After getting ready, he grabbed his worn bag and descended the wooden stairs that creaked under his feet.
The old destroyed house—many years ago, he and his mother, Dona Helena, had invaded this place, a large but abandoned house. Legend says the former owners watched the neighborhood deteriorate, and being well-off, they simply left the house and moved to a new place since they'd never be able to sell it. Others say the owners were killed and had no family to claim the inheritance. Regardless of all that, this was the place Dona Helena claimed for herself and raised Kim, and he was grateful for that, at least for that.
The acrid smell of smoke mixed with the sour odor of alcohol hit him like an invisible wall. The scene unfolding before him was the same as always: empty bottles and glasses scattered across the living room floor, some shattered, others still holding remnants of liquids that stained the already worn carpet. The furniture looked abandoned for weeks, covered by a thin layer of neglect. Poorly extinguished cigarettes overflowed from makeshift ashtrays, while thick, dark curtains blocked any attempt of sunlight penetrating the environment, creating an oppressive and melancholic atmosphere.
On the couch, Kim found Helena—his mother—sprawled in an uncomfortable position, with half her body sliding to the floor. The sight made him pause for a moment. Helena, who had once been a woman of striking presence and lively gaze, now displayed dull and completely disheveled hair, as if she hadn't cared about her own appearance for weeks. The wrinkled t-shirt and torn pants completed the picture of abandonment. Her face, marked by deep dark circles and traces of smudged makeup, told the silent story of a life that had lost its way.
Even asleep, the discomfort was visible in the tense lines of her expression. Kim felt the familiar mixture of sadness and frustration tighten his chest. He knew that, despite his young age, he was the one who carried the weight of keeping the house running and taking care of his mother. It was an agreement he was forced to accept. When he turned twelve, his mother pointed her finger in his face and said:
Helena: "Now kid, it's on you. If you want to survive, you'll have to manage like I did, and until you're 18, life will be like this. You support yourself and pay me what you owe, then everyone goes their own way. At 18, you won't need me for anything anymore, and I can finally get rid of you."
Kim didn't even really know what he owed or what he was accepting, but that was it—at 12 years old, he learned to survive.
Sighing deeply, he headed to the kitchen with determined steps. He needed to clean up that mess before leaving for school—another routine in his life of premature responsibilities. As he walked, his thoughts got lost in reflections about...
Kim: "Well, this time she almost made it to the couch... We're making progress."
Kim enters the kitchen already dressed in his school uniform, the backpack hanging carelessly on his shoulder. His sneakers tap against the floor as he tries to avoid the noise of his walking, an attempt at discretion. The coffee needs to be strong—not out of consideration, but because Helena without caffeine is even more unbearable than normal.
The old coffee maker hisses and bubbles while he examines the chaos around him. Dishes piled in the sink form an unstable tower of carelessness, dried food remains stuck to the edges like scars of domestic abandonment. The sour smell of dirty dishes mixes with the bitter aroma of coffee, creating the characteristic fragrance of that morning—and all the others.
Without ceremony, Kim grabs the first cup he finds, runs it quickly under the tap, and pours himself a generous dose of the dark liquid. The cigarette appears between his fingers with the naturalness of someone who's repeated this ritual hundreds of times. The first drag burns familiar as he settles into the cracked plastic chair, his eyes lost in the rising smoke.
Jack. Always Jack occupying his morning thoughts. He'd probably already be waiting at the door, punctual as always, contrasting with the chaos of Kim's house. At least there would be that—a moment of normalcy before the day crashed down on him.
After draining the coffee to the last bitter drop, Kim heads to the fridge. Two cold beer cans disappear inside his school backpack, nestled between books and notebooks like small metallic secrets. The irony doesn't escape him—school supplies and drinks sharing the same space, a perfect reflection of his life divided between responsibilities and escapes.
That's when Helena's first groans pierce the morning silence, followed by an avalanche of profanity reverberating through the thin walls. Kim pauses, his hand on the backpack strap, and a bitter smile touches his lips. Of course. Her hangover always came accompanied by explosive mood.
Time to deal with Helena and all the verbal artillery she'd certainly unload on him. At least this time, he was prepared for the approaching confrontation, so he decides to attack first:
Kim: "Look, I've got nothing against you using the house for your parties, but when your crew comes over, at least make them pay for what they drink and eat."
Helena: "Shut up, Kim. Don't start taking control of my life."
Kim: "I'm not taking control of your life. Since the investment in this shit is mine, the least I want is to be able to enjoy it."
Helena: "Listen here, kid, don't come at me with your moral lessons. I don't want to hear your shit. You don't have any money here, you're just paying me what you owe me. What I want is a DIX (something like Pix) in my account."
Kim: "Right, right, because you're my Master, I'm your slave, right?"
Helena: "Here's the thing, you little brat, stay in your lane you son of a bitch. I'm tired of your judgment, go fuck yourself."
Kim: "Well, since the level of conversation has risen so much, I think I better go because I have more important things to do than serve your royalty."
Helena: "That's right, you piece of shit, go your way and forget about me. Get going, my day already starts terrible just seeing your demon face in front of me."
Kim: "Well, enjoy your day in your court, Queen. Kim, exiting."
Kim walks to the door with heavy steps, his chest oppressed by a toxic mixture of anger and melancholy. Each movement carries the weight of years of accumulated disappointments, and a bitter certainty crystallizes in his mind: Helena would never change. The sound of his footsteps echoes through the messy environment, momentarily breaking the tense silence that settled after the argument.
Suddenly, a metallic noise cuts through the air. Helena, moved by an impulse of fury, grabs one of the empty cans scattered on the floor—remnants from the previous night—and hurls it in her son's direction with excessive force. The object flies through space in an erratic trajectory, but Kim, without even fully turning around, extends his arm in a fluid and precise movement, catching the can in mid-air like someone who knows this type of theatricality all too well. A bitter smile draws on his lips as he raises the can, examining it with a gaze loaded with sarcasm:
Kim: "Goodbye, your excellency, most dignified one. Enjoy the day training your throws more—this one didn't even come close!"
Helena: "Don't you dare come back, you piece of shit. I can barely wait for the day you never show up in this shithole again!"
Kim: (thinking) I really wonder how she'd support herself if I wasn't here.
Helena: (bringing her hand to her head) "Oh, and don't forget to pay the fucking electric bill. If I'm left in the dark again, I swear I'll end you while you're sleeping."
Kim: (sarcastic) "Oh sure, because I love being in the dark and not being able to shower. I'll pay it, but not because of you."
Helena: (angrily) "Kim, don't test my patience. You don't want to see me angry, I guarantee it!"
Kim: (leaving through the door) "Wow, if this is your sweet version, I'm leaving now before you evolve. Bye."