Firehouse Child

1

Astrid

Whoever came up with the idea of happy endings is a liar. The whole idea is absurd: pretty girls finding their true love and living in a fairy world with flying dinosaurs serving them caviar. When Cinderella finds the prince, all she wanted was night out and then bam! She was married to the guy. Ok, maybe that's not exactly how it goes, but do you see my point? Does God or whoever know how many people die without living the life they had imagined and hoped for? How many people suffer?

I just don't see the point of influencing happiness on kids at such a young age; they'll grow up to believe that's how the world works, but then all that happens will just be disappointing. There are some people who believe that their lives will turn in the better direction. If you can't tell already, I am not one of Those People. Don't get me wrong - I hope for a happy ending, I think we all do to be honest. But it's just easier to live when your expectations are as low as you can take them.

And yet, here I sit reading The Little Mermaid to my siblings. They have no idea what the world is like yet, and won't do for quite a while. Looking around the room, at the smiling faces surrounding me, I almost have hope for their happy endings. Little Winnie - she'll be a painter I bet, always going around putting pen on our foreheads. Benji will probably be an architect. Ellie will run her own law firm maybe somewhere in New York. Hannah will have kids and raise them on a farm down south. Leslie might be a fashion designer or something like that. And then there's me, clueless as ever. But as I say, I'm not one of Those People.

All I know is that this is not where I want to be when I'm old and rusty. The room I'm sitting in stinks. Like properly reeks of cigarettes and beer and old food. I mean I try my best to clean but there's always a banana peel hidden somewhere under the sofa cushions. Mum doesn't bother pitching in and the kids are too young to help. With six of us in the house, there were a surprising amount of toys: there were none. Mum had sold them when she needed more money for cigarettes.

On a completely different note, I have a bad feeling about this day. I don't know what that feeling is but I just have a feeling. Daughter's intuition maybe. I really hope I'm wrong though. If something bad happened, who would look after the kids? Or who would look after anything for that matter? Right now mum is vomiting out the alcohol in her system onto Hannah's bed. I'll have to change that sheet later. She walked out and into the bathroom. I glanced at the clock: 9:34 pm. Way past the kids' bedtime.

"Ok squiglets! Time for bed, say night night to mummy," I said, leading them through to the bathroom.

They chorused goodnights and brushed their teeth. They counted two minutes with their feet tapping in the floor. Mum walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen where she continued to puke in the sink. I'll have to clean that up later. Once they finished getting ready for bed, I led them into our room. As small as it may be, our room managed to fit everyone, through triple bunk beds and a rota for the beds and floor.

"Night night, Ati," said Benji as I tucked him into a duvet-sausage, "see you tomorrow Ati."

"Night night, Benji. Sleep well, bud."

I kissed him on his forehead and switched the light off. When I saw the living room, it was a junkyard - everything was everywhere. This was going to be a long evening. I got to work tidying and cleaning when mum came in drunk.

"Why are you doin' that?" she slurred.

"Somebody's got to," I sighed.