The Ant killer

I suppose I should start at the beginning, which would be this exact moment in time. I’m sat eating my cereal. Nothing special. Weetabix with warm milk. I’m not hungry though, I guess I’ll just swirl it around the bowl a bit. The smell’s making me feel a bit sick. I can never eat when I’m nervous. I meander to the bin and pour the grey mush into it. There’s last night’s Chinese lying pitifully at the bottom. I can hear my mum and Dave arguing upstairs but it doesn’t really bother me anymore, ‘cause my bus will be here in a minute then I can pretend to go to school. As I’m placing my bowl in the sink (It’s overflowing with dirty plates and stuff, no one ever does anything here) and notice an ant crawling along the window ledge. I stare at it for a bit, watching it’s little legs scrabble at the window frame, so I crush it. Dead. Gone. I wonder if it had a family, and if it ever felt anything. It doesn’t matter though, I think, inspecting its reddish brown remains that have been engrained into my finger print. I wipe my hand down my blue school jumper; it’s a God awful colour, and go to sit back at the table. But thinking about it, that ant could be, like, a mother. It could have a little family waiting for it, and I just killed it. I don’t know why, but the thought of that makes me smile. I hope the ant family now realise what it’s like to have a crappy life. My tea’s gone cold but I’ll drink it anyway. It tastes a bit funny, but the milk’s probably off I reckon. Never mind. I can hear the argument getting worse upstairs. I swear if he lays one finger on my mum, I’ll kill him. Like the ant. I can picture a giant hand coming to squish him. I clasp my hands together under the table in case anyone’s watching, and mutter a small prayer. Not that I’m religious or anything, but I do it sometimes anyway. Dear God, or whoever, please let Dave be squished by something at work today. Maybe it’ll be like one of those cartoons, where a piano falls from the sky and flattens him. Well, I can dream. I probably should go find my shoes. Everyone takes the mick out of me for them. Mikey the Pikey’s their latest chant for me. Bastards. I’m not a pikey or anything. Just a small town kid with a shitty family. Well, my mum’s alright I guess. Just the remainder of the family, Dave and his sprog that ruins it. I can hear Dave yelling at me from the landing to get to school, so I slam the door extra hard on the way out and whisper goodbye to my mum under my breath.