My boy
The conversation continued and we finished eating our food. James and I put our plates away and ran up into his room. His walls were dark blue, covered in Black Sabbath and Abba posters. Drawings dating back from when he was a child were in a folder on his bedside table with the note, 'no more space on the fridge :( - ma.'
His room was clean, mould-free, and comforting. The radiator was on and the walls weren't damp. Worn red converse were shoved under his bed. I stared outside of the window. The yellow lights from the cosy house across the country road illuminated the drops of rain that would've otherwise been forgotten about in the dark. James drew his blackout curtains shut and pulled off a mattress from his bed.
"Why do you have two mattresses?" I questioned.
"Not sure. I like the lift," James responded.
"Of course you do," I said as he threw me a pillow and a crotchet star blanket. "Oooh, where'd you get this blanket?"
"I made it," James announced, quite proud of himself.
I kissed my teeth and rolled my eyes playfully. "You're so gay," I chuckled. "And look how cocky you are about this! The blanket is ugly anyway."
James pretended to get annoyed and threw his pillow at me. "Says you."
"Whatev- wait the gay bit, the cocky bit or the ugly bit?" I said, a little bit offended. I threw his pillow back at him, laughing and joking around.
"You choose," James giggled, before we got into a full fledged pillow fight. He had probably chucked more pillows at his poster of Dolly Parton than me.
I did wish that I had a family like this. Sure, the Potters and my other mates are my family in a way. But they aren't my real family. It kinda sucks that I can't relate to not wanting to see Auntie Lisa, but going anyway because she makes the best homemade cookies. In my family, it's either not being able to see a family member because that family member thought that it was wrong to... Abuse children - or, it's practically sharing a house with strangers that you are somehow related to. The Blacks are quite a tight-knit family, but it feels insanely isolating when you're the only one that has some common sense.
I get jealous when people complain about their families. I'm not allowed to complain. Mother says complaining is as bad as lying, but that doesn't make much sense. She does both. I want to be able to be close with my family. They all see me as an outsider. Even if they didn't, it wouldn't be any better. Reggie gets hit too, and my family love him. Mother used to get hit. Father did, too. My cousins do. I used to feel sorry for myself, but it's just what happens when you're a Black.