The edge of our estate, a wire fence. We ducked under it, Cole's fat neck scraped, he squealed. Older boys sniggered.
Once buildings grew here, it now sprouted vegetation. We picked our way through. Here we built the world: a haven of ***** mattresses and wooden boards holding shaped rocks and bones found somewhere, that hint of death.
Cain was bigger than the rest. He liked fire, pushed at the mattresses, unsettling dust. He picked up a stick and beat down the walls, eyes filled with that blaze.
Suddenly sticks flew, we thrashed with fury and rage and everything, at our creation. Soon our jigsaw walls were waste upon the ground. Then there was light. Cain's father, passed out, drunk, missed the silver lighter his son produced. Roaring flame which singed our nostril hairs, smelling bonfire for a week after.
Cain's eyes saw everything. We stood, in his image, chests heaving, we looked at what was done.
I was scolded when I returned home late with sooty skin, and went to bed with tear tracks on red scrubbed cheeks.