Being Butch Green || ✓

Chapter 18 - Hobo's Aren't Supposed to be Streakers

We stood in the entrance of the dark flat. It still had the same old mould growing in the corners of the roof and the same dripping paint on the hallway wall from the time I tried to cover up a food stain on it. The house itself stank like used diapers, and the strong stench of alcohol stung at my nostrils. The lights were all but broken, and the floorboards creaked as the door lay – half off its hinges – a bit away from us.

"What happened to you guys?" Jack whispered over my shoulder as we stepped further into what used to be the kitchen.

I scanned the tiny room. A mountain of unwashed dishes sat by the sink, stained with food, and empty pizza boxes flowed from the bin as though the idea of putting out the trash wasn't a thing anymore. The cupboard doors were flaking and several of them hung off their hinges as I walked through.

"Someone's been here," I said, coughing at the sight and swatting away a passing cobweb in disgust. I half-expected to find my mother passed out on the couch and surrounded by a wealth of alcohol bottles, but she was nowhere in sight.

"Agents?"

I shook my head, walking further into the house. "No. I don't think so."

Jack reached for a broom, breaking off the head. To anyone else, the little flat appeared as though it had been abandoned for quite some time. But the house never smelt like decaying possums in the roof - ever. And we never ate pizza. I picked up a liquor bottle, a small bit of gin left in it.

I suppose it would be wicked of me to say I wanted her to never stroll back into my life again, but it'd be cruel of me to do that to her. She did nothing but try... and fail every time. The dark rings around her eyes always reminded me of death, and to be honest, I think she had a permanent death wish herself.

I would come home from school only to find her in a drunk daze on the couch. I kept to myself, avoiding her at all costs. She reminded me that the world was shit.

I never bothered to get to know who she was. Not as a person or as a failed mother. Maybe that was my first mistake? I always thought of myself as a lone wolf roaming the streets. A scrawny kid with glasses hanging out by himself near the courts. The park was always something I admired from afar, like something I could never reach. A dream.

I reached out, touching the aging felt of the sofa. It was fuzzy and soft as I ran my palm over it, leading my mind away from the memories I'd buried so long ago. My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, and eyed the rickety staircase by the back wall.

"Butch."

I looked back at Jack, who held the broomstick firmly and nodded towards the stairs. Quickly, I led Jack up past the small living room and to the flight of stairs. I made it to the landing and wandered down the stingy hallway leading to my bedroom. Still tagged with a colourful blue sticker that read, 'Butch', I pushed the door slightly open.

"You still have that sticker?"

"Shut up," I replied, rolling my eyes in embarrassment. The door swung open painfully slow.

"Oh, come on!" we both shouted in unison.

My face screwed up as my eyes laid themselves on the plastic bottle hobo guy. He waved his wretched sock on a stick through my bedroom as he hummed to a tune neither of us knew. I thought there'd be something a little more exciting living in here by now, and I was more than a little disappointed that it was just a bottle collecting squatter.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Jack asked aggressively over my shoulder.

He turned; an innocent oblivious grin plastered on his small round face. "Why, I'm cleansing the room!"