Rio

Rupert roamed the streets with a split beige boot, flapping open at the front like a clown’s smile. Heat emanated from the tarmac and loose stones crunched below his plastic soles. He was hungry. It had been a day or two before he had eaten anything of substance, and his stomach yowled in protest against the various pseudo-foods with which he had tried to satiate its thirst. The sun was heavy and the internal wool of his thick tattered jacket was like a big wet tongue against his skin. He didn't mind. In fact he smirked as reached back to the Rupert of yesteryear, standing in front of a wardrobe full of suits in different shades of greys. He could smell himself, all sharp and acidic from months of layered sweat and splashback from pissing on walls. But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. He breathed deep.
He looked out over a steep gritty slope onto the melding orange of the sun, sliding down the ocean horizon. The wind blew back his yellowing jacket and tickled his patchy brown belly. He leaned into it and in the world through his skeletal nose. And then he fell. A group of shirtless children shouted at each other with youthful violence. He smiled behind closed eyes as he gave himself to gravity. His legs and arms flailed like a stringless puppet as he gained momentum. Faster and faster. For a moment he thought that he might be going to fast to stop. Old memories flashed. He tore through the wind.
He felt a jolt through his right leg as it hit the end of the slope. His knee buckled and sent him crashing across the pavement in a frenzy of limbs and crusty hair.
He open his eyes to something blurry and blue twirling on an eggshell background. He focused. A crudely cut mural of dolphins and stars. He closed his eyes.
"I think he's awake." He felt fuzzy.
"Honey, are you there?"
"No," he groaned. He felt a small hand on his arm. He winced.
"Daddy are you ok?"
His chest was a monsoon of guilt and morphine. He cracked open his eyes and looked at his daughter. A pigtailed picture of everything innocent and beautiful.
"We missed you. Where have you been?"
He could feel the muscles around his mouth contorting. He clenched his face and rolled it away from her.
"Olivia honey, Daddy's very sick right now, maybe ask him later." Rupert's right hand balled into a fist around a clump of bedsheet.



Father wants: to get away. Not to face his guilt.
Mother wants: to question him.
Oliva wants: to see her dad.

Mother:
What does she want?
To be right. To be favoured by her daughter. To be seen as intelligent and wise. To be validated.
What does she need?
To be loved. To feel secure.
What is she most afraid of?
Being alone.
What is her best memory?
Playing with her sister and her toy giraffe as a child.
What is her worst memory?
Getting lost in a field at night for hours and not knowing how to get home.

Passive aggressive.