An evening carefully sneaks up the nose of the boy as he wakes from his sandwich-induced nap. The aroma of cabbage stew mixes with the evening. He checks his phone: twelve unread messages, Rebecca, the gist being school and Friday party time.

He swipes away the messages and heads to the living room. Kyknet is on the television. The volume is set uncomfortably high.

“How was your nap?” his mother asks as she pats the seat next to her. Her smile gives off warmth and love.

“…” He sits on the other couch, head firmly focused on Binnelanders, soap drama, vomit inducing. His phone vibrates, twice. He reads the message.

Dad: I’m in town. Hotel food is okay. Mom still angry?

Boy: No.

Dad: Okay.

Next time on Binnelanders plays in the back of his mind. His father’s casual message screams at him through the images of food and sleep. His father is an asshole.

Monday was wasted. Tuesday will not be. He showers with care. He lathers soap. He rinses soap. He gives two minutes to his hair, applies gel. His curly hair tamed for Tuesday. School clothes: blazer, shirt, pants and shoes, cover his body. He leaves without lunch, without eating. Rebecca waits again with no clothes on. Her hair straightened, GHD.

Her school skirt is short, too short. Her skin not made up, but still quite pretty.

“Morning, big boy,” a hooker’s greeting.

“…” the boy gives her two smiles, one for the greeting and one for her scent.

“Maths second period, Biology last. Today is a good day.” The boy walks ahead of her, she follows. It was going to be a good day.

“Today you’ll learn the importance of…” Mr irrelevant melts into theme park lava.

His explanation of some algebraic something drips into the sink of the classroom, drip…drip. The boy sits alone. Two books open, Maths and a blank workbook. He scrolls through Twitter; every swipe matches the dripping tap. Drip…Drip. He composes a tweet, a subtle tweet:

If I hear one more word out his mouth… #suicide @becca407

The boy locks his phone and stares at his desk. Various scribbles of previous occupants interest him. He feels each etch in the wood and imagines them carving each letter, each “… Was here”. People did crazy things before Twitter. His phone vibrates, twice.

Rebecca: I’d die if you died 🙁

Boy: don’t worry. I’ll only kill myself when my data is up. Then you won’t know if I did it or not.

Rebecca: That’s sad.

Boy: I know.

*****

A suburban home greets the moon as it rises higher in the sky. The filthy gutters and unkempt lawn slink away from its shine shamefully. The boy heads up the driveway. A day of boredom and repetition flanks his approach. “Welcome” the mat reads on the doorstep. A cynical smile creeps onto his face.

Boy: Have you noticed how my welcome mat is anything, but welcoming?

Rebecca: I wouldn’t know, never been to your house.

Boy: Oh. Never mind.

He opens the door and catches the misplaced aroma of lavender and vanilla, scented candles. Barry White fills his auditory organs. This is a pervasion of his evening routine. He looks at his phone: 17:12 Tuesday. He is an hour early.

No food is on the stove. No television blaring to his left. The boy continues into the house. He passes the toilet. He passes his room. The aromas of lavender and vanilla get stronger. His parents’ room is at the end of the hallway. It is slightly ajar. The boy hears the shuffling of sheets and the faint moaning of a woman. He fears the worst.

He continues walking. He sees two bodies entwined, sweaty and tense. One he recognises, his mother. The other he does not. His disgust starts in his stomach then calmly rests in his head, not boiling, and not surprised. The other body gets up and he sees his mother staring up at him. He turns around and briskly retreats to his room. He locks the door.

Boy: My mother is a slut.

Rebecca: What?

Boy: She’s a slut. That’s all.

Rebecca: Want to talk about it?

Boy: No.

He hears heavy footsteps in the hallway, the front door opening and closing. He hears footsteps again, this time stopping at his door. Two knocks and a whisper follow: “Please open up, son.” His mother pleads like this for five minutes. The boy boots his computer and stares at the flashing Windows logo. His phone vibrates twice.

Rebecca: My mom too.

Boy: Really? Did you catch her fucking some stranger?

Rebecca: No. But she dresses like one.

Boy: My mom’s the real deal.

Rebecca: You caught her? When?

Boy: Just now.

Rebecca: Want to come over for a bit? Talk?

Boy: Park?

Rebecca: My house.

Boy: Okay, five minutes.

***

Tell us what you think: Why do you think the boy will do? Do you trust Rebecca?