We Prick You

"Duke’s what you’d call an older man. I’m what you’d call under-age, only he doesn’t know. He thinks I’m 17."

A cautionary tale about a young runaway and the evils of older men.

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2. Consequences

Whoever decided keys had to be fiddly was a dick. I’m trying to be as quiet as I can, but the key just won’t go in the lock. It’s starting to boil my piss, so I stop for a second.

    Take a deep breath. Minty, with a slight aftertaste of tabs and sick. As I’m rooting around for more chewing gum, mum opens the front door.

    “In,” she says. I go in. She closes the door, then puts her hand out. “Tabs.”

    “But…”

    “Tabs. And ‘phone.”

    “S’broken,” I say, handing her my dead ‘phone and an empty box of tabs. “I dropped it. When you rang. I tried to ring back from a payphone, but I didn’t have any change and I missed the bus, so I had to walk home. You can ring Charlie and ask her…”

    “I rang Charlie. She said she hasn’t seen you for two weeks.”    

    Fucking Charlie.

    “Key.” 

    I toss the stupid key at her and rush off upstairs. I can feel the sick train pulling into the station.

    “You’re grounded for a month,” she shouts after me. “And no pocket money, either.”

    When I throw up, I make sure I get a bit on the bathroom carpet. Then I drag myself to my room and pass out.

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