I wake up to the familiar stench of alcohol and damp walls.
The air in this house is thick, heavy, suffocating. It's a smell I have grown used to, but never one I could accept. I stretch out on the thin mattress that barely qualifies as a bed, feeling the rough fabric scrape against my skin. The ceiling above me is cracked, just like everything else in this house.
Just like my life.
But it wasn't always like this.
I remember a time when the air smelled of spices, of warm food cooking on the stove. I remember the laughter that used to echo in these walls, the way my mother's voice would hum softly as she stirred the pot, her delicate fingers covered in flour. I remember my younger brother, little and bright-eyed, jumping around the house, cheering for me.
It was the day I won the Mathematics Olympiad.
I was only nine,
but I felt like a champion, holding that golden medal in my small hands. My mother had tears in her eyes, but they were the kind that made her smile wider. My brother, barely six, couldn't stop talking about how his older brother was the smartest in the world.
And my father…
My father was there too.
He had his arm around me, pride shining in his eyes. That was before he lost himself to the bottle, before he drowned in whatever demons haunted him.
The past feels like a dream now, something too distant to be real. Because the reality is, my house is nothing but a hollow shell. The kitchen is quiet, the stove long cold.
My mother is gone.
My brother… I don't even know where he is anymore.
And my father… well, he's not a father at all.
He's a drunk, a man who barely remembers my name, let alone the days he once called me his son.
He sits in the corner most nights, mumbling nonsense, lost in a haze of alcohol and regret. Sometimes he yells. Sometimes he cries. And sometimes, he doesn't make a sound at all, just stares blankly ahead as if waiting for something that will never come.
I try not to think about it too much. Thinking about it only makes me angry.
Instead, I think about school. About how I force myself to fit in with the wrong crowd just to keep from standing out.
The boys I hang out with—they're the kind who laugh too loud, who shove kids against lockers just for fun, who act like the world owes them something. I don't like them. Not even a little. But I laugh when they do. I play along.
Because it's easier to be part of the pack than to be the lone wolf.
It's not like I have much of a choice. I don't have the luxury of being the kid who sits quietly in the corner, buried in his books. People like that get eaten alive in my school. And I've been through too much to let myself be a victim.
So I pretend.
I pretend I don't care. I pretend I'm just like them. I pretend that I'm not disgusted when they trip the younger kids in the hallways or make fun of the ones who can't afford clean clothes. I pretend that I'm not ashamed of myself every time I laugh at their cruel jokes.
Because if I don't, then I'll be the one they turn on.
And I can't afford that. Not with everything else I have to deal with.
I walk to school every day because there's no money for a cart pass. The town isn't much better than my house. The streets are lined with shops that sell cheap things to people with empty pockets, the buildings are dull and tired, and the air smells of dust and something stale. The only good thing about this place is that it's close to the village.
The village.
For some reason, just thinking about it makes my chest feel tight. I push the thought away before I can figure out why.
Right now, I need to focus. I have another day of pretending ahead of me. Another day of forcing a smile, of blending in, of making sure no one sees the cracks beneath the surface.
Because no one can ever know just how broken I really am.