Free Fight by Sarah Masters

finished the lot then dug into the bag again, bringing out a deli bag of salami. After eating it all, he rested his head back and stared at his old home through half-lidded eyes. His old man would be at work, if his past habits were anything to go by. Getting out of the truck, Carl locked up and strode across the road. He walked up the driveway and onto the porch, his guts clenching and his heart ticking way too fast for his liking. It seemed as though he'd been transported back to his younger days, when coming home meant fear and admonishment. And the belt.
    Breathing deeply, he took a set of keys out of his pocket, surprised to find his father hadn't changed the locks in all this time. He obviously hadn't taken Carl's threat seriously. Anger at Kevin's lack of belief burned in Carl's gut, and he stepped inside. Stale air smacked into him, the same aroma he'd smelled as a kid, the same dusty, moldy stench he'd vowed would never seep into his own home. He bit back a retch and closed the door. As he stood in the hallway, he felt like an intruder, yet at the same time it was like he belonged. The walls held memories, which bled out now, taking him back to places he didn't want to go. His eyes stung, and he angrily swiped away the tears.
    No. He's not going to affect me like this. Fucking jerk.
    He prowled the house, noting everything remained the same. The kitchen still bore evidence of neglect, of a man who didn't know how to clean. Teabags, dried and yellowed, sat in a pile on the countertop. Sugar grains from an obvious spill hadn't been wiped up. Dirty dishes stood piled in the sink, and the tap dripped, just like it always had, a steady plop-plip-plop, although those droplets seemed fatter now.
    A damn washer change, that's all it'd take. Jesus.
    Carl shook his head and turned from the squalor, making his way through the living room. Newspapers in a haphazard pile looked on the verge of slewing off the coffee table, down onto a floor in sore need of vacuuming. Dirt, food particles, and dust bunnies covered the beige carpet. The sofa sagged in the middle, the old spring that used to jab Carl's ass a little more exposed now. A thick layer of dust covered the wooden sideboard, a circle of less-thick dust showing something had been recently moved. A cup, maybe.
    Nothing's changed. Not a goddamn thing.
    Upstairs, he pushed open his bedroom door, steeling himself for what he'd see.
    Jesus Christ!
    His bed remained exactly as he'd left it, the quilt bunched into a ball, the sheet and pillow bearing the shape of his body and head. A musky scent lingered, one of filth and corruption, of a kid growing up with no mother to clean the house or stroke a fevered brow. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked several times, determined to remain focused. His mind had other ideas. Where was his mother now? Did she ever think of the little boy she'd abandoned to a life of depravity and unhappiness? Had she moved on to a new relationship, with kids she'd baked cookies with and ensured were clean and well-fed? If she had, how did he feel about that? He didn't know, didn't want to entertain the thought of discovering half siblings that reveled in the care he'd missed out on. It wasn't their fault, but shit, they were lucky bastards.
    A phlegm-filled cough sounded, as though out in the back yard, and Carl moved to the window. He gazed down on the sandy, grotty area, at the old beige hammock he used to swing on with his eyes closed, the summer breeze tickling his tear-stained face. At Kevin, who now swung on that seat, hand-rolled cigarette in hand, smoke oozing out of his mouth.
    What the fuck is he doing out there in this weather?
    Though the sun shone, it was hardly warm enough to be outside, especially not in jogging bottoms and his customary stained vest. Carl studied his father. Not everything had remained the same, then. The old man had aged, his stubble tinted with grey, his hair peppered with it at the temples. He looked haggard