The rental car felt out of place in front of the mansion before him. 

It hadn't changed.

Not one bit.

The trees outside were still trimmed and groomed to perfection and the lawn had been mowed as neatly as it had always been. The mansion was exactly as he remembered it and the curtain peeping out from behind the windows were the same cream colour that it always was.

 He could barely believe he had grown up in this house. After living in their miniscule one-bedroom flat, he had gotten used to living simply. It amazed him to think that he would walk home after school each day and barely even glance at the sheer opulence of the house before him. But now, he felt odd and out of place. He felt as if he were an intruder or a trespasser into Zaheer's home. It wasn't his home.

He considered it home when his mother was still alive, but after her death it felt wrong to step foot into the massive front garden. Knowing that he held his father's key in his hand felt strange. A man that haunted him for nine years was now a living presence once again and he had held onto the little remote only a few days prior. He had opened this door and lived in this house and his very essence was still trapped within the walls before him and the more Riaz thought about it, the more anxious he felt.

"My mum always liked looking at this house." Tasneem's voice broke him out of his reverie as she looked up in awe at the patterned steel framework of the gate before them. "I never mentioned that I knew the boy who lived in it though." She smiled, as if lost in a pleasant memory that had rooted itself within her mind. Even after 9 years, she would find herself slipping gently into the days when she only ever knew him as was the quiet boy beside her in English class and the boy who looked ever so handsome when he removed his blazer and loosened his tie as he sat next to her on the bench outside the science labs.

They were so young back then. They were young and their friendship was young. Their friendship was nothing but a bud that had emerged from the soil before the lightning struck. Like her rosebush, it had never grown straight again but it had grown and persevered and had strengthened. It had grown as tall as the Jacaranda tree that used to stand tall before her house and never had she seen a tree as beautiful as that one. It was majestic and when the wind picked up its fine purple petals from their delicate twigs, it would drop them along the grey asphalt of the streets, coating them in purple splendour.

That was what their friendship was like. It had rained its beauty and its magic upon every single aspect of her life and made it beautiful.

He made her life beautiful.

"I don't want to go in." he said, feeling ashamed of the fear festering within his heart.

"Your memories are trapped in this house." she said, turning to look at him, "Not you. You're free and he can never hurt you again."

She folded her hand over his, closing his hand around the little black remote.

"You have to."

He didn't want to go in.

Those hallways echoed his memories and those were echoes he never wanted to listen to. He had buried them so deep within his mind that the idea of them being dug out once again was almost crippling to him. If he knew his father, he knew that nothing would have changed. It would be exactly the same. Every vase and ornament and frame would be in its exact same spot and he would walk back into time as if he were 18 again.

He didn't want to do it. He could feel his fingers shake beneath her hand before he reached for the comfortable square box within the pocket of his jeans. Just one more, and then he would go in.

He placed the cigarette between his lips but his fingers kept slipping along the switch of his lighter. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get it to ignite. He felt her fingers close around his lighter before she took it from his hand.

"Thanks." He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes against the cold, winter sun as she cupped her palm around his cigarette. He knew she had lit it as soon as he felt the first wisps of smoke run along his teeth before he pulled in as much as he could. At the rate he was going, his cigarette would be nothing more than a stompie in less than a minute...

He slowed his drags, keeping a longer interval between them as he allowed the toxic fumes to enter his body. He opened his eyes, gauging his neighbours houses. He wondered if the old couple still lived across the street and whether or not the Smiths had moved from the grey mansion besides them. He had barely known his neighbours aside from a wave or a quick hello even though he had known most of them since he was a kid. It didn't matter though, whether they moved or stayed. They were nameless faces in the residues of his mind and their whereabouts only seemed to serve as a temporary distraction just them.

"Did you know," he felt her pluck the cigarette from between his lips before she placed it against her own mouth, inhaling deeply as she felt the thick papered wrapping against her lips, "Second hand smoking is a lot more harmful." She said, the smoke escaping her mouth in gentle grey spirals as she spoke.

"You know I hate it when you do that." His lips tilted up into a semblance of a smile as he watched her take another deep pull before she stood up on her tip toes, pressing her lips to his own.

He could taste the smoke as it escaped her lips, running down his throat before it settled heavily in his lungs. But as he ran his tongue over her lips, he could taste her cherry flavoured lip gloss- an almost sweet aftertaste against the bitter smoke. "I know." She murmured against his lips, gasping slightly as she felt his hand along the back of her thigh, pulling her so close that she could feel his warmth through all the layers of his clothing. They were shielded from prying eyes behind the circular wall next to gate as she continued to kiss him, light fleeting kisses that drove him mad and allowed him to forget- for just that single moment-where he was. "Your cigarette's done."

"Guess it's time to go in." he sighed, holding onto her until she was steady on the ground before he turned to garage and pushed the button on the remote.

"I'm going to ask this only once more." Zaheer stood before them, holding the empty box of cigarettes in his clenched fist. "Who stole my cigarettes?"

It could only have been Farhana. He had his own box stowed away beneath his mattress and he would never risk it.

"Do you know how I know this is my box?"

Riaz and Farhana shook their heads, unable to stop their hands from trembling behind their backs.

"It has a little ink stain near the bottom of the box and when I left this morning, I know there were 7." He lifted the lid, allowing them a glimpse of the contents inside, "Now, there's only four."

"I did it." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even think of holding them back.

"Really?" Zaheer asked, smiling sardonically down at him.

"Yes." The words burnt his throat as they were forced out of his mouth and it was only sheer will power that kept him from cowering before his father.

"So what's this?" Zaheer dug out a fuller box from his back pocket, tossing them to Riaz.

He had no answer.

"I found it beneath your mattress."

He could hear his breaths escape his lips in light gasps as he tried to force himself to breathe in front of his Zaheer's anger.

"Why would you bother to steal 3 cigarettes from me when you already have a full box hidden in your room?"

"I-"

"You lied to me?" Zaheer asked him, plucking the box gently from Riaz's hand before he opened it to count the amount of cigarettes inside. "Yes or no. It's a simple question Riaz."

"Yes." He answered, his voice even.

"You know I don't like liars."

"Yes, I know that Dad." His voice a bare whisper as his father stepped closer to them.

"And you both know that every action has consequences."

They both knew, only too well, what he had meant.

The house smelled musty and dank as they stepped through the garage and into the house. The smell clogged their noses and the faint dust speckles before their eyes seemed to float aimlessly throughout the abandoned kitchen. The curtains in the kitchen were still drawn and the light streaming through the thin voile allowed him to feel a sense of nostalgia as he remembered a time long ago when he would wake up just as the sun rose. He would walk into the kitchen, content to sit by himself with the curtains drawn and allow the light flash of sunlight to stream through from the bottom of the window as it began to rise higher and higher into the sky. On most days, he'd sit near the window, opening it just enough so that he could dust the ashy tip of his cigarette onto the grey pebbles outside knowing full well that it was too early for anyone to walk in on him. It was one of the only other places besides his room that he felt comfortable in and he liked knowing that for those two hours or so, it belonged just to him.

"How long has your dad been in the hospital for?"

"A few days."

"That's odd." She walked around the kitchen, trying to imagine a younger him sitting at the table. "It smells as if it hasn't been used in months."

He was so sure that once he stepped foot into the house, he would be itching to run back out again but for some reason, he couldn't find any excuse to leave just yet. It really did feel as if he had stepped back into time and as he looked into the hallway outside, it felt as if he were looking into a mirror of his younger self. He could see himself walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He could see himself shrug off his blazer and loosen his tie as soon as he reached the bottom stair on the staircase and he could see himself peer into his parent's room to see if his mother was there or not.

It felt as if he had barely even left at all and that idea didn't settle well with him.

He imagined hearing the faint mumbling and mutterings of his mother as she spoke to herself while she cooked. He could hear her call herself stupid and he could hear Farhana call her a bitch under her breath. He could see Claire suffer through a bruised leg and weak ankles as she swept the house to perfection only to start all over again because Zaheer said so.

He walked through the hallway, subconsciously shifting a vase on the side table out of its position. The clear semi-circle left in its wake only called to attention the thick layer of dust that coated the table but he barely gave it a second glance. He could see Claire hobble down the hallway before him, wincing with each step she took as she righted her shirt and closed all her buttons. He had hurt her again but Riaz was powerless to stop him and all he could do was watch as she walked out with her head bowed and her mind shattered to dust.

"Riaz?" Tasneem walked behind him, perplexed at the amount of dust and dirt gathered over almost every surface of the house.

"Yeah?"

"Where's your room?" she asked sheepishly. "I'm curious."

He turned around, amused at her question before he nodded his head towards the stairs, "Come on."

"What do you think should happen to little thieves?" Zaheer caught hold of Farhana's wrist, dragging her slowly towards his cupboard.

"I don't know." Her voice was shaky as tears began to distort the room around her.

"Turn around and lift your vest."

Riaz's eyes widened as a sense of déjà vu passed over him. He had been there. He still had the marks on his back from all those years ago and he knew Farhana would carry those same marks for the rest of her life. Her arms were trembling and her breaths were loud and ragged as she lifted her vest with shaky hands, exposing her clean, clear back to her father.

"I think it's only fair that you be punished together, don't you?" He asked Riaz, expecting the correct reply from him.

"Yes." His voice was nothing more than a croak as he looked up at his father's calculating face.

"Good." He counted the cigarettes in the two boxes before he picked one out and held it between his thumb and forefinger. "Did I not tell you before that you are not allowed to smoke in my house?" He lit the cigarette, focusing his eyes on the bright red embers before him.

"Yes, you did."

"So why did you have a box of cigarettes hidden beneath your mattress?"

He couldn't reply, choosing to look down instead and hope that his father would forgive his silence.

"You thought it was okay to disobey me?" Zaheer stalked closer to him, lifting Riaz's chin so that he would look him in the eye.

"No, I didn't."

"You're clearly lying." Zaheer smiled sardonically down at him. "You wouldn't have bought that box if you didn't." He took another step closer, allowing Riaz to feel the tension that had strained the muscles throughout his entire body. "Let's try this again. Did you think it was okay to disobey me?"

His father had cornered him once again. Every nerve in his body was fraught with energy, begging him to run away but the fear engulfing his heart ruled out any other command from his own body.

"Yes." His voice was less than a whisper, knowing that was to come was something he had never experienced before.

"Well you were wrong." Zaheer said, stepping back towards Farhana. "You need to learn that your actions have consequences but you first need to tell me what it is that you've done wrong."

"I disobeyed you and I lied to you."

"Right." He pulled the cigarette butt away from his lips, studying its reddened tip before he looked down at his daughter's back. "I'm glad you understand your actions."

And he stubbed the burning stick onto his daughter's back, marring her cleat, beautiful skin for the rest of her life.

They were assaulted by the bright sunlight that streamed through his window directly across from them as soon as he opened his door. He walked in, mystified that his room was exactly the same. His bed was still covered by the thick white duvet he had always used and his pedestal still held his watch and lamp as if he had never left at all. He had forgotten his wristwatch in his haste to leave and he had always assumed that his mother would have simply packed it away. But it's dulled silver strap still glinted in the sunlight after all these years.

Tasneem looked at the room, unable to put her thoughts into words. For some odd reason, she felt as if she was 18 all over again and she felt as if she was sneaking into his room, doing something wrong. She tried to picture him as he used to be- his face wasn't as sunburnt it was and his hands were smoother and softer than the calloused fingers she had gotten so used to. He was smaller than the giant beside her but he never smiled as often as him either. She imagined him sitting at his desk, completing his homework or standing in front of his mirror as he knotted his school tie around his collar. "It's a nice room."

"It's just a room." He shrugged, unable to decide whether or not it really was nice.

"I guess." She walked around, running her finger through the dust over his desk. "Do you still have things in here?"

"Open the draws and look." He said, taking a seat at the foot of his bed as he watched her explore his room.

She opened the draws, smiling lightly as she picked up his old maths textbook. "I hated maths." She lifted the textbook to show him the cover.

"I hated that textbook."

She sat down heavily onto his chair, squealing slightly as it rolled back. She rolled herself back to the desk, ignoring his laughter before she perused through his draws once again. His textbooks were still placed neatly in the top draw while his notebooks occupied the second. She pulled out his English notebook, immediately transported back to Mr Walker's class as he droned on about The Heart of Darkness. She opened his book, paging carefully through his neat writing before she came across the passage she was looking for.

...As though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain- why he did not instantly disappear.

She remembered that paragraph. Someone had banged open the door to their classroom, shocking him into dropping his book beside her. It was the first time she had realised just how truly special he was as she read the a passage written word for word from their novel, but there was not a book in sight for him to copy from.

She slowly paged through his book, marvelling at how neat his writing used to be. After he started working, his penmanship had drastically diminished and she had almost forgotten that he ever had neat hand writing at all. She turned the pages carefully, skimming through his compositions and his homework, reminded once again of how truly intelligent he was. She had turned the last page, catching sight of her own handwriting buried beneath a worksheet tucked into the plastic cover of his book. She removed the note gingerly, grinning with absolute delight as she read through the note.

After all these years...

My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be.
His name was Mister Unsworth and he taught history.
And when you didn't know a date he'd get you by the ear
And start to twist while you sat there quite paralysed with fear.
He'd twist and twist you ear and twist it more and more.
Until at last the ear came off and landed on the floor.
Our class was full of one-eared boys. I'm certain there were eight.
Who'd had them twisted off because they didn't know a date.
So let us now praise teachers who today are all so fine
And yours in particular is totally divine.