The Boy Witch

Chapter 2

As Miles walked home, he was taking his sweet time. He was in no rush to head home. He was not a big fan of school, where he did not fit in and was often bullied, but at least, somehow, it was better than home.

Along the way, Miles crossed a park where some teens he recognized from school were hanging out. He tried to make himself inconspicuous, lowering his head and hastening his pace, but they noticed him regardless. They yelled something at him, something he could not make out, before laughing among themselves and returning to their conversation. Maybe they commented on his effeminateness, on his short stature, on his plain thrift store clothes, or any other thing about him they found objectionable. Of all these things, Miles did not need to be reminded.

His long walk took him to the outskirts of town to the humble house he called home. Standing by the unkempt front lawn, on the street, he took a deep breath. Miles used to dread coming home, filled with fear and anxiety, but it was not quite as bad now. Over the years, he had established strategies to deal with his mother, and, besides, she was grown to be relatively inoffensive. Especially since she had developed her crippling drinking problem. She spent most of her time passed out somewhere. But then when she was enraged, she was out of control. Miles prayed he would not find her in the latter state.

Miles walked up to the door, and twisted its knob slowly, waiting to hear the sounds the homewould offer. There was nothing. He released his breath he had been holding. Miles took quiet steps into the house. It was messy as always and he had to avoid the clutter lying around as he walked. His cat Mortimer, a fluffy ball of grey fur, trotted up to him and meowed a decisively pleased meow. The boy could not help but smile. “Shhh, Mortimer,” he whispered, holding up his finger to his lips. He knew the cat’s meow irritated his mother. But he could not resist petting the furry creature. The cat purred comfortably under his owner’s touch.

Miles stepped over his fluffy friend, raising his leg with an exaggerated motion. He tiptoed to the living room, navigating the trails of clothes and assorted garbage that littered the floor, almost knocking over an empty bottle of liquor. He winced, but, thankfully, it stayed upright.

He found his mother, sprawled on the tattered couch, snoring loudly. Even from where he stood, Miles could smell the aroma of booze on her breath.

Mallory used to be a beautiful, authoritative woman. But in the past years, she had deteriorated to a shadow of her former self. She no longer took care of herself, gained a lot of weight, and was only concerned about alcohol. What had not changed was how abusive she was. She could still spit venom with her words, and smack Miles around. But she was much less dangerous. She had not killed him in a long time.

Miles quietly made his way to the small kitchen, separated from the living room by a wall with a wide opening. Ever so carefully, he grabbed a clean pot, the only one he could find, filled it with water and set it to boil. He was so used to making pasta, one of the few foods they could afford with the money left over after his mother bought alcohol, he could make it in his sleep.

When the water boiled, he added the dry pasta slowly, making as little noise as possible. While it cooked, he grabbed a jar of pasta sauce from the pantry. Minutes later, Miles drained the pasta and added the sauce in, the smell of tomatoes filling the air, mixing in with that of booze.

When the dish was ready, Miles served two plates of it. He tiptoed over to his snoring mother with a plate in hand and set on the side table next to her. Hopefully it would appease her when she inevitably woke up cranky and hung over. The other plate, he took to his room, with Mortimer in tow.

His bedroom was the only clean room in the house. Miles always made his bed in the morning, put away his clothes and vacuumed the carpet. In the corner, Mortimer had his own little bed on which he liked to curl up.