Neighbourhood Watch

be getting up. Past eight beers, she doesn’t get up.
Roxane picks up a few empty bottles, shoves them in her bag, and leaves the bedroom.
Under the covers, Louise holds her head in her hands.
* * *
In number 64 of the apartment block, Mélissa opens her eyes and looks at her little-girl wallpaper. The same skinny princess in a purple dress that’s too long, smiling a washed-out smile at a silly little fawn. The pathetic pair repeats itself all the way up to the ceiling. In six spots in her small bedroom, the princess is cut in half, giving her four eyes. It almost suits her better.
Tonight, Mélissa is moving into her mother’s room. Because she won’t be back, won’t ever be back. She chose the street. Mélissa prays the winter is deadly cold. Deadly.
Mélissa is twelve, and starting now she has to give that little girl a kick in the ass. She has to pulverize her, she has to obliterate her. She has to be more adult than the adults, and she is totally fucking capable.
Yesterday, her stepfather fucked off. Had no one left to fuck, took off.
Just as well. Don’t need him here.
Mélissa is twelve and totally fucking capable. More capable than anyone, even.
She gets up. The boys are already up and in the kitchen, plugged into the PlayStation. They suck up the flat light of the screen: their eyes are straws and their thirst is endless.
Mélissa feels grown-up. She unplugs the TV, cutting her little brothers off, and they start shouting: ‘Not fair!’ Mélissa puts music on the turntable. 50 Cent, full blast, fuck the neighbours. Fuck her little brothers. Fuck her stepfather. Fuck her mother. A little.
The boys are still shouting, but they’re harder to hear over the music.
Mélissa gets dressed. So do they.
‘Let’s go.’
She grabs her things, their things, turns off the light.
Cold wind outside.
She breathes.
* * *
Steve wakes up in front of the TV, streaks of makeup caked on his face. Cape around his neck, cigarette butt stuck to his face. He crashed right after the match. So tired.
Kevin is still asleep. This morning, women dressed in pink are stretching. ‘And one, and two, let’s go!’
Steve grabs the remote. POWER. Bye, ladies. Have fun.
Corner of the counter. Coffee. Cigarette. Tick-tock of the clock. Two cigarettes. 50 Cent’s bass makes the walls and the little porcelain Dollarama figurines shake. Remains of his wife. As far as he’s concerned, they can shatter.
Steve pushes the ashtray away. Puts a glass of orange juice on the table, a pill bottle beside it.
He stretches his back and goes to wake up his kid.
A blue bedroom. Star Wars wallpaper. Horror movies scattered on the floor. Drawings of wrestlers on the walls. Plush Spiderman, Batman, and Wolverine in Kevin’s arms as he sleeps. Three knocks on the door.
‘Get up, Kev!’
Silence.
Steve goes in, pulls on the covers. ‘Come on, I gotta go.’
He leaves. Slams the door. He’s gone.
Kevin gets up, turns on the computer, stretches, goes to pee.
Corner of the counter, he drinks the juice and swallows the Ritalin. His eyes sticky, he goes back to his bedroom and picks up his controller.
Kevin kills bad guys as he gets dressed.
* * *
The sun is up on Rue Ontario, which is starting to come to life.
Meg’s eyes are stinging, her feet are burning. She’s shattered.
People are going to work. She’s just finished.
She walks against the traffic on Rue Ontario, bumps into a guy who hates her for a couple of seconds and forgets her just as fast. Usually they like her a little before chucking her aside. Makes for a change.
She counts her cash as she walks. Ten clients. A good night.
Store windows go by. White beds with thick duvets, dry aquariums with plastic plants, the laundromat with its sleeping washing machines, where the lonely seek each other out to pair their unpaired socks. At this hour, the stores have no personality. Empty, they’re waiting. Still frames resting until they’re put to use again. Like Meg in the morning.
Meg likes this brief moment in the day when she stops being an invitation.
The snow squeaks under her heels, absorbing the weight of her footsteps. The wind is at her back. It’s on her side. It feels good.
From an anonymous alley, Meg heads into her room. Her cave.
It’s cold. She undresses under the covers, curls up. Sighs.
Her big made-up eyes go out for the day.
* * *
‘C’mon, guys. We’re going to be really late!’
The boys stop at every decorated balcony. Every morning, Mélissa takes them down a different street. Today, it’s Rue Davidson. So far, it’s the best: almost all the houses are decorated.
The Christmas lights climb high up, winding around staircases and blinking their whole length. It’s pretty.
At the corner of Rue Adam, there’s an inflatable Santa gyrating, blown up from the inside. He suddenly bends forward, then suddenly bends back, his back broken. Then he starts over. The boys think it’s funny. It’s like Santa’s going to throw up.
Walking makes a squeak squeak sound. The snow is alive and screams with every footstep. A hurried squeak squeak balcony to balcony. The wind sounds cold too. It has escaped from its bottle, takes off laughing because no one is freer than it.
Some people are so jealous of the wind, they kill themselves. That’s why more people die in winter.
‘Look out!’
The guy from the depanneur is weaving on his bike with empty cases of beer. Almost ran into them.
‘Hey, Santa! Where’d you get your licence, fuck’s sake?’ Mélissa calls out to him.
Because now it’s up to her to protect her little brothers.
They’re getting closer to the prostitutes on the street corner. There are always two or three left, even at this hour. They must be freezing, toes crammed in their pointy shoes. Mélissa doesn’t even feel sorry for them. She grabs the boys by the hand and takes a deep breath. She walks by them. Looks without looking. If her mother were there, she would recognize her right away. Even without looking,