The sound of the announcer’s voice growing in excitement near the end of the race woke me up before my alarm had a chance to go off. I looked at my phone. Only 5:38am. The sun hadn’t begun to rise yet and the house was pitch black to save on the cost of power, The faint glow of the television flickered unevenly across the room, highlighting the cluttered corners of our studio apartment. It was cramped and grim, with the walls stained with a yellowish hue from years of neglect and the faint smell of damp clothing lingering in the air. The announcer’s frantic tone filled the space, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of Dad’s restless foot tapping against the worn floor. Great, his bets must be losing again. He really needs a new hobby, or better yet, permission to work again. Our studio apartment is on the ground floor of a crowded street of Sydney. The sound of muffled conversations, the clatter of footsteps, and the occasional bark of a street vendor hawking goods seeped through the thin, graffiti-streaked walls. The noise of people-traffic never wakes me. It is constant hum, like background music to my life and can even be refreshing at times, only discouraging me by the many stories of desperate people breaking into houses to take any valuables they can. No amount of screaming for help can make it through the constant noise to get assistance. Or maybe the noise sometimes does get heard. Why would anyone risk harm to help somebody they don’t know? Luckily, we don’t have any valuables. We are safe from any criminal who does their research.

  I look across at Ernie’s bed to see him lying asleep peacefully, his face calm and untroubled, looking as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. My 13-year-old brother still sleeps with the soft giraffe toy Mum gave him as a young child. The mattress he slept on was sagging and thin, and the pillow barely looked like one anymore. Around him, there were small tokens of his quiet world—a stack of crumpled drawings, a half-read library book with a folded spine, and the dim outline of a school bag he’d patched together with duct tape. The soft giraffe, with its faded yellow fur and one ear hanging by a thread, was almost comically out of place in our harsh reality, but it was his. Maybe it reminded him of a time when things weren’t so bleak. Next to Ernie, my youngest sister Roselyn’s bed was unkempt, the blanket bunched up at the foot and her pillow askew. Her corner of the room was a clutter of clothes; tight jeans, cropped tops, and scuffed boots strewn haphazardly on the floor. The cracked mirror propped up against the wall was dotted with fingerprints and smudged eyeliner, evidence of her rushed mornings. Even in sleep, there was an edge to her expression, a restlessness that hinted at the fights we would inevitably have. Now at 15, she has taken after her role model of a father and I’m very surprised to see her at home in bed right now. It is a Monday, I guess. Her boyfriend and his friends are a bad influence on her, and she no longer listens to anything I have to say. Dad wants to let her make her own mistakes to learn from. Secretly I think it’s just another easy way to not have to parent his children with discipline though. In the far corner, Dad was sprawled on the couch, looking like he has been awake all night watching racing, gambling the little money we have away, while he is under house arrest and unable to get work. His face was illuminated by the television, the grey-blue light casting sharp shadows across his gaunt cheeks and unshaven jaw. The coffee table in front of him was littered with betting slips, an empty beer can, and the ash of a cigarette he hadn’t bothered to finish. The digital clock above the television blinked ominously, counting down our electricity quota, its dim red glow a constant reminder of how precarious our situation was. Dad’s loud sighs and muttered curses punctuated the announcer’s commentary, his frustration palpable even before the race ended. He was meant to have been a very skilled engineer in one of the most stable jobs at United World working with Mum. 10 years ago, she simply didn’t come home on the same day that he lost his job and was put under surveillance. He continues to refuse to tell us what happened, and we have to assume the worst about Mum. Dad is no longer allowed to leave the apartment without permission, imprisoned at home because of the overcrowded jails and under threat of death if he ‘tries to escape’ by simply walking out of the front door. It is now up to me to go to school, work to earn money for food and power, and to take care of my little brother Ernie. It’s a lot when I stop to think about it, but nobody else will do it for me.

  The racing announcer’s voice suddenly stopped, followed by a cry of exclamation and the sound of the remote being thrown against the wall. There goes our daily quota for electricity. I remain lying in bed, still not wishing to have the anger aimed in my direction as an easier target. My eyes are pointed at the hole in the wall where a fridge must have once been. I start imagining all those years ago how wonderful life would have been. To have a storage box that keeps your food cold. I could eat all kinds of meat and cheese, have cold milk for cereal... the options are endless! Instead, my thoughts become miserable thinking the only food we have in the house is cereal, an apple and rice. Some creamy milk would go so well with that cereal! Water will have to do.

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  I started to get restless thinking about food and decided to get up and be productive. I rolled off my mattress onto the cold, wooden floor. The boards creaked under my weight; their edges splintered from years of wear. As I gathered up the scattered clothes, my fingers brushed against the rough fabric and a stray sock buried under a pile of jeans. The room felt a little less suffocating when it wasn’t cluttered. Deep in thought about everything I need to do in the day ahead I tuned out the call of my name “Victoria…” I scrubbed the clothes with detergent in cold water, the smell of the soap mixing wi8th the stale, smokey air, and hung them on the wobbly clothes rack that leaned precariously near the window. The thin fabric fluttered slightly in the cool breeze sneaking through a crack in the glass. “VICtoria…” Rinsing the water from the clothes and washing the next article of clothing, I worked my way through the pile. “VICTORIA!” Things will get easier next year when I’ve finished school and can work full-time. “Yes Dad?” “Make sure this place isn’t a mess like this before you go to bed from now on, ok?!” “Yes Dad,” I mumbled as I continued washing. I’ll earn a lot more money when school is all done. I will be able to have freedom from Dad and still take care of Ernie at the same time. Just a few more months now.

  Before her alarm went off, Roselyn swung her legs off the mattress, stretching with a deliberate elegance that seemed more suited to a catwalk than our dingy apartment. She walked over to the drying rack, inspecting my work with a critical eye. “Why did you wash these? They were still clean!” she asked, handling the fabric of a top she’d left mixed with her dirty clothes on the floor. “You’re lucky I wash them at all so that you have anything to wear”. She made a stubborn noise that sounded like a grunt, pulled a face at me and spun around to walk off and find some other jeans and a top to put on. As she was doing her hair her alarm started going off as a series of wolf whistles, the same as her message tone. Before she had a boyfriend, it was a bit of an inside joke about all of these guys having a crush on her whistling at her as if she could have her pick of any of them. A few years later, she grew a bit taller, her breasts a bit larger and the message tone is more of a representation of what she believes she is entitled to with her looks and popular status, rather than a joke anymore. I walked over by her bed and stopped the alarm. Ernie managed to sleep through it, so I gently rested my hand on his arm. “Ernie it’s time to get up”. He stirred peacefully and his eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, but a soft smile crossed his face as he sat up. His innocence was a rare comfort in a life that felt so far removed from it.

  Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. Roselyn grabbed her phone and bag and ran to swing the door open and rush out of it. That stirred Dad from his position lying on the lounge. He yelled at them for making such a noise and having no respect for their elders, but they were already gone. It was Roselyn’s outspoken boyfriend Dom who was in my year at school and some of his friends... if you can call them that. Sam was Dom’s human shadow. He lost his parents young and now does anything for a small word of gratification from Dom. Sabina is Roselyn’s best friend, but they have a competitive dynamic that doesn’t seem very healthy to me.

  No breakfast for Roselyn again. She seems to eat less and less. I went to the kitchen and made a thorough search for any food I might have forgotten about. As expected, I only uncovered some flavourless cereal and rice. Ernie had eaten the last apple for dinner last night. I poured Ernie and myself cereal, adding in water and we ate as I asked him about his day ahead. He hadn’t given it too much thought, but since we didn’t get to finish his assignment on the weekend, we will have to work on that after my job tonight. That added another task to my already busy day. I put on a smile and washed the bowls and spoons. I made sure Ernie packed his homework into his bag before saying goodbye to Dad. We opened the door halfway and walked outside, not taking Dad’s lack of response too personally.