3. The streets he walks
Step. Another step, each following the last with mindless symmetry. Rusting leaves pave the ground beneath my feet, muffling the tap of my heels. A rush of air forces my unchecked hair into my face, the jet black strands cover my eyes as the lonely car speeds past. I’m staring at the ground in front of me again, somehow transfixed by the lifeless concrete supporting me and a thousand others’ in our mindless journeys.
Every time I move forward it feels like I’m intruding, as if I should turn around and leave now. But I have nowhere to go. I never have, no matter where I try and survive; I end up with this same sense of hatred for every sight and every sound. All of my existence feels somehow wrong, like I was never part of the plan. It was the same before I came here, back with my parents. If you could call them parents.
Every night they’d keep me awake with their pointless shouting, screaming and insults. On the rare occasions I plucked up the naïve courage to stay in the same room as them I suddenly became the problem. All their mindless accusations and complaining was directed at me. I was caught in the crossfire of every fight, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to go to school with a limp or broken rib. So is it really surprising I didn’t want to stay in that hell I called home?
Maybe that’s it, every time I feel at ‘home’, I’m forced into thinking of…that. Well whatever it is, I hate it.
Finally, the last corner before my new hell comes into view. The streets are suddenly densely packed with the smiles of clusters of my classmates. ‘Mates’. Not a chance. I can’t see a single face that doesn’t fill me with some kind of innate dread. My walking subconsciously slows in some kind of futile protest, but there is no point. I have come to accept that no matter how hard I try to enjoy any part of this miserable life, I will always end up with this same hatred. Well at least I have control over one thing:
I don’t have to talk to any of these ignorant idiots.