Chapter 1: A start
I breathe, that means I'm alive, not sure if that's a good thing. How did things get this far, where am I and when did it begin.
6 months earlier
I get out of bed. It's 4am. Good. Not to early, not to late.
Dad would be asleep for another 3 hours, not sure he deserves the title, but sometimes he's bareable. He's merely 'grieving' though it's been two years, I prefer to not squeeze the topic.
I have work today, I'm among one of the few Teens who aren't in school and actually have a decent way of earning money. Then again DECENT, is far from the actual work space but atleast I haven't turned to dumb life of crime, I don't know why people do it, in the long run you're just cheating on yourself. Unless you're some kind of A list mafia boss with all the connections of the globe. But if that's your case then you are stupid, if you would like a rephrase -- You have the brain cells of a half dead gazelle.
I head down our stairs which sound like it's crying from my weight, which is ridiculous, my dad weighs twice as much as me. The walls are damp, I don't know why, it better not be leaking pipes, we fixed those last year. I always follow the back door through our kitchen, I try to avoid looking at the sink in case there's vomit in it again, the last time was horrendous, my dad was a delusional, drunk, mad mess and I have scars down my arm to prove it.
By this point, I'm outside it's Monday morning, quiet, in a good way, calm but scary at the same time, those two things usually play along together, so it shouldn't be too much think about. I've been walking down these streets since I was 7, I know each twist and turn, curve and ends, all the 'secret' hiding places. To simply put it, this place is my childhood.
I can't say it's a good place to raise children and I certainly don't recommend it for a vacation, that's what Florida and California are for, there are broken down cars almost everywhere and old houses that would make Wednesday giddy. It's basically summary of depressing poverty.
I eventually make to work, it's a pub. Yes I am a 16 year old guy working at a pub, this shouldn't worry or surprise anyone. I walk in.... It's dirty, which means Imogen hasn't arrived yet, typical. I guess my boss isn't here either, so he can't yell at me about time management today, though I don't get how arriving one minute late was a problem last time.
"There you are!"
"Speak of the devil" I mutter.
"What was that?"
"Do you really want an actual rephrase?"
This was a rhetorical question. He rolls his eyes, forget the beard. This guy is about 24 years old.
"Damn kids, where's Imogen?"
Like he doesn't know, the guy's a freakin' time lord, when it comes to punctuality.
"Late"
It's a simple word I say, we both understand.
"I'm guessing she's taking care of that gremlin child, Michael"
"Marcus. She'd have your head if you got it wrong again"
"Yeah, yeah just get to work"
He waves his hand like he's shoo-in a fly away. As if on cue Imogen burst through the door, not an expression, she literally bursted it open.
"Hello! Sad, depressing, smelly-old-work-place!!!!!!"
