Last night was terrible.

If he had a time machine, he'd go back and change things. Make things right and be a bit nicer to Marco. Everything went too far. He should find him and go and make it up to him. Take him out for lunch. Apologise...

...But right now, he has other things to worry about, like this throbbing headache...

... And the alarm blaring in his right ear, playing some obnoxious party song that he set as a joke.

It doesn't sound so fun right now.

Rolling over on his pillow, he smells something metallic longer under his nostril. Springing up, he sees a vermillion stain highlighted by the sun contrasting against the yellow pillowcase.

Rubbing his tobacco stained fingers against his face, he sighs in relief as he realises that the blood's dried in.

The vibration of his phone's still annoying him so he swipes the screen across. It's still only half past ten... no wait... eleven.

Pulling the curtains across, he can hear the commotion outside of the apartment block. Peering out the window, he watches as some idiot who's lost their kid wanders around aimlessly hoping to find 'Paco' before it's too late. Before some random car hits him. Or a bike.

Taking off last night's shirt, he opens up the window as wide as he can and lights a cigarette. He's wearing nothing but his boxers, and he doesn't give a crap who's watching. Pressing himself up against the window, he inhales the smoke and feels a sense of completion.

Looking down from the seventh floor, everything seems further away than it really is, especially being tipsy. Maybe it isn't the best idea but he doesn't care. The fresh air makes him feel less nauseous. Poking his head out of the window, he lets out a laugh as he remembers that he has work.

His hazy mind forgets what time it begins at. But he'll figure it out once he pulls his schedule from the raggedy backpack—filing cabinet—which his uncle Amir promised to replace. Twice. After he's finished immersing himself in his morning nicotine hit.

The lull of the rap music playing above sends him into a rhythmic euphoria, serenading his numbed senses into a false sense of security:

Breathe in, breathe out, everything'll be alright. Once the high dies down, I'll be fine.

Nodding head along to the beat, he doesn't notice the door creaking open behind him. In walks his younger sister, Zara. She chuckles in his ear as he turns around, startled and annoyed:

"Did you have to ruin the moment like that?"

She smiles, sitting down on his bed. "Sorry. I came to ask you if you'd come and walk me to class. I want the company."

He turns around to stub out the butt on his hole-covered windowsill. "Where's Chloe and Marta?"

"Chloe had to go the doctors and Marta's not feeling well. My first class starts at half twelve, please?"

"I will. If you help me pick out my outfit and figure out what time I have work at."

"Deal." She adds with a smile. "Being in the Institut's tiring."

"Yeah, I can imagine" he sighs, sitting down beside her. She looks at him funny, "What?"

"What happened to you?"

"I'm trying to figure that out myself. I don't remember much about last night. Except sort of falling out with Marco."

"Again?"

He nods slowly. "We haven't done that for a while. He got too drunk and interrupted my conversation with my new friend."

"You made a friend?"

"His name's David. He has nice eyes and that's all I remember."

She laughs. "Of course you'd remember his eyes."

"Well, they do say that the eyes are the window to the soul. Maybe his soul's nice. I'll have to talk to him more to find out."

"Yes you will. Did you get his number?"

"Not that I remember. Oh yeah, he also goes to school and has a cool accent."

"Nice. Maybe you'll bump into him again?"

"Whatever happens, happens." He points to his bag. "Can you get my schedule?"

"Sure." She walks over to the it and digs her perfectly manicured hands into the dusty innards and pulls out several crinkled sheets. "Which one is it?"

"The one that says 'Carreras' on it?"

She grabs it and hands it to him. "Will I put the rest of the sheets back?"

"Yeah. They're probably there for a reason." Adam reads it: two o'clock— nine p.m. evening shift. "I have to be there for half one. We can walk together, I can grab some lunch and make it on time."

"Sounds good." She opens his closet door; a small, wooden rectangle, kitted out with Ikea shelving. "What do you feel like wearing today?"

"What would you wear to an arthouse coffee place?" His brain's finally beginning to clear up. "My boss's a hipster."

She pulls out a fresh white t-shirt, a short sleeved plaid shirt and some nice jeans that he managed to afford last month. "Wear these with a pair of boots. You won't go wrong."

"Thanks. I'm gonna get ready here. I'll see you downstairs okay?"

"Okay, sure."

Twenty minutes later, he's freshened up and dressed to perfection. Walking downstairs, he hears the coffee machine boil up as he makes his way into the kitchen.

"You look good." Zara says, watching him grab a chipped cup from the drying rack. "Doesn't he, Mama?"

No answer. Mama Irene's ironing some bedsheets and taking no heed to her surroundings. Hyper focused and zoning in on her job, she wants to make the bedsheets look pristine, as if they were just unpacked.

"Mama?" Zara tries again. Adam slips past them both and makes himself an Americano just the way he likes it; dark, like his soul and sits down beside Zara at the table to drink it. Irene doesn't even flinch. "Well, I tried."

He sighs. "You'll probably never get an answer out of her when she's in cleaning mode, but thanks for the compliment."

"No problem. I do think that red's your colour. It contrasts against your hair. It's very...you."

"Yeah. I'm glad I have a sister who's studying fashion and aesthetics. If I didn't, I'd be walking out of the house looking like I got dressed in the dark."

She laughs. "It's a good job I stay at home and Uncle Amir only paid for the tuition and not the accommodation too."

"Well, we don't live that for away."

"True."

He takes a big slug of the bitter drink, relishing every drop that slips down his throat, awakening his body, soul and mind once again. Mentally sharpened, he sets the cup down and checks his phone. He feels it shake like a malfunctioning sex toy.

Georgia wants to know if he's heard anything from Marco.

Shaking his head, he puts it back in his pocket. Walking over to the fridge, his stomach begins to growl. He can't find anything worth eating. Slamming the fridge door shut, he turns to Zara and asks: "Where's Dad?"

"Away to Friday Prayers."

"Did he take the car?"

"Yes."

"Is he still sleeping in it?"

"Maybe, I haven't seen him since his last argument with her." She gets up from the chair. "Why?"

"I'm gonna pay him a visit."
---
It's been half an hour and the hot, spring sun's been beating down on them both. Tired and sweaty, they've finally reached the entrance to the mosque. Rubbing his forehead, he tells Zara:

"Stay here, okay. You don't have your hijab. I'll only be a moment, okay?"

She nods back and sits down on the step, watching as Adam walks inside. Barging his way through the hall, he makes his way over to Mahmoud, who's immersed in his prayers.

Adam taps him on the shoulder. Mahmoud doesn't seem impressed:

"What do you want, Boy?" he hisses through gritted teeth. "Can't you see I'm praying?"

"Sorry, I thought you'd finished—"

"—Clearly not. Hurry up and tell me what you need. And also, learn some respect and dress properly." He scoffs, sniffing the faint remnants of last night that remain on his Son's body. "You're doing no one any favours. Have you even washed yourself before you came in here?"

He shakes his head. "Sorry, I forgot. We really need the money—"

"—Is that why you've come begging to me? For money? You're a disgrace—"

"—Zara and I are starving—"

"—You should be ashamed of yourself—"

"—So should you. Not even giving your daughter any money. Forget about me. Do it for her, at least."

Sighing, Mahmoud gets up off his prayer rug and walks over to his bag. "Where is your sister?"

"She's sitting outside. Waiting on me to come out. I told her to wait... I'll be gone as soon as you help us."

He slaps a ten euro note into his hands. "Don't come back here until you learn respect."

"Thank you." He nods as he walks out of the building and smiles at Zara. "I got you something."

"Me?" She seems surprised as they approach the restaurant across the road.

"Yes, you. I want you to have the money." He hands it to her. "You need it more than me."

"You haven't eaten yet."

"But you need it too. You deserve it more. Please, you need the nutrients. You're still growing, right?"

"I don't like seeing you hungry, Adam. It breaks my heart." She whispers. "You need a sandwich. Something."

"I told him the money was for you." Adam sighs, sitting down on the sidewalk. "You're the golden child—"

"—Fine." She accepts the money. "I'll see what I can get us, okay?"

Ten minutes later, she comes out with two sandwiches, wrapped up in grease proof paper. She hands Adam one. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. Take it, please."

"Thank you." He adds, walking ahead of her. "You didn't have to."

They walk and walk, working up an appetite. It feels like an age but they finally make it. She throws the wrapper in the bin and smiles as they their way towards the entrance.

The posh setting is a galaxy away from the apartment complex back home. Parting ways, the siblings give each other a hug; Zara here down the left wing and Adam the right.

Off to the common room she goes. Watching her disappear, he lets out a sigh of relief, thinking to himself:

At least she's safe.