at the expense of

Winter was Mark’s least favourite season. He loved the snow, when it fell and coated everything a pure, clean white, and Christmas, or the idea of it anyway. One thing overrode all of that; he hated that, even before 6pm, it would get dark and even chillier. On those nights, when it was often as cold inside the house as outside, Mark would open his window wide, wrapping himself in his grubby blankets and lean out. A game he liked to play was the one where he’d empty his little lungs into the cool air, seeing how large he could make the condensation cloud.

Perhaps his favourite past time, though, was gazing far beyond the offensively orange lights of the council estate where he lived with his Mum to the faint stars above. He liked to imagine what it would be like in space, one time nearly falling out of the open panel in the process.

Mark would always wait for his Mum to come back before he properly went to bed. Sometimes he stayed in the window pane for hours, watching for a shadow to come staggering along the alleyway opposite his room. Mark had a routine all worked out: grab the window, softly close that and the curtains, then jump into bed and pretend to be asleep.

Not that his Mum would ever come check on him. People often mistook her for his older sister, and at her fragile 23 years of age she may as well have been.

He knew her routine. Scratch the cheap wood around the keyhole a bit more, curse loudly until she managed to insert the key, slam open the door, fumble for the light switch (at this point either an errant glass bottle would escape her oversized jacket and rattle to the floor, or she’d take its place), bang the door shut, and brood in the living room (he knew that, he’d peeked in on her in the early hours of one morning once. His birthday, perhaps. Yes. His birthday. He’d gone for water, and found white powder dusting the table top. He was sorely disappointed there was no cake the next morning.)  

One night in December, Mark was feeling particularly defiant. Instead of completing his routine, he continued sitting at his window, thinking his Mum might look up and see him as she zigzagged to the door. No such luck.

Through tear-soaked eyes (a surprise to Mark, he hadn’t cried in weeks), he fixed his eyes to the sky, letting the salty drops slide off his thin cheeks and softly erase the snow below. There was the Plough, Orion’s belt and… he sniffed, and blinked twice. A shooting star? Mark snapped his eyes shut, his mind on one thing. Now, most children would’ve wished for a new toy, some fancy item of clothing or perhaps the latest gadget. Not Mark. His thoughts were firmly settled.

Oh star above, I wish my Mother had a happier life

Not wanting to ruin the magic (because shooting stars were magic), Mark kept his eyes closed and window open, feeling his way in the darkness back to bed, where yawned and fell into a dreamless sleep.

*

The next morning, Mark was awoken to the sound of birdsong and sunlight in his eyes. Usually, it was youths swearing and a dull, searing grey. Odd...He rubbed his eyes, opening them to a mutely decorated bedroom, much unlike the one he had fallen asleep in. What was going on? Not wanting to wake his Mum (she would get into a terrible fit if Mark did that), he sunk his feet into the thick, cream carpet and softly padded out of the safety of his (or at least what used to be his) room.

From down the spiral stair case (that was new, just how long had he been asleep?!) came the sound of a woman cooing over what Mark assumed was a dog.

“Mum?” He said, heading across the wooden-floored hallway towards the sounds.

“Who’s a good boy! That’s right, Mark, here comes the aeroplane!” To his horror, 6 year old Mark was confronted with the sight of a chubby, squealing baby in a high chair being fed by a slightly taller, healthier, happier version of a woman who looked just like his Mother. There was a handsome man sitting at the table (like one he’d seen on those oak furniture commercials), reading a paper and stirring his coffee.

“Mum?! What’s going on?” Mark’s voice was laced with a swirling, rising panic. The woman half turned her head towards where Mark was standing, and the man raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, but neither acknowledged him properly. 

Fear wrapped its bony shackles round his throat as he thudded across the tiled, fitted kitchen to the lady and her baby.

Instead of being able to grip her arm, his hand slid straight through her.