Chapter Text
I wake up to banging. Of course I do. It's a fucking Monday. Fuck my life. The meager details of my room rush back to me in waves of post - slumber clarity. I groan softly, rubbing the crusty sleep from my eyes, sitting up and tugging a shirt on.
One hand reaches out to the side, fumbling on the surface of my nightstand to grab my comb. It's a flimsy thing, cheapest I could find, and my thick yellow - gold waves almost brake the damn thing. Somehow, I manage to tame the locks into something slightly less frizzy and much more presentable.
I have quite literally one foot out my door when I'm accosted by noise.
"ROGAH!?" a singsongy voice calls.
"ROGAH, HAIR TIME! HAIR TIME!"
Beatrice collides with my legs in a warm bundle of soft pajamas, the strings of her night bonnet tickling my arm. I scoop her up and rest her against my hip before walking toward the kitchen.
Dad went to the pub last night, I just know it. It’s only the two of us here, and it’s better that way.
I pick up her favorite purple comb and part her hair in two. I apply some water and leave in first, then finish off the puffs with a flourish. It’s simple, but it’s all I have time for.
We meet in the kitchen for breakfast and then I plop her into her car seat and start the engine. As soon as I safely drop her off at school, I release a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
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The lecture hall is a dingy, sad affair. I honestly don’t even want to be here right now. I groan inwardly when I realize that I’m late and there’s only one seat left, in the back, next to a small olive skinned boy with dark textured hair and a ridiculous vest.
I sit down next to him and put my sunglasses on discreetly. Gotta be able to see the board. From this distance especially, there's no way I would be able to decipher anything on the chalkboard without them. I pull out my notebook and open to a new page, the first blank one I find. Beside me, the stranger boy is sketching something quietly, the quiet *skritch skritch skritch* of his pencil buzzing in the back of my head.
Pencils, papers... *shit*
I forgot mine at home. Was in such a rush that I payed it no mind. I guess I have no choice but to interact with the stranger boy, in hopes of procuring a writing instruments. I can't pass this class if I don't take any notes. So I suck it up and lean over gently.
"Hey, you got a pencil?"
He doesn't answer me, rather shifts through his sparkly black pouch and hands one to me wordlessly, although he's grinning cheekily for whatever reason.
I look down at the pencil of interest, only to chuckle sharply when I realize that not only is the pencil bright pink, but it has large teeth marks all over it.
"Stunning quality, mate." I joke. "Absolutely designer!" It's certainly not the best pencil I've ever used, but it'll do.
Beside me, he seems to relax a bit. Before I can try to continue the conversation, the lecture starts.
Halfway through, the instructor makes some funny comment and I look at the boy without even thinking, a smile on my face, and recoil for a second before I catch the matching one on his face. Maybe I'm not alone here after all.
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Once the lecture's over, the hall erupts into a cacophony of noise and light. I hate it. I scoop up my tiny notebook, pass a glance over it to make sure the notes are legible, then shove it into my back pocket and book it the hell out of there. I'm about three whole steps out the door when I notice him jogging to catch me. The boy. He turns to face me and offers me his hand trepedaciously
"Freddie" he introduces himself.
I shake his hand and notice that his nails are painted white. Chipped something awful, but painted nonetheless. Interesting.
"Fab Nails" I mutter. "I'm Roger."
The boy's - Freddie's- smile brightens a notch, finally reaching his eyes. "Thank you, darling"
He takes my wrist, pointing to my callouses.
"You play?"
I nod. "Drummer." I don't bother to add that the only thing my music has accomplished is pissing off the neighbors with my open air, late - night playing.
Before Freddie has a chance to respond, a beat up old car pulls up to a curb, and a woman honks sharply.
"One second, Kashi!" he calls, before turning back to me. "That's my sister" Freddie explains. "Catch you tomorrow?"
I nod, smiling again as the car pulls away into the distance.
On my way home, I stop by the convenience store to find something - anything - for us to eat tonight. Lord knows we don’t have enough real food around the house to properly nourish a rapidly growing toddler. Let alone me and Beatrice.
The ironic thing is that dad could probably find some type of job if he tried - at all.
But nope. He just can’t be arsed.
As I root through my car for a scrap of money I keep coming up empty. Fuck. I should have checked it this morning, should have made sure I left the house with some loose change.
So I take a deep breath, steel my nerves, and walk into the store.
C’mon Rog. I think to myself. Not like you haven’t done this before. Man up and deal with it.
That’s probably my dad’s voice in my head.
I’m just lucky the store’s cameras are too broken to record anything and that nobody notices the loaf of bread under my jacket and the xtra - jumbo thing of crisps in my backpack.
Sad thing is, I don't really have another choice. I can't get a job without a degree, can't get a degree for a few more months.
It's this or starve.
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My heart sinks when I pull into the drive and notice a dull green car parked there. Dad’s.
I open the door, expecting Beatrice to great me emphatically like she usually does.
Nothing. Silence.
“Bean?” I call once. No answer.
I scan through the house once, checking all of her favourite hiding spaces, her room, my room, everywhere.
No luck.
That’s when I notice a grunt coming from the armchair in the kitchen, the beat up tan one in front of the telly.
I walk around to the front of it, and my blood boils when I catch sight of dad’s rumpled form.
He stinks of spirits, and his clothes are the same ones he’s been in for days. His beard is around two months overgrown, his belly swollen with drink and bad decisions.
I jostle him roughly.
“Get. Up.”
He doesn’t respond, still snoring intently, I look at his hands and notice an empty bottle of vodka dangling precariously from his fingers.
Of course he’s been drinking all day. I try the jostling approach one more time, and when that doesn’t work, I stomp over to the window, pull the ratty curtains open, letting the light filter through, hoping it’ll wake him up.
“HEY. Get.The.Fuck.Up. NOW.”
his hands come up weakly in a halfhearted attempt to to slap me.
“Getoffme” he slurs. Of course he’s wasted at 4:30 pm.
He’s barely conscious. And I still need to find my sister. He was supposed to pick her up today.
Last resort time.
I leave him there, fetch a bowl from the kitchen, turn the faucet as cold as it’ll go, the fill the bowl to the fucking brim.
Back in the sitting room, I upend the entire thing onto his face, jumping back quickly in a practiced motion.
He’s awake now. Fucking finally. I can confront him.
“Hey. You were supposed to go pick up Bea from her school. You remember that? it lost in the booze fog? jeezus.”
He stares at my blankly, eyes vacant, blinking slowly.
I don’t hesitate. I turn away from dad before I get even angrier, jump into my car, and start the ignition as quick as possible.
shit, I was so stupid for trying to trust him.
stupid for try to get out of picking her up.
for wanting time to myself.
outside my car window, the London blurs by in an incomprehensible colorful smear. I park as fast as I can and immediately find the front desk.
The woman who greets me there has a kind smile and a warm brown face. Her name tag reads Leila. I give her Bea's full name (even though I really only ever call her Bean), and she indicates for me to follow her. We reach the classroom, and Bean immediately jumps into my arms with an enthusiastic "ROGAH!" my shoulders instantly relax a little.
"Hey Bean." I mumble, stroking her puffs of hair gently. One of the teachers at her school, Lina, is standing in front of us holding her backpack out. I untangle myself and take the bag in one band, Bean's in the other. We walk out to my car together, and the drive at home is very quiet. Halfway through, I notice her tiny stomach growling and I rip off a price of the bread for her and she accepts it with vigor, munching happily for a few minutes. I turn on the radio and let it play softly. Music of any times always helps Bean calm down. When we get home, Dad's in a violent mood. I can hear the crashing from inside the car, it's so loud. As soon as I realize what's going on, I go to the back of the car and whisper to Bean.
"Stay here, okay? I'll put on the radio for you and be back in ten, yeah?"
I go into the house, wait a few minutes for dad to tire himself out, my ear pressed to the door, and then when I'm sure he's going to be out cold for a while, I use all my strength to drag him into his room and onto his bed.
I go back into the car, and scoop Bean up to take her back into the house. She seems upset, but I shush her gently and try to convey that she has to be quiet right now.
I bring us into my room, plug in my earbuds, and give Bean the other one, letting beautiful music drown out the world.