𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚂𝚃.

Time flies, they tell him. Time heals all wounds. Carver feels as though an eternity has passed, and his are still wide open. Is he doing something wrong? They never bake cakes for his birthdays. Most years, they barely acknowledge the day at all. So Carver sits alone on his bed, holding his mother's lighter and a cigarette he stole from her. They won't notice it's gone. They never notice anything. Besides, the whole house reeks of smoke. The lighter becomes a candle. The cigarette becomes the candle stuck inside a chocolate cake covered in colorful sprinkles, just like the one he always admires in the bakery a few buildings down from the brothel. This year, he doesn't enjoy pretending. Some birthdays are easier than others. No one has ever explained much of anything to him. Everything he knows, he's learned despite his parents, never because of them. Sometimes he wonders if they keep him in the dark on purpose, or if they simply know so little about the world that they have nothing to teach. The second possibility doesn't seem impossible. Their marriage barely functions. Whenever they fail to understand something, they destroy it. Maybe that's why Carver wakes up with new bruises so often. Just another misunderstanding. His parents never talk to him unless they need something. He's decoration. A houseplant. Something that needs the occasional drop of water so it doesn't die, not because they'd mourn it, but because dead plants make a house look neglected. They never wanted to send him to school. But teaching him themselves would have meant spending time with him, and that was an even worse alternative. School teaches him plenty. Mostly that children avoid the ones who never smile. He doesn't mind. He's used to being alone. No one there beats him until he can't stand. That counts for something. After school, he walks home as slowly as possible. He stretches minutes into hours, wishing they would somehow become days. Maybe if he takes long enough, his parents will be gone before he reaches the front door. Maybe they'll disappear. Maybe they'll die. It never happens. Not after hundreds of wishes whispered to every star in the sky. The stars are too far away. Too distant to hear him. “Where do you go after school?” His father's voice is sharp, his expression severe. It doesn't frighten Carver anymore. There was a time when his father's hand had been bigger than his face, when every raised voice sent him trembling. Now he's more afraid of mirrors. Every year, his reflection looks a little more like the man standing in front of him. Some days, peeling his own skin away sounds like the only way to stop the resemblance. “Like you care,” he mutters, staring at the floor. A fist tangles itself in his hair and jerks his head upward. The punch lands before he can brace for it. Carver looks into his father's eyes. Into the face of the man he hates. And with every passing moment, he hates himself a little more for sharing it. “Look at me when you answer.” So he does. He stares until his eyes burn. No tears come. “I said... like you care.” This time, he speaks clearly. The second punch hurts more than the first. It isn't necessary. None of them ever are. For a moment, he considers running away. But he has nowhere to go. No money. No plan. He refuses to become another burden drifting through the world. Instead, he's sent to his room like he's still ten years old. Later, when the house falls quiet, he slips into the bathroom. He hates the mirror. He hates how faithfully it reflects his father's features in his own face. He hates his eyes for seeing too much. He hates the world for letting him exist. He hates being invisible until they need someone to blame. He hates being too young to matter. When he turns sixteen, he'll leave. He doesn't care where. Under a bridge. Behind the brothel. Anywhere but here.