Mael moved through the trash mountains with uneven steps, stopping often, not to rest, but because he forgot where he was going.
Smoke drifted between the heaps in slow, lazy strands. Somewhere metal collapsed with a hollow echo, while two men stood atop a trash pile, watching a fight below like it was nothing.
Gah would usually complain that this area had no clear paths, unlike the more populated parts, and that his feet hurt.
Their "home" was exactly where it had always been—wedged between two sloping walls of compacted garbage, patched with tarp, bent sheet metal, and rope that had been knotted too many times.
A dented cooking pot sat upside down near the entrance, catching ash instead of rain.
Someone was already there.
A large shape shifted inside the shelter. A man crawled out, straightening with a grunt. His shoulders were wide, his posture crooked, one arm hanging slightly lower than the other. Old bruises layered over new ones across his hairy forearms.
His mouth twisted as soon as he saw Mael.
"Where's the other one?"
Mael stopped a few steps away. He said nothing.
The man squinted, leaning forward, breath sour, spits flying "I asked you something." He took another step closer. "Where's your brother shithead?"
Mael's jaw was clenched. His head down.
The man clicked his tongue. "Useless little—" He shoved Mael in the chest, not hard enough to knock him down, just enough to test him. "Answer me! And where's the food!"
Mael staggered back half a step, caught himself.
Another shove came faster.
"Don't look at me like that you little shit." The man's voice rose, words tripping over each other. "You think you're smart now? You think you can just—"
The first hit landed across Mael's cheek. Then another to the ribs. The man didn't pause between blows. He never did. Spit flew as he shouted, face red, veins standing out along his neck.
"You lose him? You sell him?""Say something you useless piece of shit!"
Mael took the hits. His shoulders curled inward. His head dipped. His feet stayed planted.
Then the man grabbed him by the neck and shook him.
Mael's arm moved.
A wide swing, fist cracking into the man's jaw with surprising force for such a starved body.
The man reeled back, groaning. He took one step, then another, and fell sideways into the garbage heap behind him.
Silence dropped abruptly.
Mael stood there, breathing hard, eyes wide, as if he hadn't expected his arm to do that.
The man groaned, trying to push himself up.
"Y-you fuck-"
Mael moved.
He climbed onto him, knees sinking into soft refuse, fists coming down again and again. There was no rhythm, no shouting. Just the sound of impact, breath leaving a body, something cracking under pressure.
The man braced, arms crossed over his face. The blows still forced him down into the trash.
Mael didn't stop until his own arms began to shake.
Eventually, he stood.
His chest rose and fell too fast. His hands were painted red. More than one knuckle split open, hands could barely open.
His father's face blended into the red-stained trash behind him.
Mael took a step back.
Then another.
He stood there, surrounded by trash, smoke curling overhead, the shelter behind him unchanged.
He did not know what he was feeling.