. The fucker can get his own toast, if he wakes up before it grows mould. I hoped he wouldn't. Honestly, I hoped he wouldn't get up ever again, but he always did as he tore me down day by day.

I kicked my shoes off by the end of my bed and lowered myself to the floor, peeling off my tattered, nicest shirt and discarding it to the floor besides me. I groaned, holding my pillow to my chest to cover my Marking from my reflection. I decided to lie down on my side like this, burrowing my nose into the corner of the stuffed lump.

I knew I'd stay like this for an hour or so, then get bored and wander the streets causing disturbance to the neighbours. Their lives almost weigh equally to cats': they lounge around all day and can do whatever they like without being scrutinized for it or putting much effort in at all. They don't care because they don't need to, and that's how they live their lives from birth.

I groaned, sitting upright as I slipped a loose tee on. If I wore my chest bare, I'd learnt I could provoke my dad into anger or arousal, so it was best to cover up. I was making my way outside when I heard a bird's cooing from the ceiling. I furrowed my eyebrows, looking upwards as I noticed a door above me, presuming it led to an attic. I was surprised I'd never realised it was there before now, but then again I didn't have much reason to. I wonder if my dad knew it existed, or at the very least have memory of it. I wouldn't be the one to remind him we have one if he's forgotten about it's existence, as he'd find some repulsive use for it, whether it be a room to lock me in when he panics I'm making plans to move out, or he invents some sort of sexual den to tie me up in. At least, those were only things my imagination could go as far as stirring up, fuck knows what he would envision its use as.

I stood on my tiptoes and pulled the wedge down, opening up a ladder of questionable safety. I coughed as the dirt spread across my lungs, slowly stepping up the wooden piece anyway.

I peered around the small space, noticing a few cardboard boxes, which looked as though they'd been sodden through by water damage, as well as something like a flat box under a sheet. I pressed my facial features together, vibrating my lips with a short hum before bringing it down the step ladder with me. I placed it carefully on the floor as I closed the latch back up, making note I didn't find the origin of the pigeon coo.

I moved the item to my bedroom, uncovering the dusty sheet to find a rather fine-looking keyboard. I unravelled the electric cord from around itself and plugged it into my wall's socket. I released a blow of air over the instrument, picking it up to inspect the base. I chuckled, noticing a large folder beneath it, so I slid it out and read the name written on it, 'Nancy'. I sucked my cheeks in through my teeth as my hands burnt with anger, but I sighed, letting it blow past me as my mother's mistake was history.

I opened the plastic file, inspecting sheets of paper and a few books held within itself. I propped them beside me, turning on the piano as I warily plonked my finger against a white key, hearing a satisfying 'ping'. I chuckled, running my fingers over a few more until I decided to encrypt the books.

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