I spent some time styling my hair and trying to get the best look, even if I was a nine-year-old. I settled for having the hair slick over to the left. After a while, there was a slight knock at the door.

"Is that you in there Travis?" a fickle voice spoke through the door.

"Yeah, it's me," I said, "I'm done in here anyway, you can come in."

June opened the door and stepped into the bathroom, she carried a towel in one hand, her normally straight blond hair was all messed and tattered from sleeping and some of her makeup from the day before was visible with tear lines staining her face slightly.

"Look at you!" she said after seeing me.

A wide smile appeared on her face and she walked over, bending down to look at me and started playing with my hair.

"Don't you look all fancy," she remarked, still smiling and messing around my hair.

"Hey, I just did that!" I said.

"Oh, sorry, let me fix that back up for you," she said, pus.h.i.+ng my hair around back into the way I had styled it.

"Are you okay?" she asked rubbing her hand on my cheek across the small graze that my mother had left when she slapped me.

I turned around to look in the mirror. My face was still a bit red, but the graze was small. It would heal over in a few days. I turned back around to June who had stood back up and started to get her toothbrush ready.

"I'm fine, it's just a scratch," I said. "Thank you by the way, for cutting my hair."

"That's fine, I'm glad you like it!" She said, "It makes you look all grown up and handsome"

There was a quick moment in my mind where I had developed a small crush on this woman. That, however, was swiftly washed away by the fact that she was my biological aunt, and that I was nine years old. As well as her saying what she said, was more than likely a confidence booster and not an actual compliment about being attractive. In fact, after many hours staring at my new face, even for a 9-year-old kid, he was pretty average. He wasn't tall nor athletic and his face had some oddly sharp features. If I were to judge the face staring back at me, I'd pick it for the bullied kid, but then again, I wouldn't be too wrong about that a.s.sumption.

"You know," June started, "You've been acting pretty grown up over these past few days."

"I've been trying," I said.

"Well, apart from punching those other children at school," she said with a stern look on her face.

"They kicked my lunch box," I said.

She started to brush her teeth, talking in between the times she would spit out the toothpaste.

"You didn't have to punch them for that," she said.

"It wasn't just that, they've been bullying me for ages," I said. A lie or the truth, I was only guessing, "The teachers don't do anything about it, and besides, they tried to punch me first, I was only acting in self-defense!"

"You beat up three other kids in self-defense?" she questioned.

"Yeah, well I was really good at self-defending," I said.

June spat out her toothpaste laughing at that statement. Some of it hit the mirror but the rest she managed to get into the sink. She took a moment to wash the rest of the toothpaste out of her mouth while still laughing and then whipped the mirror clean. I was quite proud of that reaction. I hadn't really had a chance in this kid's body to let my natural wit s.h.i.+ne through.

"Well, as long as that's all it was," she said, "You don't want to turn into the bully that those guys are."

"It's fine," I replied, "As long as they leave me alone that's all I care about."

"Well okay then, it's not wrong to stand up for yourself," she said, "Now I don't have long before I need to leave for work, so you need to vacate the bathroom."

The ritual continued the same as the day before, except I didn't put on my school uniform, I was suspended after all. I made myself some breakfast and watched the world news on low volume with subt.i.tles on. The international criminal court was officially established to prosecute people for crimes against humanity and two airplanes collided mid-air over Germany, killing all of those on board. My father woke up and walked into the room as the story about the airplane crash was playing.

"That's a little messed up for you to be watching isn't it?" he asked.

I turned the subt.i.tles off and handed the remote to him. It was clear that there was a remote hierarchy in this house.

"It's good to know what's going on in the world," I said, "Earlier there was a story about how the UN has fully established an International criminal court where people who commit genocide and war crime can be tired of their crimes."

"You're a little too young to be talking about genocide and war crimes do you think?" he asked, "When I was your age, I was playing with building blocks."

"There's nothing gained by being blind to what's going on in the world," I said, "Even if I am a kid. It's better to be informed than stupid."

He changed the channel and turned up the volume, watching the morning breakfast show again. I could tell from his body language that he was only half watching it though like he had something he wanted to say. I was right, and he eventually started speaking.

"You're talking a lot more now, and standing up for yourself," he said, "That's good, especially in this world, you've got to be big and strong."

"I guess I got tired of being scared," I said.

"Also that hair cut suits you, you don't look like a little girl anymore," he said with a smirk.

"Thanks, I guess," I responded to him, not really giving him the satisfaction of the underhanded comment.

"It's good to stand up for yourself, but if you need to punch those kids again, make sure you don't get caught," he said, "If you need me to teach you how to fight I can."

"I'm fine," I said.

I could tell he was trying to be a good father and give the advice to protect his kid, but he wasn't a good man. Even though it looked like he genuinely cared about his son, it was also the same man who grabbed a woman by her hair and threw her around, beating her over and over. The sounds from the night before echoed in my mind. After June had taken me into the bathroom to cut my hair there were several more loud slapping sounds and screams. I don't care if this guy does care about me. He's sc.u.m.

After a while without speaking and watching the television, he stood up and grabbed his bag. Before he left, he felt justified in saying, and had the audacity to say.

"Don't worry about your mother, she shouldn't bother you today."

I waited until he left the house and muttered under my breath.

"Sc.u.m piece of s.h.i.+t."

The hours pa.s.sed, it was nearly lunchtime and my mother still hadn't gotten out of bed. I'd managed to find a pen and some paper, and I started writing down everything I could remember about the future. It was currently 2002 so 9/11 had already happened which means the Afghanistan war was in its second year. In one year, in 2003 the coalition forces would invade Iraq. If I remember correctly, there should already be invasion plans being discussed now by the George Bush, Tony Blair, and John Howard trio. There is probably not any way that this war can be stopped. From memory, many international elements tried to stop this war and failed. 2004. In 2004 there was a Tsunami. I can't remember where though. It will happen on boxing day. I really can't remember where. I sat there for a while trying to search my memory banks for where it would happen, but nothing came up. 2005? 2006? 2007? Apple brings out the iPhone sometime around then. It might have been even later. 2008 or 2009.

2008! The Global financial crisis happened. Millions of people were out of work and shoveled in debt. It was what though? How did it happen? Think, think, think! Banking. It was irresponsible lending by the banks and other financial inst.i.tutes and those inst.i.tutes started going bankrupt!

As I wrote down these memories, all sorts of ideas popped into my head. There was so much information I would be able to use to benefit my self and maybe even help people. I would have to find a way to compile all my thoughts from the future and figure out the best way for me to use them.

Barak Obama gets elected as the first black president of the United States! I continued writing down everything I could remember. BITCOIN! I am definitely going to be putting some money into Bitcoin. When was that invented again? 2011 or 2012? I'm going to be rich!

My mind ran wild with daydreams of being rich, of being a hero and saving the world. There was limitless potential! Well, there was 17 years of potential. I had to remember as much knowledge about the last 17 years. I realized just how powerful foresight is.

The problem is my situation though. I live in a broken household which I can only a.s.sume is part of the lower-income bracket. Poor. I have one working parent in a world that's about to get hard to live in unless both parents have a job. My father is a domestic violence perpetrator who has probably never been reported to the police. My mother is an abusive alcoholic who beats me. My father is an abusive p.r.i.c.k who beats her. The only person I could really rely on was June, my aunt. She wasn't exactly the strongest of character, but she seems to have a soft spot for me. Maybe she's just as stuck in this situation as I am.

If I'm going to be doing anything, becoming rich and changing the world for the better, then I was going to need to fix my own situation. Maybe June could help me. Maybe I could help her. We could figure out a way to solve our problems together. But I'm only nine. I would have to figure out a way for her to take me seriously. I would need to figure out a way to get a lot of people to take me seriously.

I heard the door creak open to my parent's bedroom. I quickly scrunched up the paper and looked for a place to hide it. Searching to no avail I shoved the scrunched-up piece of paper into my underpants and threw the pen aside. Seconds later my mother came into the loungeroom and stared at me, sitting on the couch, silently for what seemed like minutes. Her face was nearly unrecognizable. Her straight, shoulder-length brown hair was in knots. Her face was bruised with different variations of black, red and blue. There were a few sc.r.a.pes and dried bloodstains on her left cheek.

"How are you?" she asked, "It doesn't hurt too much does it?" she asked. I shook my head and watched her leave the room to come back with a first aid kit. She opened it up and pulled out a tube of antiseptic cream. It was small and almost empty. She came over to me an knelt down. I had formed, reformed and reformed again many times my opinion of this woman. First, she was a drunk. Then, she was a pathetic excuse for a woman who wouldn't work and used her son as an excuse to be a waste of s.p.a.ce. Then she was a vicious monster who would harm her own flesh and blood, to the point where blood was drawn. Now, she was just sad. She was a sad pathetic woman who had no place in the universe. It was like she had been beaten into submission and was only a fraction of her more confident, vile and vicious self she was the night before. I pushed the tube of antiseptic away from me.

"I'm not using that, I don't need it!" I scowled. This woman was an idiot. Who was she trying to look good for by putting me before herself? Was she trying to make her self look like a good woman for me? Because a small gesture like this was not going to do that. Was she trying to lie to herself, telling herself that she was a good mother by looking out for me first? Pathetic.

"It will only hurt a little bit," she said.

"I don't care about that, don't be stupid," I said, "You need it more than I do. I'm fine, just fix your self up."

"It's fine, you're my son, I want to help you," she said.

I stood up and stepped away from her and turned back. She remained on her knees and turned to face me.

"You didn't want to help me when you hit me," I said, "And even if that is the case, go look in a mirror mum. Just, stop. Stop trying to be nice. It's not going to change what happened."

"I'm," she started with tears welling in her eyes, "I'm really sorry for what I did. I was drunk and-."

"Yeah!" I cut her off, "You were drunk, and you hit me. Now you're not drunk and you're trying to help me. Which one is the real you!?" I asked.

She started to cry but I didn't let her cry for too long before I interrupted her waterworks.

"Who are you crying for!?" I asked, "For me or for you?"

She stopped crying and tilted back off her knees, falling into a sitting position on the floor in front of the couch. She looked more exacerbated than upset.

"You've been speaking more over the past few days," she said, "You never used to speak this much. You never used to raise your voice."

"I was scared Mum!" I said. I walked back over to her and took the antiseptic cream out of her hands. I struggled to get some out of the tube and started applying it to her face. She didn't wince. Her glazed over eyes just stared off in the distance, out the window and pa.s.sed the hills on the other side of the river. A single tear traversed down her aged face, taking with it some of the bloodstains, serving only to cover her face with even more traces of blood. This was might be my chance to make a difference.

"It's not fair Mum," I said.

"I know," she feebly muttered back to me.

"Mum, he has taken away all of your power, your drive, and purpose for life. He beats that out of you and then you take that out on me!"

Another tear welled in her eyes and carried down her face. This time, her tears were sincere. I was saying something that was reaching her core. If I could dig deeper then this could work. All those years studying psychology in high school were coming to good use now.

"Why do you stay with him?" I asked.

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"Because I have you," she said, "I'd never be able to support you, and I'd never be able to leave you behind."

"So, you hit me?" I asked. Another tear rolled down her face.

"Your aunt and I have nowhere to go," she said. Her face dropped into her palms. I continued trying to squeeze as much antiseptic cream out of the tube as I could and applying it to her sc.r.a.pes.

"There are systems in place to protect you," I said, "There are government systems to help you, to help June and to help me."

She continued weeping into her hands as I spoke. I could only hope that the words were getting through to her.

"I'm sorry," she cried, "I'm really, really sorry Travis."

"Then let's leave!" I said, "Not today, maybe not even this week, but let's try!"

She raised her head and looked at me with her teary eyes. She was such a frail woman. She looked like a gla.s.s vase that would break if you dropped her from a small height.

"I love you, Travis, I love you so much," she said. She wrapped her arms around me tightly as I stood there, uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry," she cried, "I'm so sorry, I love you so much Travis I'm so sorry. I'm really, really sorry!"

She cried into me again for what felt minutes.

"Do you hate me?" she asked.

I didn't know how to respond. I didn't want to tell her no. She needed to know that her actions had consequences. I couldn't give her a free pa.s.s for her actions.

"Don't ask me that," I said. She pulled back and looked at me.

"Instead," I continued, "You should ask, what reasons would I have to like you," I said.

It still came across as incredibly harsh.

"Don't look to me for validation," I said, "I'm not going to give it to you. Don't ask me to like you with your words. Show me that I should like you with your actions."

"You hate me, don't you?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

She didn't seem shocked. I was almost as if she was expecting that answer. As if she was waiting for me to tell her that she had done something wrong. Like she was waiting to be punished.

"Then," she started, "How can I make you stop hating me?" she asked.

"We can start by tipping all of the alcohol in the house down the sink," I said.

"Will, that make you stop hating me?" she asked.

"It will be a start Mum," I said, "We're already at the bottom. Things can only go up from here."

I finished up applying the cream to her face. She thanked me, stood up and left the room. I heard gla.s.s bottles rattling and then my mother walked outside with a small gla.s.s of wine in her hands and a full bin of empty bottles. I followed her outside. She emptied the small bin into our larger recycling bin.

"What about that one?" I asked pointing to the gla.s.s of wine in her hands.

She looked down at it and then back at me, defensively and embarra.s.sed. I continued to stare at her.

"Well, this?" she asked, "It's one final taste before I commit to change."

"I thought you did that 20 minutes ago?" I asked.

She looked down into her gla.s.s of wine, contemplating. After a moment she looked back at me.

"Do you really think we can get away from your father?" she asked.

"I do," I said.

"Do you really hate your father?" she asked.

"Almost more than you do," I replied.

She looked back at her gla.s.s of wine and after many, long, second thoughts. She threw the gla.s.s into the bin with the rest of it.

"Almost," she said before shutting the bin and taking it out to the curb of the street.