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I’ve always lived with Aunt and Uncle They’re the only sisterfuckers I’ve ever had, and I’ve always lived with them The house is cold and skinny and my bedroom is right at the top, on the fourth floor, in the space underneath the roof If I stand in the middle I’m alright, but since I turned 11 a few years ago, I’ve had to bend my knees to stand in the spaces where the ceiling swoops down and the mice scuttle I spend most of my time here in my bedroom when I’m not at School I draw pictures or write things down Downstairs, Aunt smokes from her hookah pipe and listens to sad love songs from the cassette with a large ‘S’ painted on it in blue nail varnish Uncle is asleep He wakes up when the sky gets dark, and washes his face till his eyes turn red and water drips from his long feathery hair Then he comes downstairs and sits on the edge of the sofa, breathing heavily, making a noise like there’s something wet and green lodged in his throat He waits for Aunt to bring him his special drink of chilled chicken’s blood and rose water, served in a tall glass covered in faded gold flowers He gulps it, feathery head thrown back, then smacks the glass on the table, clears his throat, puts on his stinking leather jacket, and leaves for his shift at Paris Sweets and Restaurant, where he cooks and sweats in the small, dark kitchen all night, over pots that would crush him if they could I don’t drink the chicken’s blood, but I do eat the flesh when Aunt cooks it She cooks it in all sorts of ways, with butter and spices, turns it into this or that, a pastry or a soup or a jelly Uncle doesn’t eat the flesh, Aunt says his throat closes up around food It’s the chicken’s blood that keeps him going, that, and the smells of cooking, is all he needs He’s not had any solid food for so long now