Page 5 of Bozo

As we walk home, Connor chatters away about his favourite games and TV shows. I listen, nodding along, but my mind keeps drifting back to what waits for me at home. Will Dad be angry that I'm late? Will he even notice I was gone?

We turn onto our street, and I feel my steps slowing. Connor squeezes my hand. "It's okay," he says softly. "Remember, I'm right down the street if you need me."

I nod, grateful to have a friend. We stop in front of my house, a place that doesn’t feel like home to me. I can see the flickering blue light of the TV through the front window.

"This is me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Connor looks at the house, then back at me. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" he asks, frowning deeply.

I force a smile. "I'll be fine. See you tomorrow?"

He nods, still looking uncertain. "Tomorrow. I promise."

I watch as he walks away, waving once before disappearing around the corner. Taking a deep breath, I turn back to my house. The path to the front door feels longer than usual, each step heavy with dread.

As I reach for the doorknob, I hear a crash from inside, followed by my dad's angry voice. I flinch, my hand freezing in mid-air. For a moment, I consider running back to the park, or even to Connor's house. But where else can I go? Dad will be expecting me and if I’m late, there’ll be hell to pay.

I open the door and step inside. The house smells of stale beer and cigarettes. Dad is slumped in his armchair, empty bottles scattered around his feet.

"Where've you been?" he slurs, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he spots me.

I swallow hard. "Just at the park, Dad."

He grunts, turning back to the TV. "Make yourself useful and get me another beer."

As I hurry to the kitchen, I think about Connor and his promise. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow will be better. And for the first time in a long while, I actually believe it might be true.

I siton the swing and wait for Connor. My eye has a really bad bruise, and everyone keeps staring at me. I hate it. Dad was so angry last night when he ran out of beer. I didn’t hide in time. I couldn’t.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories of last night. The sound of shattering glass, Dad's angry shouts, the sharp sting of his hand across my face. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself.

"Gráinne?"

I look up to see Connor standing in front of me, his green eyes wide with horror. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near my bruised eye.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I look away, shame burning in my chest. "I fell," I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Connor is quiet for a moment. Then he sits on the swing next to me, his hand finding mine. "My dad hits me sometimes too," he says softly.

I whip my head around to look at him, wincing at the sudden movement. "He does?"

Connor nods, his eyes fixed on the ground. "That's why I said he's an asshole. Remember?"

I nod slowly, feeling a strange mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that I'm not alone, that someone understands. But sadness that Connor has to go through this too.

"Does your mam know?" I ask.

Connor shakes his head. "She works a lot. I don't think she notices."

We sit in silence for a while, gently swinging back and forth. The playground is mostly empty today; just a few younger kids with their parents on the far side.

"I’ve thought about running away," Connor says softly.

I look at him, my heart racing. "Running away? Where would you go?"

He shrugs. "Anywhere. I don’t want to be a freak anymore."

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