December 12, 2010 § Leave a comment
He is on the bus and he’s going to his grandma’s house, like he does every Wednesday. The bus is stuck in traffic, as it always is, so he’s staring out of the back window to the foggy street and the line of cars stretching away, at the woman in the grey car behind who seems to be talking to herself, and the van driver in the other lane who keeps looking over at her.
The boy likes staring out of the window. He likes watching people when they don’t know he’s there. Sometimes he dreams of being invisible.
Often, at home, he dreams that – when his dad’s screaming at his mum that she’s a useless bitch and his mum’s telling his dad to sling his hook, go on, just leave them in peace. The boy watches from the top of the stairs, careful to be quiet so that they don’t notice him. Not that they would.
When he goes to his grandma’s she sits him down and makes him tell her all about his day, and how school is, and what football team he supports, and does he have a girlfriend yet, handsome young lad like him. He always blushes and reminds her that he’s only ten. He loves it really, though. Until his dad comes to collect him later, and they drive back home in near-silence, he has that hour where he’s the focus of someone’s attention. He’s the apple of his grandma’s eye.