One - Erin

I walked into the back of the shop and took my apron off, hanging it on the hook. I grabbed my coat and scarf off the hook next to it and walked back into the shop.

“I’m done now Harry,” I called, “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye now,” the voice came from behind one of the rows of shelves, and an old man appeared, carrying a stack of newspapers. “And you’ll get your pay tomorrow, don’t you worry.”

“Thanks Harry. Have a good night.”

I left the shop, pulling my coat tight around myself. It was about seven o’clock on a Friday night and the streets were starting to fill up with the usual crowds of people on their way to clubs and bars. I shivered. It was freezing and I had a quarter hour walk home. I turned down a back alley and then onto a quieter road with only one or two shops. It was already very dark, being in the middle of winter, and the street lamps cast strange shadows over the road and buildings.

Eventually I reached the road where I lived and I walked up the front steps of the house and rummaged in my pockets for my key. I found it and opened the door, closing it behind me quickly to avoid letting the cold in. Once inside I kicked off my shoes and hung my coat and scarf up on a spare hook. I then went into the kitchen. Michelle was sticking a couple of ready meals into the microwave, and setting the time. She didn’t acknowledge me when I walked in, and continued to ignore me until the microwave beeped.

“Go tell Richard his tea’s ready,” she snapped at me over her shoulder.

Michelle, my foster mother, only ever spoke in one of three ways, snapping, shouting, or screaming. Although sometimes she did manage to do all three at once, quite a feat if you asked me.

I walked into the living room, where my foster father was slouched in front of the TV.

“Your tea’s ready.”

He grunted in response.

I waited a moment, and then when he didn’t move, I said it again.

“Richard. Your tea’s ready.”

This time he looked at me.

“Well go get it then, you lazy cow.”

And he turned back to the screen.

I walked out of the room and into the kitchen, contemplating whether or not to accidentally-on-purpose drop his meal on his annoyingly shiny bald head. But when I saw the death glare Michelle was giving me I decided against it. It was better to stay on her Bad side than on her Murderous side.

I grabbed the ready meal and the beer can next to it, carrying it into the living room, and putting it on the table next to the sofa. He didn’t even look up.

When I got back into the kitchen Michelle was waiting for me.

“Where’s your weeks rent?” she snapped.

“I get paid tomorrow.”

“You better. Or you know what’s going to happen don’t you? You’ll be out on the streets before you can say ‘ungrateful child’.”

I nodded.

“Get your food and get out of my sight,” then, she added, eyeing my dreadlocks with disgust. “And do something with your hair, you look like the stupid tramp you are.”

I shoved a ready meal into the microwave and when it was done I grabbed a coke and my school bag and went upstairs.

My room was tiny, but it was the one place in the house where I could escape the disgusted looks of my foster parents, and I had made it my own. The walls were a dark purple but you could hardly tell for all the posters, pictures and photographs I had stuck everywhere. The one window faced west and I hadn’t bothered with curtains as the nearest street lamp was quite a way down the road and in the mornings this side of the house was in shadow. In the room itself was a narrow bed along the wall under the window, and a small desk with a lamp and a wooden stool. There were three wooden shelves attached to the wall because there was no space for a wardrobe or drawers, and all my clothes and books were squashed on together along with the very few other possessions I owned. There was no picture of either of my parents and I had no memories of them, as they had died soon after I was born. The pictures on the walls were of places I wanted to visit in my life, places like the Grand Canyon, Uluru, the Egyptian pyramids, Mount Everest, and Machu Picchu. I also had posters, posters of bands, art exhibitions, theatres, and other random things. On the wall next to my bed was a picture of me from the day I had got my hair put in dreadlocks, two years ago. Next to it was a picture of my previous foster parents; both wore a smile on their warm faces, the same smile that had comforted me for so many years. Until last year. They had been forced to give me up because their business fell through, and they lost everything. And now I lived with Richard and Michelle who kept me only for the money they received.

I stared at the friendly faces in the photograph and wondered about my real parents. I didn’t know anything about them; I didn’t even know how they had died.

I turned away from the photo and climbed onto the small window ledge, closing my eyes and leaning against the cool glass, dreaming of a different life.

 

Reviews

[Beatrice Mars]

'There WAS three wooden shelves attached to the wall'

Sorry...I just can't let that go, apart from that, 'twas awesome to reread and am going to carry on now!

[Brendan Kerestes]

Very good, but add just a teensy bit more description.......will immediately continue with the next chapter!!!! Keep it comin', and before ya know it, you'll be a published author.

[Beatrice Mars]

love this chap, love the discriptions and the way it's written.....and her name....will continue....

[Eira Anchor]

dredlocks. typical claire move.
lovvving the desciption of the room and i like the way you say Bad side and Murderous side with capital letters :D
(Y)
i shall continue to the next chapter...

[-Aurelia Mirella]

Hmmm..I found this to be very interesting.

I LOVE the character's name by the way!

I will definately continue reading.

Always,
-Aurelia Mirella