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Stories like ours tend to start with clichés.
Liam Carter and I were no exception.
We grew up as next–door neighbors. From the time we were toddlers in diapers, we had been inseparable.
We played in the mud, pretended to be grown–ups, walked to school together, and shared the same path home. We were the textbook definition of childhood sweethearts.
But Liam’s life was nothing like mine.
His mom wasn’t in the picture, and his dad was a drunk and a gambler.
From as far back as I can remember, Liam’s small frame was always covered in bruises
and scars.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. His dad brought home a revolving door of women, each one louder than the last. Whenever that happened, Liam would be handed a crumpled dollar bill for dinner and shoved out the door.
Then the shouting would start, echoing down the hallway of the old apartment block for everyone to hear.
Liam would stand outside, his tiny fists clenched, enduring the stares of passersby-
some filled with pity, others with mockery.
My mom couldn’t stand it.
Whenever Liam was sent out like that, she’d pull him into our home, cook up abt of stew, and let the smell of spices and meat drown out the noise from his apartment.
She’d make up a bed for him on our couch, urging him to get a good night’s sleep.
But Liam rarely ate much.
But Liam rarely ate much.
And he never slept.
In the middle of the night, I’d hear him climbing out the window to sit on the roof.
The first time I followed him up there, the wind was blowing hard, puffing up his thin shirt
like a balloon.
I brought a flashlight and grabbed his sleeve. His shirt was damp, and I thought he’d been
crying about what had happened earlier.
So, I stayed up there with him, pointing out stars, making silly faces, and crawling like a
dog to make him laugh.
Years later, I realized the dampness on his sleeve that night wasn’t tears–it was blood.
No one used the roof much, and the moss made it slippery. Every time I lost my footing
and nearly fell, Liam would let out a faint smile.
That smile was so rare, I spent years acting like a fool just to see it.
When we were ten, Liam’s life took a turn for the worse.
One afternoon, his dad left for good.
He ran off with an older woman who worked at the barbershop next door.
I still remember the scene vividly–Liam clutching his dad’s leg, refusing to let go, his face
set with stubborn determination.
But his dad just kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling on the ground, gasping for air.
Without a second glance, he rushed out the door, the woman tugging on his arm.
He didn’t just leave Liam behind–he took everything of value in the apartment with him.
Liam was left alone.
22:15 Fri, Jan 10 GU.
Liam was left alone.
The apartment was cold, dark, and eerily quiet.
My mom tried to bring him over for meals, but Liam was too proud. He refused to accept
help.
Instead, he scavenged for rice and oil, climbed onto a stool to reach the stove, and cooked meal after meal of half–raw, half–burnt food.
Kids can be cruel, far crueler than adults.
At school, Liam became a punching bag.
Every day, he came home with torn textbooks and fresh bruises.
I was furious. I dragged him to the teacher’s office, demanding justice.
But the teacher just waved it off with a dismissive laugh.
“Why would they pick on him and no one else?” she asked, smiling as if it were a joke.
Then she took my hand and whispered, “You shouldn’t spend so much time with him. He’s not from a normal family. He’ll drag you down.”
It was the first time I’d ever felt hatred toward someone who was supposed to be a role
model.
By the time I stormed out of the office, Liam was already gone. I shook off the teacher’s
hand and ran after him.
I came up with a plan.
I asked my younger brother, who was a grade below us, to walk home with Liam and me every day.
That way, there’d be strength in numbers, and no one would dare mess with Liam.
At first, Liam refused. But my brother, quick on his feet, lied and said I was too scared to
22:15 Fri, Jan 10 G.
At first, Liam refused. But my brother, quick on his feet, lied and said I was too scared to
walk home alone.
Reluctantly, Liam agreed.
Those were some of the happiest days of Liam’s life.
He even started sharing food with me–his signature dish: overcooked, crispy potatoes.
But life has a way of ruining good things.
One evening, as Liam and I were walking home, we saw all his belongings thrown into the yard in a messy pile.
Even the model airplane he’d spent months building for a competition–his ticket to earning some prize money–was smashed to pieces.
Liam ran inside, only to be thrown back out by a group of men with hardened faces.
Then they beat him.
That’s when I learned the truth.
Liam’s dad hadn’t just run off with a woman–he’d stolen money from a local nightclub
owner.
And now, these men were here to collect the debt.
