The house is dark when he enters, a deep seeded regret hugging at his stomach as he passes through the threshold hold
At first there is silence, a heavy, heated silence that reeks of beer and cigarettes. The only light on in the house is the living room lamp, a kind shade of honey yellow— the color lies to him…a dark, unapproachable black creeps in and bleeds everywhere by the spot light.
Someone who shouldn’t be, is awake.
As he passes through the kitchen; stains from the spilled tea and glass shards still linger in their grout, lying in wait for someone’s unsuspecting bare feet. He can hear the crunch of his boots as they pass, grounding the shards deeper and deeper into the body of the house. 
He holds his breath, slowly walking into the living room, terrified no matter who is awake…either away it breeds trouble. The tv is all static, just a low hum and black and grey floaters in the background of his watery mind, growing in the regret of coming home at all.
There’s homework on the table, abandoned colored pencils and a calculator thrown to ground and forgotten about in a hurry. There’s a backpack, dumped out and thrown across the room…a drawing of sunflowers torn to shreds around him; padding this cage they call
To his left, on the only couch not covered in stains, is his little brother, curled up in a small ball. His breath has evened out and normally electric, scared brown eyes are hidden behind black and blue patches the size of an adults fist. On the coffee table, amongst the mess of schoolwork and rage, sits a glass of half drunk water and two biscuits, untouched, on mum’s favorite chipped china.
The one with the blue bells.
He takes a soft step forward and kneels down to Simon’s height. One of mums good throw pillows, one a grandmother whom they never have and never will meet, cushions poor Simon’s head. His blonde curls are pushed back, as if someone pet him to sleep.
He looks peaceful, far and away in a dream hopefully more sunny than the living room lamp.
His arm looks weird; some fingers bent in the wrong direction, his limp wrist is red and swollen, used as pillow, and cradled by his other hand for protection.
There are tear tracks staining freckled cheeks and a cut around his mouth.
Tommy looks behind him, his parent’s door is open, hollow like an open mouth bearing its fangs, but no one is home. The bed is unmade but untouched. Looking around, his mums sandals and his father sneakers are gone from the mat by the door. If he looked close enough, which he will later, is the envelope stuffed with cash.
Tommy’s heavy, exhausted sigh stirs the youngest Riley, only one eye is capable of opening probably and even then it’s a small enough crack that Tommy can see the red in his eyes.
“Hey kiddo,” Tommy sighs, settling on the floor properly sit beside him. “alright?”
The seven year old nods sleepily, curling into himself more, eyes fluttering with sleep.
“Stay awake for me, kid.”
But Simon’s heavy eyes betray him, thick, wet-heavy lashes settle delicious bruised cheeks.
Tommy stands, moving towards the kitchen and grabs the envelope incased in his mother’s loopy handwriting.
For you and Si, see you soon.’
After briefly riffling through it, there’s 500 pounds for them to…use? Give to Roba? Spend? Tommy frustratedly throws the cash on the dining room table with a sickening thump and runs shaking hands through his buzz cut.
“Right.” Tommy grabs his phone, pressing the only speed dial number there would be. It rings for not even a full chime when the man behind the phone chuckles.
“And what can I do for you, hmm?”
“I…I need help. And you know I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t an absolute necessity—“
The line disconnects before he has a chance to thank him again.
The silence is heavy, thick with anxiety and Tommy’s eyes wonder back into the living room, at the mess left for him to clean up— to pick up the pieces of a broken family he didn’t want to be putting back together. A family he tried to prevent Simon from coming into.
A house, whose lineage is sullied by the Riley name and drowning in debt and the stale hoop of Tesco brand beer.
A place Tommy left to leave behind.
To forget , even if it meant abandoning Si—
The kitchen is cleaned; mold-crusted dishes and take away containers thrown away, the fridge completely cleared and soaked in bleach, even the glass removed from the grout.
As he sorts Simon’s actual homework and drawings no therapist should ever see, the door opens and heavy, purposefully loud boots make the old tiles wince with their weight.
“Thomas.” The gruff voice calls out and Tommy jumps to his feet, meeting the voice between rooms.
“Apologize again and I’ll make you do laps around Piccadilly Circus.” The mutton chops grin, grey tinted whiskers shake as a laugh bubbles in his throat.
“So, where’s the tot?” Tommy nods and leads the captain back into living room. There’s another light on, his parents and Simon’s bedroom door shut and locked, and any evidence of blood has been scrubbed from the carpet below Simon.
“Hmm.” John Price steps forward, kneels beside the couch just as Tommy had done nearly an hour earlier. His soft, calloused hands move his little brother enough that he can see the turn to his wrist, the finger prints painted to pale skin.
They turn to look at each other and a pitiful, anguished expression is not what Tommy finds when they meet; a deep, justice filled rage burns brighter than his father’s cigarettes. “Medics owe me a favor,” Price grunts as he stands, shaking out the crack in his knees. “Then you and I can talk about housing.”
“How much did they give you?”
“It will have to do,” Tommy hands Price the envelope and watches as the old fart licks his dirty thumb and flips through each bill. “Go on then, grab the little bugger.”
Tommy turns and leans down, grabbing his brother off the couch and into his arms, mindful of the arm and the bruising on his side. The seven year old collapses into him easily, tiny arms wrap around his neck as much as they can and Simon’s head rests in the crook of Tommy neck, just like it did he was a baby.
“Where…where Tom?” Simon croaks tiredly, settling into Tommy’s arms, gently tugging on the collar of his uniform shirt.
“You’re gonna stay with me for a while. For… for a long while, kid.”
Price pretends not to listen, pretends not to see the way Tommy’s arms tighten just a little bit more as they walk down the crooked stairs, the way Tommy presses a kiss to Simon’s hair when he’s placed in the back seat.
Price focuses on the road, soft music playing in the background as they drive.
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