Losing Control

Chapter Three

By the time Monday morning came around, I was grateful. I had spent the whole weekend in this shitty little motel room, staring at the same damp walls.
I was going out of my mind with boredom. In prison, at least there had been a routine to the days. You got up at a set time, you had breakfast, showered, did the work assigned to you, had lunch, more work, dinner, free time which usually meant trying to avoid another beating, then finally lights out and sleep.
My days at least had structure to them.
Now I had nothing. So I was actually pleased at having to force myself off the scratchy bed and into the mouldy, grimy shower to get ready for a day of classes.

I scrubbed myself raw with the tiny bathroom soap, then lathered up my hair with shampoo, moaning in ecstasy as I felt the dirt wash away.
I had only ventured out once during the weekend, to buy cigarettes and shampoo. Even the cheapest bottle was expensive to me, so I knew I would have to make this last.

I had been living off a loaf of bread and a packet of already soggy biscuits for the last three days. I couldn't afford anything else on my pitiful few coins I had earned from my last week doing prison work. My stomach growled loudly and I knew I had to eat something before I set off for the day. But I knew I couldn't face anymore of the stale bread. I grabbed the last three biscuits from the packet, and shoved them down my throat in record speed.

Then I picked out my best pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. The jeans still had stains over them from the prison work that no amount of washing would ever get out and a hole on the back of the right leg. My tee shirt was frayed at the bottom, but they were still my best clothes.
I ran a hand through my damp curls, thinking to myself that I really needed to get a mirror at some point. If I had to be out and about everyday, I needed to at least not look like a homeless man.

I grabbed the books I would need for the day, and put them in the plastic bag I had used to carry my belongings from prison to here. I didn't have anything else to put them in. Hell, I didn't even have a cup to drink from, I just stuck my mouth under the tap when I was thirsty, so a proper bag was the least of my worries.

I walked out into the early morning sun, shutting the door behind me but not locking it. It didn't matter if anyone broke in, I had nothing of worth to take anyway. They were welcome to the shitty things I called my own.

I surprised myself at just how well I remembered these streets. I knew exactly where I had to go and walked along almost on autopilot.

As I crossed the road opposite the building I would be spending the next year in learning about pointless stuff, I nearly got hit by a cycle bike. A fucking cycle bike. I cursed at the rider loudly, trying to keep the memories of years ago at bay. It didn't work. The more I tried not to think of things, the more they came back to haunt me.

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I grabbed my cycle bike from the garage and raced to the address that had just been shouted down the phone to me.

Cooper was in trouble, again.

How had my life ended up so shit? Where had it all gone wrong? Well, the obvious answer was my parents dying of course.

Sometimes, I couldn't help but hate them for this. For leaving us like this.

It had been nearly two years since they both died. I was fifteen now and a complete loser. I had to be honest about it, I really was. I had no friends, no point to my life, no nothing.

Just after my Moms funeral, some fancy pants lawyer with a shiny bald head had come over to inform Cooper and I of some great news.

He actually said something along the lines of... 'Boys, the bad news is you lost your parents, the good news is, you get to keep the house.'