The Sky So Heavy

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There are two things I know right now: one is that a guy is holding a gun to my head, the other is that I don’t want to die. I guess I could try to look at it from the positive side: I’ve made it seventeen years without anyone trying to kill me. But it’s hard to maintain a sunny outlook when there’s a guy threatening to shoot you.

He yells at me in a foreign language and the only word I recognise is my brother’s name. I don’t know where Max is. I feel utterly responsible for him. I am utterly responsible for him. When I think about that I automatically think of my mum and it’s not helpful to think of your mum in a situation like this. It makes you want to cry.

I’m not the kind of person people normally want to shoot in the head. I didn’t used to be. But a lot of things are different now; the need for food makes people do crazy things. I don’t mean crazy like my step-mum used to get when she’d only eaten one rice cracker all day and couldn’t remember our names or where she parked the car. No, not that sort of crazy. It’s a raw, blind sort of crazy that’d make you throw your step-mum off the car park roof if you thought it would mean an extra bowl of rice in your belly.

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