text: “Freak!” “Look at her!” “Hey, ever seen a comb?” she hurled a brush at me. This is what it’d been like ever since I joined the new school. They didn’t like my teeth, because they were too long. They didn’t like my hair, because it was too unruly. They didn’t like my face, because it was too ugly. They didn’t like my voice, because it was too harsh to be a girl’s voice. They didn’t like my clothes, because they were too old. They didn’t like me, because I wasn’t like them. I walked home, sweat running down my back and drenching my clothes. My vision swam. I could still hear them laughing. The laugh echoed in my head, growing louder and louder, drowning out the noise on the road. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to walk in once more and be met by an empty house, my father off on another of his “errands”, after which he would come back and hurl things around, destroying our house. *His* house, actually, as he so often reminded me. So I sat down on the footpath, my vision growing more and more blurred, which is why I didn’t at first notice the wetness on my hand. When I did, I flinched and pulled away, rubbing my eyes. As my surroundings came into view, I saw him. He, too, had scars on his body. One of his ears seemed to have a chunk missing. He moved closer and licked my hand again. He’d lost his fur in some places. But his eyes, they were the first thing I saw. They were bright and shone with the innocent spark of hope and trust that reminded me of a photo- the only photo I had- of me as a baby. I took it out of my pocket, the little yellowed piece of glossy paper. I’d torn my father out of it years ago. There it was, that spark of hope, the spark that had shivered and died when I saw my mother beaten to death with a bottle when I was three. I never even got to know her. All I knew was that one day she was back, and my father didn’t like that. The dog cocked his head at my sob. I patted his head. He flinched slightly at my touch, then lay down on the dusty footpath and leaned into my leg. I chuckled and resumed patting him, my hands becoming dirtier with every stroke. “Where have you come from?” I whispered, smiling. In response, he exposed his belly for me to rub. I felt a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I turned around. A woman was watching me. Her dark eyes seemed to bore into me, to search my soul, to look into the deepest recesses of my heart. I wiped my eyes self consciously. No one seemed to notice her except for me. People walked within two inches of her, oblivious to her existence. But then again, who noticed the crying nine-year-old on the footpath either? She smiled at me and gestured for me to come to her. The dog licked my hand again. I stood up, then hesitated. She nodded at me encouragingly. I moved forward, the dog padding along behind me. She whispered to me. I frowned. “Sorry?” “You never know...” I moved closer. Her words, the way she spoke, seemed to draw me in. “You never know what you are capable of...” she said, hesitating. She looked around. Still, no one had noticed our strange interaction. “Yes?” She leaned forward. “Till you have truly known love,” she whispered. “What do you-” I stuttered as she walked away and turned the corner. I hurried after her. “I don’t-” I started, turning after her. She was nowhere to be seen. I turned around, almost expecting the dog to be gone too, and for this to be another of my daydreams. But he was there, wagging his tail at me, his tongue hung out in a grin. I sat on the footpath, the dog lying beside me, and did my homework till the light faded. From then on, I had a friend. I named him Phoenix. I took him to the public tap once a week, drenched him, much to his annoyance, and wiped him out with an old shirt of mine. Soon enough, his skin started to improve and his fur started growing back. Every day, when I came back from school, he was there. Waiting. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. We sat on the footpath, me doing my homework or studying, Phoenix romping or taking a nap. We scrounged the trash cans for food, sometimes sharing it, sometimes fighting for it. Every so often, I snuck him home when my father went out, and we shared my bed and took a nap. We’d go to little shops, Phoenix waiting outside, and I’d buy us bread with money I’d steal. He licked away my tears when I came to him after getting beaten by my father. I told him all about myself, about my childhood, my school, my lack of friends, everything. And he was there. Listening. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. I grew up. Phoenix grew old. Side by side, together, we journeyed the twisted path life lays out for everyone. And my path was slightly brighter because Phoenix was with me. But life always throws in that unexpected curveball every once in a while. For me, that unexpected curveball came on my seventeenth birthday. As usual, I went to school in my same old clothes (nothing new there) and nobody even knew it was my birthday. Except for Phoenix, of course. That morning, he’d romped beside me as I went to school, just like Mary’s proverbial lamb. He always knew. As soon as the bell rang to go home, I grabbed my bag and made a beeline for the exit. I almost ran home, imagining Phoenix’s face when he saw me. We always bought something extra special on my birthday. But when I reached my street, panting, and looked around, nobody was there. “Phoenix?” I whispered, grinning. Nothing. “Stop playing games, joker,” I said, raising my voice. And then I heard it. A whine. Phoenix? I repeated, my amusement now turning to dread. Another whine. I ran across the street. There, in the alley opposite, lay Phoenix. His legs were twisted grotesquely, and his head had been bashed in. Nearby lay a bloody metal rod. I dropped my bag and sank down onto my knees. “Who did this?” I asked, my eyes filling. He whined, then wagged his tail one last time. And then the spark in his eyes was gone. Nobody was there. Nobody saw my most loyal, my *only,* friend die. It was just me, and the roaring in my ears that didn’t seem to cease. It was like the night the spark died, all over again. But Phoenix, he didn’t give me a spark. He’d ignited a flame. And it was gone. My best friend was gone. Wiping my tears, I scrounged for a kerchief in my bag. And there, to my left, lay an all too familiar green bottle. My mind went blank. I didn’t even notice picking up my bag and walking. One moment I was holding Phoenix, and the next, I was walking into my house. My father lay on the couch, the same green bottle in his hand, chugging for all he was worth. “Hey...dad.” “What, you need something? Since-since when d’you call me *dad?”* “A stray dog, uh, passed away. Did you- did you see what happened?” There was a pause. “Oh, that son of a bitch? Yeah,” he slurred, “Yeah, he was barking at me ‘cause- ‘cause- I dunno, ‘cause he’s a little bitch. So I took care of him.” “You- you killed him because he *barked at you*?” “Yeah, yeah he- wait, why you care about some stupid *dog?”* “He was- HE WASN’T A STUPID DOG! HE WAS MORE OF MY FAMILY THAN YOU ARE!” He stood up, but I didn’t care anymore. “You really think you’re gonna yell at me in *my own house?* You ungrateful little-” he hurled his bottle at me. It shattered on the wall behind me. “I raised you! Your mother was a bitch too, like you, wasn’t she? Didn’t want nothing to do-” “She came back, though didn’t she?” “I RAISED YOU! I WAS YOUR FATHER, YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING-” “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” He picked up a bottle and advanced on me. By impulse, I ducked down, my hands searching the ground. I got up. There was a resounding crash as he hit me with the bottle, just as I spliced his neck open with a shard of glass. And there, lying on the ground, bleeding, darkness eating at the corner of my vision, I understood. “You never know what you are capable of... till you have truly known love.” I love you, Phoenix.