Friday afternoon, the final school bell rang and teenagers spilled out of the building. There was so much happy chatter and joyous giggles on the school grounds. Sunshine radiating from hundreds of ecstatic faces as they thought of all the fun they'd have over their two months of freedom. Yet, in the middle of the crowd there was a dark cloud by the name of Marlo. He wore an expression of absolute misery behind his huge round spectacles. His fists tightened in unspoken frustration around his ragged backpack straps. He hung his head and began his trek homeward without any fanfare.

He trudged through the streets forcing each leg forward with much difficulty; it felt like he was dragging cinder blocks behind him, but all he dragged was his untied heavy boots against the pavement. He sunk into his oversized hoodie, wishing it would swallow him whole. His eyes remained glazed over and downcast for the entirety of his walk, they only flicked up once when he approached his house. The sight made his guts tense and twist. His mother’s car was parked out front.

He made sure each act was deliberate, he unlocked the door at a gruelling pace. Each click made his skin crawl and his body physically recoil. He knew exactly how to put pressure on the door's hinges so they would not squeak as he opened it. Inwards and up until he felt the door shift ever so slightly. He slipped his feet out of his boots and tip-toed into the house. It was like entering through a wall of cigarette smoke— the smog made him feel ill, but he knew better than to ever comment or even let his facial expression falter.

He had slipped into the kitchen when his stomach emitted a low growl. Like a frightened deer he stood still, his breath caught in his throat as he listened to hear if anyone would stir. No one did. The only sound was the blood rapidly coursing through his ears and the turning of a book’s page the room over. He shuffled to the fridge, using his fingers to slip under the door and open the seal without the popping sound. There wasn't much. Condiments and a nearly finished jug of milk that made his stomach sour just looking at it.

His mind skipped back a couple of years, having half a glass of milk with some cookies on a Friday night. He had finished what little was left in the jug. At one a.m the transgression was noticed and the screaming began. His mother threw him out of the house for the ‘heinous’ crime and only allowed him back in an hour later, still peppering his sobbing thirteen year old self with insults. Most of the words from that night had been lost to time. All but one:

Bitch.

She loved that word. Miserable, worthless, useless, selfish, horrible— they all ended with ‘bitch’. One of his earliest memories was her calling him one of a useless variety at the age of five. He swore he remembered it being screeched at him more times than he remembered her ever uttering the phrase ‘I love you’.

He closed the fridge just as delicately as he had opened it and decided to just go hungry until she went to bed. He’d just have to persist off the leftover salted crackers he had for lunch for the time being. He slunk into his room and slid the door shut. He twisted the handle so the latch would not make a sound as it passed the door frame.

He took off his hoodie that acted as a protective shell. His bare arms, much like a picture, spoke a thousand words. Drawn lines he painted himself, but he had no part in colouring them in. Vibrant greens, reds, and purples splattered across the pasty white canvas. An ever changing and growing painting that echoed the same things she would yell at him: he was the biggest mistake of her life— He ruined her life. She would not let him forget that. If he forgot the words, the bruises would surely remind him.

Sometimes Marlo found himself dreaming of her death. Maybe one day all the smoking would rot away her lungs and replace them with cancerous masses so he could stand over her withering, skeletal frame and listen to the heart monitor flatline. Or maybe she’s just up and vanish, abandon him like his father had. Frankly, he’d take whatever to be freed from her. He’d even accept his own demise in all honesty.

But no, his dreams never came to fruition upon her nor himself. He was stuck there. Stuck another three years, at least. Stuck being beaten with solid wood statuettes since hands didn’t phase him anymore. Stuck being burrated and insulted for things as minor as having half a glass of milk when it had never been an issue prior. Stuck on eggshells knowing an undesirable sound or even being seen at the wrong time might put him in danger. Stuck in his cramped room afraid to even move anything lest it makes a noise. Stuck in this shitty, lonely, pointless life without the reprieve of school for the next two months.

He hated it. Hated his life. His mother. Himself. He just wanted this ball of dread and vitriol that festered under his ribs in place of his heart to go away, to bleed out of him so he could get even a brief moment of inner peace.

He settled on his bed and reached into his nightstand’s drawer. His fingers paused as they brushed over the cold blade he stole from art class. An amused smile appeared on his lips as he thought, “Funny how an unfeeling, fridged, sharp razor blade against my skin is more warm and comforting than a mother’s love.”