The scrape of my shoe.
The crackle of my backpack when I rummage inside it.
Even my breath sounds too loud.
I sit on the grass, pulling my knees closer to my chest.
I’m trying not to shake.
I meant to wait another day or two.
The plan had been September third.
One more birthday with mum, and then goodbye.
Sixteen.
Old enough to work.
Old enough to ditch my old man for good.
Two more days and it will be official.
But two more days is too long.
The tender split on my lip?
The bruised ribs hidden by my clothes?
I know it will only get worse now that I’m old enough to fight back.
Not just a belt buckle or a jug cord these days.
Glass bottles when I have my back turned.
That's his latest weapon of choice.
Fists too. Or cigarette burns while I’m asleep.
The nurse at the clinic knows mum and I well.
But the cop at the station has been mates with Dad since they were knee high.
So nothing ever comes of it.
And most people just turn a blind eye.
Intimidation is my dad's specialty.
He threatens anyone who threatens him.
Everyone knows to steer well clear of him.
Especially when he smells like a brewery.
Which is most of the time.
Even more than usual since grandad died eight weeks ago.
