The child sat outside the main door, his palms over his ears, trying to reduce the volume of the shouting going inside his house.His father had come home drunk, again! He couldn't understand what was being said inside. He had formed a routine now. Whenever he saw his father coming home late, unsteady on his feet, bloodshot eyes, smelly breath, he knew he was drunk and quickly got out of the way. He didn't want to face his father's drunken wrath.
The child could sense that the neighbours were watching him through their windows, silently, their ears straining hard to hear what was being said inside his house. He became accustomed to this scrutiny a long time ago.
The night was cold and he hadn't worn a sweater. He realized he had to go back inside, in the warmth of his house, he hoped that his father would get tired in a few minutes and fall asleep. He always did.
He knew what he would see when he went inside. He would find his father slumped on the couch still in his work clothes, fast asleep, his mother putting the food she had cooked for his father back into the refrigerator, tears streaming down her cheeks. He was all too familiar with this routine.
He would quickly go inside, lock the door behind him, with quiet steps he would proceed towards his bedroom, cover himself in the blanket and pretended to be asleep for his mother, because he knew she would come to check up on him and see whether he was sleeping or not.
What the child didn't know was that his mother always knew how he slipped out of the door while she and his father fought when he came home drunk. She always knew he was just pretending to be asleep, the child unaware of the fact that he kept his mouth open while sleeping. But she couldn't face him, she knew she would breakdown in front of him. She needed to be strong for him.
And the same story repeated itself, over and over again untill the child was old enough to leave his home.
