Read. Smile a little.

  About two weeks ago, Ethan told his mother than he wanted to move out of the house. Not so many teenagers do that. Every single time conversations like this happen, it either ends up with Ethan slamming the door on his mum or his mother shedding tears because Ethan and his step father is arguing again. A nice way to say he's being beaten by his stepfather.  Ethan is seventeen today, lives in this kinda jail his parents call home. If you walk into that home... you won’t hear laughter. You’ll hear rules nailed to the walls like warning signs. Silence that watches you. A couch that has memorized arguments. A door that has learnt how to swallow screams and pretend it never hears anything.  The walls are too close they breathe on Ethan at night. His room isn’t a bedroom, it’s a holding cell with posters pretending to be windows. His bed knows his weight too well, the way a grave knows a body is coming back. At seventeen, Ethan already understands prisons. Some have bars. Oth...