The radiator in the boys' bathroom clanked like an old heart trying to find its rhythm. Steam curled from the broken pipe and fogged the frosted window, turning the pale tiles into something that might have once been white. Julian pressed his back against the cold metal of the stall door, knees pulled close to his chest, and tried to make himself smaller than he was. Ten years old and half the world felt too big for him.
He had one of those cheap, cardboard lollipop sticks between his teeth, the kind the corner shop sold for pennies. It was a habit he'd picked up to stop his hands from shaking. When he was small the stick had tasted like sugar; tonight it tasted like whatever Billy had called him in class and the sour metal of old worry.
"Poor stain," Billy had sneered in front of everyone during assembly, and the word had landed on Julian like a pebble thrown into stagnant water. His cheeks had burned and his throat had tightened and then, because he could not make the world quieter, he had slipped off to the bathroom and let the quiet break him in private.
Tears came slow at first, the way rain starts as a dot and then, somehow, finds its own downpour flowing continously . Julian didn't try to wipe them away. They made the skin near his eyes puff and left small, salty trails down his face. He let the tears fall because if he didn't he thought they might flood the entire room and drown all the small, terrible things that lived in his head.
When he was five his mother had been a magic of her own: she read to him with her voice full of silver, braided his hair with the tenderness of someone who believed things could be mended. She used to say the world had hidden corners you could only find if you looked close enough. Then the coughing started. The hospital rooms smelled like bleach and old coffee. One day she was there, and the next she wasn't, and the world shrank to a small, trembling house where his father learned to drink away his grief.
Julian had watched his father grow thin with the easy cruelty of someone losing himself. Jobs came and went. Money evaporated into bets that sounded like thunder when the wrong numbers came up. Sometimes his dad would shout and shove tables and then sit on the floor and whisper apologies until the curtains were wet. Other times he would point at Julian, whispering the names of all the things that were wrong: lazy, useless, worthless. Words like stones.
All of this came back to him now, each memory small and sharp as broken glass. Billy's voice drifted in through the gaps in the stall door, a small, cruel echo. Julian squeezed his knees until he felt them ache. He did not want to be noticed. Attention always made things worse.
But at school, there was no hiding. His shoes were scuffed, his shirt too big because it had once belonged to someone else, and his lunches were either missing or pitiful enough to invite mockery. Teachers noticed, of course. They noticed the bruises too, sometimes, when he rolled up his sleeves. But their glances never lasted long. They had too many children to worry about and not enough time to spare on one boy who "needed discipline at home."
So Julian carried it all in silence. The empty cupboards. The smell of stale beer clinging to his father's clothes. The sound of bottles breaking in the kitchen. The neighbors who looked away when shouting filled the night. He had learned quickly that the world was full of people who preferred not to see.
The bathroom stall was the only place he could cry without fear of being told off for it. At home, tears earned him harsh words or worse. At school, they brought laughter. Here, in the quiet between the radiator's rattles, he was allowed to break down.
He pressed his face into his sleeves, swallowing sobs that tasted like dust and salt. The lollipop stick slipped from his mouth and clattered against the tiles, but he didn't move to pick it up. His hands were trembling too badly.
Julian knew he was supposed to be strong. His father's voice was always there in the back of his head, sharp and unyielding: Stop crying. Stop being weak. Stop being a burden. But he was only ten, and no matter how tightly he curled into himself, he could not make the ache in his chest go away.
And as the school bell rang in the distance, muffled through the bathroom walls, Julian made himself a quiet promise—one born not of hope, but of exhaustion. He would survive, even if it meant enduring each day in silence. Because what other choice did he have?
Julian stayed in the bathroom until long after the bell rang, wiping his face with rough paper towels that scratched his skin raw. He didn't dare linger too long, though. If teachers caught him, they'd send notes home. Notes always ended up in his father's hands, and that never ended well.
The walk home was short but heavy, his legs dragging with every step. The streets smelled of rain and smoke, and the windows of other houses glowed warm against the dusk. Families sat down to dinner; laughter spilled faintly into the air. Julian kept his eyes low and his hands buried in his pockets. His house wasn't warm. His house wasn't home.
When he pushed open the front door, the stench hit him first—alcohol, sweat, and something burnt. The curtains were gone, ripped down weeks ago and sold for a few coins. The furniture had thinned one piece at a time. Now, the rooms echoed with emptiness. His father sat slumped at the table, bottle in one hand, eyes red and wild.
"You're late," his father slurred, voice like broken glass.
"I—school—" Julian tried, but the words tangled in his throat.
The bottle slammed against the wood, liquid spilling like blood across the table. His father staggered to his feet, face twisted. "Don't lie to me! You're always making me look bad. Worthless. Just like your mum said."
The blow came fast, a heavy hand across Julian's cheek that sent him sprawling. Pain bloomed hot, but he bit down on the cry that wanted to escape. Crying only made it worse.
Another strike followed, then another. His father's boot caught his ribs, once, twice, until the world blurred at the edges. Julian curled into himself, arms shielding his head, breath rattling in his chest.
"You're nothing but dead weight," his father spat. "No money. No home. No future. Just a waste of space."
Julian's vision swam. He could hear his father breathing hard above him, could smell the sharp stench of whiskey. Then rough hands grabbed at his shirt, dragging him across the floor. The door screeched open, cold night air flooding in.
His father's voice was flat now, almost calm. "If you're so useless, you can rot out here with the trash."
Julian hit the pavement hard, the door slamming shut behind him. For a long moment he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe. The chill seeped into his bones, and every bruise screamed when he tried to shift. The street was empty, shadows stretching long and merciless beneath the lamplight.
He lay there, trembling, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoed from a pub. Life went on, as if the world hadn't just discarded him like refuse.
Julian pulled himself against the wall of the building, hugging his knees to his chest despite the agony in his ribs. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He had nothing now—no mother, no home, no safety. Just the clothes on his back and the ache of survival.
And as the night deepened and the cold sank sharper into his skin, one truth carved itself into him like a scar: he was utterly, terrifyingly alone.