The Hands of Fate

As I sit on my bed in a complete bewilder over how to continue my life with no future in sight. I push down on my sky coloured bedding and scrunch it under my fingers. I enjoy the tingly fabric pressing against my fingertips and smile a little at the amount of strength running through my skin. I stand up and kick the wall once. I hear a harsh bang against something and turn my head to face the dark coloured oak door.

“Harold can you please! For fuck sake, take him with you.” I hear my mother scream at my father, and understand completely that she’s talking about me and kick my shoes on while mumbling quiet cuss words. I’ve never heard her so pissed at having to keep me; she’s not even putting up a fight for him.

“I don’t want him anymore than you do Karen!” I hear my father’s last words as he slams the front door, I walk over to the chalky white window and pull back the curtain to watch him scurry down the path and into a cab. I open my bedroom door and hear a clashing of glass against the floor. I walk slowly down the wooden steps of our staircase and find my mother kneeling on the floor with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and the broken glass of a vodka bottle around her knees.

I groan some pity and walk past her, not in the mood to deal with her bullshit. I dart out the backdoor and into the garden. I take in the sun baked dirt smell as my shoes scrunch in the muddy path. I run my fingers along the mossy brick wall to the end of the garden, ridden with trees. As I move around those trees and into the corner of our fence, nuzzled in between the rose bushes and the rocky pond is a little cubby hole, that is identical to my neighbours.

Whenever my neighbour hears the crashing, and the hasty taxi driving off, she...

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...rprised to find myself unable to focus on the continuous talk of fights. Fighting gives me a shot of adrenaline, the better I got, the more and more I wanted to continue. Even against Zoey’s wishes, I seemed to strive in the sweaty and drained environment. When the guy next tries to get my attention by shrieking my name I snap out of the daze.

“Nate, we’ve arranged a fight tonight, are you in?” He nudges me in an attempt to show some form of bond. I grin, my usual ‘I don’t give a shit’ grin and he gives a weak smile back. I know fine well these fights are going to ruin me one day, I also know being in a gang is stereotypical of a teenage boy like me, but quite recently punching someone to the point of the line where they could die, completely beaten senseless, is a grasp of power that was stripped from me long ago.

I need to feel power, I need to feel control.