Above My Station

Chapter 1. Nathan.

Hungry. Again. We're going hungry again. This is the third time this week. The chairs won't sell, no-one wants to purchase a table and who the hell needs a wooden statue?! Dad's in despair, mum's considering shutting the carpenters and living rough and Jess, my sweet little sister Jess has joined the oldest profession, against the protests of my increasingly depressed parents, just for money for our doomed family. She goes out at night, made and dressed up to the nines and returns the next morning, her blond locks a mess and her eyes a shade darker each time.

"This is a joke," I hiss, as my father and I make our way down the noisy, dirty street to the bank, to try and beg the impassive men behind the desks to lend us a few pounds, for food and water.

They refuse flatly, each time.

"Son," my father replies softly, looking at me, his deep voice rumbling, "we have to try-"

"But why though?!" I cut him off violently, "what's the point?! They're a bunch of lying, cheating, stinking bastards! They don't do anything!"

Dad just looks at me sadly, his hazel eyes I inherited glittering with tears, and I sigh. I've made him cry again. Also the third time this week.

"Sorry," I mumble, twisting my hands awkwardly.

"No you're not." It cuts through the air like a red hot knife through butter- not that I'd know what that's like. Never had butter before.

"You're not sorry," he repeats, "don't say that. However, you're right. They won't give us anything. But, like I said, we must try."

I hang my head, and say nothing until we arrive outside the dark brick building. Dad shakes his head once, then enters through the small tradesman entrance, even though a steady stream of people are maneuvering through the huge wooden doors to the front. But dad always believed in entering through the doorway reserved for your class. We were working folks, therefore the tradesman entrance was our entrance. It was small and worn. Quite fitting really.

Inside, the bank smelt like damp, must and mould. The walls were dripping with sweat and the ceiling sagged tiredly. Small men sat at desks, their eyelids drooping and their yellow skin stretching as they repeated four words over and over to the masses with wheelbarrows and children on their hips: we have no money.

Dad led me through the rowdy crowd by my shirt, literally he grabbed it and pulled me along. As we pushed through the masses of bodies, I saw people weeping, people screaming, people stamping their feet and pulling their hair. And I saw the blank people. The people who have been told so many times that they remain emotionless when they're informed that there's nothing left, and they mentally tick off a box that signifies they're one step closer to an early death.

And then there's the people who'll have been told it one too many times. They'll go home, put their little affairs into order, and next day a cart will pull up outside their shack and a limp body will be deposited in it and taken away to the mortuary outside town.

We arrive in front of a desk, and I inspect the person who will deliver the bad news to us. Short. Balding. No yellow skin though, that's a miracle.

"Can we please borrow ten pounds for food and water," my dad recites, his speech he's been using for years upon years, "my eighteen year old son is unemployed, my sixteen year old daughter has turned to prostitution and my wife is on the verge of a meltdown."

"Do you have a way of paying it back?" the man says in an irritating nasal voice.

"No."

The man looks up at my dad. "We have no money," he says shortly, before looking down and shuffling his papers, ready for the next poor person who's trying to survive, ready to cut them down.

Dad would usually me pull me along, but this time he storms out. I have to fight through the crowd myself- a hard task as I'm easily shorter than a lot of the men in there. When I finally arrive outside from the tradesman entrance, dad is pacing up and down.

"What took you so long?!" he snaps at me, and I recoil, not used to this angry side of my usually docile father.

"I'm sorry, dad," I reply, "I got stuck."

He sneers, the first time I've ever seen him looking vaguely contemptuous, and strides away from me.

The sun is beginning to set, as we make our way back down the slowly clearing street.

"Dad," I begin, but he silences me with a glare, and I lower my gaze to my feet. He sighs, and speaks.

"I'm sorry son. But it's happened so many times now. And I can't bear to go home and face your mother, who's one step closer to closing the business, and I certainly can't face your sister. She'll be waiting to see if, finally, she doesn't have to doll herself up and wh-whore herself out. And I-I-" he stops talking and sniffs. I don't press him. I hate seeing any member of my family cry.

As we arrive home, Jess is standing at the front door, an expression of hope on her innocent face. As we pass through the threshold, she grabs my sleeve.

"Well? Nath, tell me."

I turn my tired eyes to hers, and shake my head slowly. Her slowly hollowing cheeks fall, her eyes fill with tears.

"Oh god no, no no."

I pull her in for a hug, and feel her tears staining my grubby shirt.

"C'mon Jess," I murmur, "one more night. One more night."

I watch her go out into the blackness, her blond locks flowing down her back. She turns her head and I can see her beautiful face covered in lead makeup, the sort that will eventually ruin her gorgeous complexion. She waves once, a sad smile on her face, and patters off, probably to the pub, where she'll pick up a sleazy drunkard, take him home and give him a good night.

Turning back, I trudge to the fire, and lower myself, snuggling into my mother as she sits, watching the flames dance.

"Hello Nathan," she whispers, ruffling my short brown hair, "how are you?"

"Awful," I reply, my voice heavy, "absolutely awful. Can't I be the prostitute?"

"People don't pay money for a boy, baby, they like girls. Look...maybe we can find you a position at the big house. I'll ask Ethel tomorrow. I know you hate feeling useless."

The big house. We've never seen the residents. They keep themselves to themselves, rich wankers. Ethel is their washerwoman, and the only person who enters and leaves the house.

But if I can get a job there, I guess it won't be too bad, at least I won't be useless. I can clean pretty well.

I sigh at length, then turn to my mum. "I'm off to bed," I say, before turning to my dad, who is lounging on the moth eaten chair at the corner of the room, fiddling with some rope.

"Night son," he replies, and my mother squeezes my hand. I stroll over to my straw mistress and pull off my shirt and trousers, before laying down and pulling my thin blanket over me, shivering.

Sleep takes me.

I wake up to shrill screams.