Outlawed (Cole Pendery)

Outlawed

Outlawed

Where You Belong

"What brings you from Sydney to Melbourne?" The apparently nosey Taxi driver asked me, his reflection took a hand-off the wheel and stroked his grisly beard, defiantly not in an unctuous way.

"My job, and if you don't mind I have to be there by six." I snapped a little too grumpily but compared to my day, grumpy is an understatement.

This morning my family bombarded me with insolent pleads to stay home and refuse my promotion. I've never understood why, but my three older siblings and Dad hate-no, despise Melbourne. Every time this City is brought up in conversation (usually by me) it is immediately disregarded. I sighed aloud, mum would've understood.

"Sydney is very odd compared to Melbourne; I don't know how you are going to like it there." The driver continued, interrupting my thoughts and clearly not receiving the message before.

"I'll be fine. They can't be too different, it's not like I'm moving countries." I replied hastily.
What does everyone have against this place?

"They are just very different, the people, I mean." He commented.
I'm starting to get anxious that the place is haunted, or the people are headless zombies' or even vampires. My eyes scanned the road drifting before us through glassed windows, deep in thought as the car continued to drive in silence.

It's only a few years.

What fell before my eyes as I exited the Taxi was nothing abrupt, the streets were busy and the buildings were higher than the birds on electricity wires, but nothing abnormal or different to home.
The people looked like ordinary people.

"Can I have my money now?" The driver announced. I handed him a few notes and pulled my backpack around my oversized jumper before disappearing into the crowds of people.

Collin's Street, number 173.

I silently reread the text sent by my boss, whom I'll be staying with until college starts; I have to admit Landen is the best boss ever. If it weren't for him knowing my father I'd still be stuck studying for the most impossible job. I couldn't afford to move here with all the college fees so he- being as awesome as he is- took all my stuff into his house when he moved. The report I'm working on involved some business here in Melbourne, a bakery was vandalised by a bunch of teenagers but the people weren't identified properly. So, my job as a journalist is to receive information from any witnesses and the owner of the store once I settle in.

I vaguely searched the streets for any signs that could help me decipher where I was, but I'm that horrible with directions an ant would've found its way around before me. My first thought was to approach impudent teenagers and ask them, but knowing that very seldom I communicate with people my age, I decided to avoid contention and ask someone older. Reluctantly, I walked up to an old man with another dirty beard, who was sitting in a green phone booth, whom I assumed was waiting for a call. I had to gulp once I smelt his grisly clothes; they were covered in stains... why hadn't I found this suspicious before I walked over here. "Yes, dear?" He asks with a friendly enough smile as his intoxicated breath hit my face from two metres apart.

It's too late to turn around now. I think as I return a forced smile.

"Umm, yeh... do you know where I can find directions?" I changed the question, not wanting to tell this stranger where I will be staying...

"Sure dear, where is it you need to go?" He smirked wickedly.

"Uhhh, is it OK if you name a place that gives directions?" I asked hesitantly as I try to be polite.