The short sharp stabbing pain of my fingernails into my clammy hands is almost numbed by their violent shaking.  I try my hardest to control them, as I glimpsed a horrified glance from wrinkled eyes, behind a newspaper. I glance around the small room to see if anyone else is terrified of my slouched shape in the corner. A little girl points at me, and I hear whispers.
I stare at the murky coffee stained carpet that looks older than the man across from me. It is worn and tattered and is desperately pleading to be vacuumed, ancient crumbs, dirt and dust infecting its fraying hair. I kick at it a little bit with my shaky legs, a volcano of dust erupts. My chest tightens as the people around me s*** in their seats. I feel as if I don’t belong. They make me feel that way; it is almost uncomfortable as the chair I am sitting on.  I take a deep breath, reminding myself, my thoughts trail as the toxic smell of anti-bacterial disinfectant burns my throat. I choke and try to hold back a cough, as the ancient eyes appear above the newspaper. I turn towards the wall, eyes itching and watering, as I splutter out a cough.
I haven’t been here this early before, the few people cramped into this tiny space is intimidating, as they see your every movement, action , breath and blink. I really want to leave, but I have to stay. I turn to look out the window, realising there is none there. I try to imagine the view but taped to the space is a Suicide Hotline Poster, I try to ignore the nagging feeling at the back of my brain and turn back around feeling empty.
The tap tapping of the receptionist’s keyboard echoes in my ears, bouncing in the empty space. Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. I jump. Startled out of my thoughts, I am suddenly aware of the heaviness of my breathing as though time itself was slowly sucking the breath from my lungs. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I gasp and shake.
I can feel the eyes of people watching, staring, surveying, and judging.
My legs start to bounce; the swishing of nylon creates a symphony with the tap taping of the key board and the pounding of my heart. I look around for a clock, there isn’t one? Why isn’t there a clock? Why wouldn’t they have a clock? Why? Have I been waiting for an hour? Two? What is the time? Why would they not allow me to know the time? I anxiously sweep the tiny cramped cupboard space of a room that we are all cramped into again, but still no clock. I clutch my hands again; the sharp pain makes my eyes snap open again, blinking back tears. The little girl tugs on her mother’s sleeve; the lady looks up as I look away. I can hear them discussing me in hushed tonnes, used only at funerals. I can barely hear them over the beating of my heart. I wonder if they can hear it too, it sounds louder than a bass drum at a concert.
I look down at the battered chair and attempt to trace the pattern on the uncomfortable, ancient vinyl chair trying to portray some sense of calmness, but my hands show how I really feel.  My sweaty palms stick to it as I try to steady myself. Stop shaking I tell myself, but that just makes it worse. I try again to steady my hands on my still trembling legs. Breathe, Breathe. Sickly bile fills my throat, as the nauseating feeling spreads throughout my stomach, I clutch at it trying to conceal its noises.

My eyes fleetingly look for a distraction and I stare at the off white colour peeling from the walls surrounding me. Surrounding me. Closing in on me. Almost crushing me.  I close my eyes and try to swallow, but my throat is drier than the desert, it burns and the nauseating feeling returns. I have to stay, I say to myself as I clasp the moulded armrests. Not daring to see the horrified faces around me. I squeeze my eyes tighter. Even though my eyes are shut I can see the whiteness of my knuckles, the blood has rushed from my face.
I can’t breathe.
I realise that I have been holding my breath as I gasp for air. The cool air caresses and soothes my lungs, I breathe in deeply, feeling a hot flush creep across my checks as though someone has painted it on as they walked past.
Shaking, still shaking. The tap taping stops and the receptionist looks over, everything is silent, and all eyes are on me. All. Eyes.  Are.  On.  Me.  I have to get out of here. Move I say to my legs. Get up!
“Run.” I scream.
---2
The cool winter’s air stings my throat and cheeks as I hunch over trembling, spluttering sobs.  Tears of sweat drip from my shoulder blades and follow my spine. My lungs are burning. I fall to my knees, coughing, hacking as though my lungs are being sliced by an unseen sword. The acidic tasted of cigarettes is stained on my teeth and it burns my throat, slowly strangling and stealing my breath away. I fall to the ground. The cool almost loving feel of the pavement on my cheeks calms me for a moment, but the electric metallic wiring interrupts the serenity, and the painful irritating the tap taping is back, but it is the sound of stilettos on pavement. They sound angry. Angry shoes.  I smile and almost laugh. The sound stops, and so does my heart, her shadow towers over my crumpled body. I can feel my body pressed against the cool concrete, the rocks digging into my hips, shins and ribs. I feel like a naughty boy caught in the cookie jar.
“You’re a nice piece of work.” she hisses, as she walks by, her daughter’s bright green eyes questioning me, as she is dragged by her mother’s brisk pace.
I wished the cement would just swallow me up.
“Oh God.” I mutter to myself. “What have I become?”
The sound of doors slamming and a departing engine interrupts my thoughts; the aggravated sound is more soothing than what I am thinking. I lift up my head and watch those big green eyes, pressed up against the cage of the flashy BMW. I watch the shiny silver until it disappears.
I drop my head again, and close my eyes for a second, take a deep breath, and push my sweaty palms against the rough dusty concrete, and clamber to my feet. Guiltily and reluctantly I survey the half empty car park and sigh in relief as I realise that no one else has followed me. Hopefully they won’t remember the shabbily clad creature that has ruined their ‘normal’ day.  I run my pale, bruised and bony hands through the mattered oily strands that cage my hands in an unrelentless vice. When was the last time I had a shower? Was it yesterday? I can’t remember. All of these days seem to fade into one, hazy, lost in cigarette fumes, and thoughts of long gone youth. I pull my tatty old high school jacket closer around my body as the wind whips around me, making a sail out of the faded jacket. I pull it tighter.  Shivering, I step down from the curb onto the bitumen and then I continue out of the car park, trying to avoid the half eaten McDonald’s discarded and abandoned, like me. Except people actually wanted it in the beginning; then realised how awful it was and threw it away, and forgot about it. Cheap junk. That’s what I have become. Something so rotten and disgusting, that even children turn away from me.
It is rather uncommon to see litter in this posh neighbourhood, but if they can waste their money they will. They live such self-absorbed lives of plastic happiness, smiles are painted on their faces and the corruption and hunger of pride, poisoned their thoughts long ago.
I walk down the street and watch the cars comically scuttle along; they run away from me too, zipping past causing the colours to blur into streaks of light, they could be famous, or rich, or geniuses, but to the sun they are all just people trying to live a life worth remembering.
Its funny how we all try and make ourselves important and remembered by the world but in the end we’ll all be dead and gone, and our life will be merely a story, scarcely read, and no one will remember us. We’ll just become dust and dirt.  Well that’s what Matt told me but he’s not around anymore… I miss him
As I round the corner two boys pass me on their skateboards, their clothes billowing, hair flowing.  They nod at me as they pass; the taller one punches the shorter boy. Almost in slow motion his board slips from under beneath him. Knowingly the taller boy grasps his friend and steadies him. Their laughs echo off the concrete walls. I long for that feeling of innocence and peace, I try to soak it up, inhale it, inject it into my blood stream, but they become specs in the distance and the wind thrusts the feeling from me, a shiver shoots down my spine.
I wedge my hands deeper into my pockets. The nostalgia of youth causes my feeble composure to fall, someone has glued my feet to the pavement, it is a struggle to take one step, but something deep inside me, pushes me forward. Don’t cry.  Boys don’t cry. I fill my lungs and slowly push the icy air out through my teeth. I am such a mess I say to myself and I nod.
They say the first sign of insanity is talking to yourself.
The second sign is answering yourself.
My mind circles like a vulture, following a near dead animal, waiting to strike, it swoops in carrying the worries and troubles of the day come spilling, rushing through my head again. If there was only a way to numb this pain than “I would be the happiest person on earth.” I whisper. I take a deep breath and continue on wards, my boots making a heavy thud in time with my heart. 
The wind blows relentlessly through the trees howling and moaning at my crumpled sight, a stranger in this town, and outcast, a misfit. Their bones creaking, fragile and unstable; the leaves are tossed to and fro, scratching each other.  I should have bought a thicker jacket, I think as I wrap myself tighter into a one person hug, the thin flimsy one that I wore to the appointment is of no use.
Appointment.
I stop dead, mid step, mid breath, mid blink. Somewhere someone has hit pause as the tsunami lams into my chest the water crashes. Smashing into me. Filling my body. Drowning in my own thoughts. They smash into my stomach like a sledgehammer. They will be the death of me. I can’t move. My feet are cemented to the ground but my head is in the clouds of disappointment, regret and agony. I tell my legs to move but they are stubborn, and have a mind of their own, they will not move and inch.  I feel. I can’t feel. Numbness, nothingness. I close my eyes. I try to breathe slowly. But I can’t.  I splutter and gasp for air as I bend over as though I have just run a marathon. I steady myself on the retaining wall to my right. A Staffy bolts toward me, the grass turns into a blur of green beneath his stubby little legs. An eruption of barking sets off two other dogs. Their growls and howls turn into the dusk symphony orchestrated every night by the setting of the sun. I walk on, the symphony gradually fading as my thoughts creep back into my mind, like weeds slowly infesting everything.
“GET A GRIP!”  I yell at myself. My thoughts fade, and I look at the peachy pink velvety marshmallow sunset that expands around me. A Butters song comes to mind, the melody escapes my lips, the pristine sound of a familiar tune. I mouth the words, “I tried to paint the sunset but the colours couldn’t match your skin.” I reach into my pocket, I feel the almost etched creases in my forehead reappear, I panic a little, where is it, I search my other pockets but it is not there. “Ugh I wish I bought my iPod.” I mumble glumly.
Bummer.
I round the corner and kick a pebble onto the road, I go to kick it again and a car speeds past me, missing my by centimetres. The bass of the radio mimics my heart beat, I take a deep breath, rage bubbles up inside me and I storm off after the car. Without any warning the car reverses back almost into me again. The nerve of this driver! I go to yell at the driver but I see a familiar face poke out.
---3
“Bloody Hell Luke.” I protest as I punch him. His jovial face brightens.
‘Where’ve you been Mate?” He questions as he gets out of the Ute that looks older than his Great Aunty Sue. He slams the door and the whole car shakes.
‘Oh yeah….around.” I shrug and gaze into the distance, the last of the honey warm glow of the sun disappears behind the blanket of night. Something nudges me in the arm.
“Do you want one?” Luke gestures as he flips the box of cigarettes open.
I hesitate, my hand hovering above the cardboard, but take one anyway. The flame of the lighter is warm, and there is comfort in the smooth cylindrical paper pressed against my chapped lips. It’s dumb that we pay so much money for something that will kill us, we may as well just jump off a bridge; it would save us a lot of money. I ignore my conscience the warm smoky feel and acidic taste fills my throat. I purse my lips and blow my sorrows away. Kissing them goodbye. Relief creeps over me…slowly. Again and again I inhale and exhale the pattern soothing. I find myself watching the cloud of smoke as it slowly dissipates into the growing night, illuminated by the murky yellow of the streetlights.  There is no conversation.
“So what’s been happening” I ask.
After a drag Luke replies, “Ah not a lot.”
“Still working?”
“Nah.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Nah.”
“What do you do then?”
“Geez man, you sound like my mum! Is this Border security or something’?” he laughs and shakes his head, stubbing out his butt in the gutter we are perched on. I laugh it off; it feels weird talking to Luke, it’s so different without Matt around. The awkward tension is tangible
“Anyways mate good to see ya!” I say whilst stubbing out the cigarette between the rocky bitumen blacker than the night and my Boots. I straighten up, my bones creak, like the trees above.  It’s going to be a long walk home, the appointment was in the city, and my town is almost an hour away. I sigh, I barley have enough energy to stand. The moon draws me into its mystic grasp.
‘Yeah you too mate!” he steps into the Ute. I start walking across the road. The engine splutters and coughs, then roars to life. It stops suddenly, I laugh to myself, that truck is so wrecked.
“Hey mate! Do you need a lift?” Luke yells across the street.
“Ah okay.” I reply, relieved as I pull my jacket in tighter, it was getting chilly fast. I pull myself up into his rustic Ute; it smells of cigarettes, feet and petrol is almost sickening. I clutch my stomach to alleviate the sick feeling in my stomach, probably not even linked to the foul stench.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess.” Luke jokes. I look at him for the first time, his eyes seem empty, and he shrugs and turns away. I sigh. Luke starts the car, the music pumping, it’s a song I don’t recognise, but we’ve always had different tastes. 
Discarded packets of chips and faded almost empty cans of Red Bull litter the unknown coloured carpet. We pull away from the curb, I remember the last time we were driving together, Matt, Luke and I; it was a good day.
A smile forces its way across my taught cheeks. I stare out of the car window, the tint peeling in places, like sunburn skin. My breath causes little fog patches to appear; growing, glowing, and then fading into the night. I roll down the window, the handle jamming a few to many times. I let the wind whip my face, and stab it with its icy daggers.  This old friendship seems colder than the wind and more faded than the rubbish on the ground. I go to say something, but the words don’t come out I hang my head and try to forget. But there is nothing to alleviate the pain.
We don’t talk except for the small nods and fake smiles when we stop at traffic lights; I think we’re both too caught up in our own thoughts. The last time I saw Luke was at the funeral. Last year. Wow things have really changed.
The world doesn’t just stop for you because you are sad, it keeps going people move on, and they all forget about you. Life won’t go back, it’s like telling a tree to become a sapling again; it just can’t be done.  I turn to face the blurred salt and pepper expanse of black that lies beyond the truck. I really hope Luke doesn’t see the pain that is constantly chiselled as bags and worry lines into my thin pale face.
---4
We pull into my driveway at last, an excuse to escape the silent tension slowly suffocating any warmth from our souls.
“Hey mate, thanks for the lift!” I say. I step out into the icy wind and push my hands deep down into my pockets, kicking a rock loose in the bitumen.
“No worries mate. Good to see you again!” He pauses and then stammers “S-s-see you around.” A painted smile is stretched across his lips.
I shut the creaking door; it screams in protest before it slams, rattling against the door jam.  I stand on the curb and watch him leave, the bass fading into the night. I look up at the sky, the darkness enveloping the world in a black hug. The diamonds sewn into the thick black cloth the glisten and twinkle, winking at me as if they have seen everything, and know what I am feeling. One shoots across my view and leaves a trail of fairy dust behind. I make a wish, quickly shaking my head at the stupidity of it all, I turn away from the friendly scene and walk towards my house. Wishing for something won’t get you very far. I breathe out and watch the cloud of water vapour form and vanish literally into thin air.
Cold shivers travel violently up my spine, the blanket of darkness doesn’t protect from the cold. The heel of my boot gets stuck for a moment in the cracked, worn path that leads to the even older door. I twist my boot repeatedly in frustration at the disrepair of the place I call home. The jingle of keys, swishing of nylon and the creaking of the stairs, which groan under my weight, seem even louder in the dark empty space; I am afraid I’ll wake the neighbours. Like a criminal in the night. As I push open the door I allow myself to be enveloped in darkness, all that I can sense is the unforgiving stench of old beer and cigarettes, that is somehow comforting.  The hum of the TV in the living room creates a crackly static noise that fills the dauntingly emptiness of the house.  I walk towards the living room in the darkness, groping the walls and doors. The heavy sound of my dad’s snoring fills my ears. I exhale an enormous sigh of relief and realise I have been holding my breath. His irritating snores are a triumph of sorts. He is still alive and okay. Some days I am not sure he will make it, he is carrying a terrible burden, but I try to ignore it, I think he does too that’s why he drowns himself in alcohol.
Whenever I had problems he would reassure me that tomorrow would be a better day, and that everything will be okay. I used to believe him but now I’m not too sure, he doesn’t seem to think that either. People in town say that ever since mum left he was just not the same, getting worse even. Mum left when I was 5, I can’t even remember what she looks like.  The words still provide a gentle comfort, even if we both don’t believe it.
I slowly creep to my room, the floorboards complaining under my weight; the wind howls outside, the shatters rattle. I flopped down onto my bed; it rocks and creaks even louder than the floors. Everything in this house seems to age ten years every one year, including the people. Wrinkles of age; and chiselled sadness. Waves of tiredness hit me, it’s not until you have a break for two minutes that you realise how tired you are. The marshmallow like pillows and doona seem to swallow me up inside them.  I close my eyes and let out a long sigh.
---5
The flickering light and the banging of the blinds against the window sill force me out of my peaceful rest. I reach out and stretch my lanky limbs, my feet sticking over the edge, I untangle myself from the sheets and rub the spot where the button of my jeans has pressed into my soft pinkish flesh over my stomach. There are indents from the stitching stretching from one hip to the other, creating a sea on my skin. I prop myself up with my elbow; the small battered clock flashes 6:07 AM. I groan and pull the covers up over my head, I try to roll over and go back to sleep but something is on my mind. I get up and change into a t-shirt that looks like it has been on the floor for two weeks. I search around the mountain of clean and dirty washing spilling out of my faded wooden dresser for some clean socks and shorts. Eventually I find a pair behind the fallen down poster of The Butters, covered in fluff and dust. I brush the poster off and stare at the familiar faces, they seem so proud to have made it on to a poster. Happy. I drop the poster on the floor and step over it, not giving it a second glance. I pull on the shorts and trample towards the back door.
I find my old, torn Nike runners by the back door; caked in mud and grass from the last time I used them. I find myself shivering once again; but I’m not cold. I glimpse the morning sun a small crest of yellow on the horizon, imprisoned by the menacing clouds as I slide my feet into the cool shoes. The numb stinging pain in my fingers increases as I fumble and struggle to tie up the slippery wet laces.  I send small torrents of fog into the thick, cool, morning air in a desperate attempt to warm my skeletal hands. It is useless.
I exasperatedly get up and put in my headphones, turn up the music and feel the rhythmic sounds flow through and around my head, caressing my brain ever so gently. It is hypnotic as though it is slowly putting my brain to rest, maybe I’ll have some peace now. It seems to be the only escape these days. I ponder the thought of my brain sleeping but I doubt it would ever happen. Even when I’m dead and nothing but rotting bones my brain will still be thinking. Working overtime at its full time job, only to realise its hard work has come to no avail, my brain needs the sack. I sigh and watch my breath come and go. I start walking towards the front of the house, the weeds and cigarette butts discarded everywhere, like confetti. The grass desperately needs to be mowed; the weeds grasp onto my shoes and try to strangle my laces, but as proven many times man will always destroy nature whether he means it or not. I try ignoring the nauseating guilty feeling and I start to run.
---6
There are only two things I love in this world and that is music and running, both are so therapeutic, and they make you happy. There’s that word again, happy. Happy. Happy. Happy. I miss that feeling. What does a true smile feel like? What does laughter sound like? What does happiness taste like? How long has it been since I laughed so hard my ribs hurt? I’ve just been so….so, so numb since Matt left.  I try to look away as though my thoughts are a person I can ignore.
I focus on the sound of the soles of my shoes slapping on the concrete rather than my thoughts. The music slowly but surely, numbing and tickling my brain, helping it to forget, to only remember the good. It oozes and squeezes its way around even the smallest of gaps till it fills my whole soul, like coffee slowly warming you from the inside out.  It caresses your body like bath water, a sudden relaxing and peaceful feeling that washes over you and floods through your veins. A hug from the inside out
For a moment I feel nothing just peace and serenity. The numbness is comforting. I pass the school, the closed shops, and I run up the side of the highway. There are not many cars at this time, or ever really. That’s what happens when you live so far away from everything. It’s nice sometimes though. The peacefulness and isolation of a small town on the edge of a ‘great city’, it’s like a breath of fresh air. But the people who live here seem so blinded by their own fame and fortune and the gaseous fumes that cover their eyes, so that they forgotten what was here before them.  Would the tress be taller than these buildings? I question myself, but we’ll never know if we cut them down before they’re fully grown. What tales would they tell about the cruelty and selfishness of man?
I reach the bridge and pass a few mums with prams coming from the city, probably about to turn around, they don’t venture to far away from the internet coverage. A little boy with big blue eyes stares deep into my soul, he reminds me of myself. I stare back losing myself in the ocean; drowning in the emptiness.  I try to shake the feeling.  I focus on my breathing and keep running up the ascent slowing slightly but I keep going. I stare through the prison like bars, keeping me out or in I do not know. The once azure blue river now runs murky brown. A few cars pass, their colour whisking past quicker than my beating heart.  I reach the top, sweat trickling down my spine, and gulp a deep breath of air; it tastes of stale coffee and petrol. It reeks of consumerism. I start to run again, my wings spread, my t shirt billowing in the air. My faces is pushed backwards, the wind rushing in my hair, it is exhilarating, the adrenalin starts to kick in and I feel as if I can conquer the world.
“It’s a new day!” I scream into the oncoming guts of air. Yesterday does not matter. I AM flying although my feet are planted firmly on the ground. The city scape comes into view; it’s hard to think less than 10 kilometres away is a small rural mining town.
I keep going, past the parks, and the big hotels, onto the jogging track with all the blonde plastic girls clad in Lorna Jane and their beefy trainers. I run past the down town basketball courts, into the backstreets. My legs tell me to stop but I keep pushing myself, I could run twice this distance with Matt back when… yeah… My thoughts threaten to eat me alive again the butters song comes to mind like reinforcements before a defeat; hacking their way to the front. Victorious once again. The slap slapping of my shoes and the heaving of my drenched chest mingles with the sound of my heart as I pass the park that Matt and I used to play in. For a moment I glimpse our 6 year old selves jumping from the top of the fort. But the memory fades as quickly as my legs allow it to.
Up ahead I see lights flashing and witches hats scattered about the road. An ominous metal sign reads, Road Works. Pedestrians Use Detour.
I read the words again hoping I am just making them up, I start to shake, and the thought alone makes me want to be sick.  I can’t go down that road! I can’t! I am approaching the intersection and the man in an orange safety vest signals me to turn left, I can’t do it. He stares me down, his beady black eyes staring into my soul. I get closer and closer and closer, his gaze is locked onto mine. I CAN’T TURN THE CORNER.
--- 7
I look back over my shoulder to see if the traffic controller is still watching me, but a man on a bicycle has caught his attention, his belly jiggling as he waves and signals furiously at the non-observant rider. I turn around just as my trainers nick the curb and for a moment I think I have stopped myself but the ground comes at my face quicker. I see myself falling in slow motion; pale arms flailing legs collapsing under me, as I fall with a thud into the knee deep in a jungle of green. I lie there in the grass dirt surrounded by cobbler’s pegs. I suck in in the smell of mud and rotting branches accidentally. The stench is so strong that it almost burns my nostrils; but I can’t get up. I don’t have the will or the strength, I roll onto my side and a terrible pain shoots up through my leg.
I claw my hands through the dirt, rocks and grass trying desperately to breathe. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I start to shake, and I roll onto my side. I clench my teeth in agony; I know where I am. I never wanted to come back here. Ever.  I throw myself back onto my stomach, trying to ease the now throbbing pain in my leg. I had avoided this place for a long time. The wind picks up; the rustling sound of grass and nylon fills my ears. The bass drum inside my chest threatens to wake the street.  I try to count the clouds to distract myself but there are too many. I shut my eyelids, they too shake and little flecks of red and yellow fill my view. Don’t cry. I clench my fists. Don’t CRY! I wish I could just curl up and die. His face flashes instantly into my mind; his big cheesy grin and freckly face, encompassed by his unruly blond locks that he could never decide whether to grow into a ponytail.
I scrunch my eyes and hands trying to blackout the image. Sadness hits me like a train, throwing me against the tracks, every carriage smashes into me, hitting me with every thought. And with every blow I see his face.
If I lay still enough hopefully I’ll die.
I squeeze my hands to my side and my eyelids shut. Blackness is all I see for a split second then, happy faces and play fights flash through my mind. I curl into a ball. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. More faces older ones, photographs, late night parties, music. The train drags on, the last carriage hitting me with such force that hot bile fills my throat. I gag at the smell, waves of nausea swirling inside of me.
“STOP!” I scream into the cool morning. A magpie startled; flies for the tree above squarking.
The rustling of leaves is the only sound that is heard. This place is more abandoned than a graveyard.  I shake my head in disgust
I try to breathe slowly, but my shaking hands and legs make it hard to relax. I slide my shaking fingers through the dirt and grass trying to find a rock or stick to hold onto. My hand brushes over something glossy, I stop and pick it up. I sit up and brush off some of the dirt and grass seeds from my legs, blood mixing with my sweat, my knees and palms sting.
The chicken scratch scrawl on the tainted yellow card reads January 1994. I9 I turn the dirt splattered card over to see, among the rips, two toddlers, who both look oddly familiar.
A man with a full moustache is holding a little boy in his arm and with his other is holding his wife. The other little boy is smiling happily as he holds his mother’s hand. Her smile radiating, matching her golden… auburn…hair… it is so familiar, which perplexes me because I can’t remember how I know her round face.  They look so happy. The man seems to be laughing, his big blue sweater amplifying his bright blue eyes.  My dad used to have a sweater like that…with the rip…oh no… That’s my favourite Thomas tracksuit… and that’s me.
I drop the photo to the ground. Breathe. Breathe.
My shaky hands reach down hesitantly to pick up the picture from among the weeds again, as though it will burn my fingers I bring it back into my lap. I stare at the other toddler, her reminds me of someone I know. I fall to the ground, clutching the photo to me, tears streaming down my face; mixing with the earth. It can’t be.

---8
I must have laid there for a while because when I realise what I am doing my watch says 9:45, and I am yearning for a cigarette. I feel the cool dampness of the soil on my cheek, and a rock stabbing into my hip. I can feel my forearm pressing against the ground, a leg, a thigh, and my ribs. The grass tickles my elbow. I sit up, my head peaks above the tall weeds and grass; I gaze at the cars driving by. 
My skin is warm and starting to burn by the time I decide to go home. I brush the dirt and dried blood from my knees, I try pitifully to pick off the cobblers pegs, but in comparison with everyone I pick off ten more seem to reappear. I turn for the first time to face the house, old, closed and bordered up. The faded FOR SALE sign on a slant covered in graffiti. I breathe in and close my eyes.
“It’s time to go home” I whisper gently trying to caress my brain. It is only 8 and I feel terrible. I really need a cigarette and a shower.
I should probably take my meds too.
The rest of the walk home is a blur, my mind switches to auto pilot and my mind takes its own invisible journey to another land so far away from where I am that I think my brain has been teleported to another planet. I push open the swinging, battered door. I untie my laces and kick off my shoes, feeling the relief instantly. I chuck my shirt into the pile of dirty clothes near the laundry. I should probably do that later.
I pull a cigarette out of the packet on the coffee table and knock over a cold coffee; it spills all over the faded newspaper. I watch it drip onto the carpet, not registering that I should stop it. My life seems to have been sucked out of me. I feel as limp and lifeless as a doll.
When I snap back into reality I quickly put the cup back up right and cover the spill on the carpet with a week old catalogue, advertising groceries that look anything but fresh. I walk back outside, the door slamming behind me as I stomp around trying to find a lighter. Where is my lighter? Why can’t dad just put it back? He’s always losing them
“Damn it” I mumble under my breath.
I stub my toe on the old deck chair, something inside me snaps and I pick it up and throw t against the ground. I look down to inspect my toe and glimpse a lighter poking out from under the chair. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my toe I pick it up and light my cigarette. I take a long drag. I look at eh helpless chair and pick it up, I give it a reassuring pat as a whisper an apology under my breath. Luckily it’s not broken. I sit in the sagged and worn cushions watching the wind in the tall gum trees for a while. I can’t stop thinking about that photo and I have too many questions and no answers. I finish my cigarette and walk back into the cool serenity of the house; sweat pooling in my lower back and across my chest.
I reach around the cold plastic handle on the fridge door, the putrid smell of off milk reaches my nostrils before the door is even half open. I pinch my nose so violently that a numb pain sweeps across my face; I grab the bottle and quickly take it to the wheelie bin, just outside the back door, chocking back queasiness.
I open the fridge again to see if there is anything for breakfast; pickles, mouldy jam, leftover stew or black bananas for breakfast doesn’t look too appetising. I slam the door in frustration. I must look like a two year old boy in a grown man’s skin; Throwing a tantrum because I can’t get what I want. I shake my head in disgust at what I have become. I pull open the cupboard door and get a tall glass, filling it with water. The cool smooth liquid clears my throat.
My eyes scan the various charts, reminders and faded photographs on the fridge. I become suddenly aware of the photograph in my pocket and I cover it with my hand. It is cool against my skin but I try to forget it. My hands seem to be glued to it though and I can’t move it; it burns. I feel as if I’m falling, the room spins and fades in and out. When was the last time I ate? I can’t remember anymore. I can’t remember anything. I lean against the counter and allow my seat to slide to the floor.
I stare out into the peaceful sky, it’s a winter day but it is warm enough to not wear a jumper, I love the feel of the cool but warm breeze on your skin, Matt loved it too. I turn so I can’t see the sky, as though that will help me not notice the temperature. I reach out across the cool marble bench to the stacks of containers, boxes and bottles to the weekly pill container. I open my little cube marked with W, it reminds me what day it is, because I really can’t remember. I observe the colourful oval shapes in my palm and fight my brain in the constant struggle, whether or not to take them. I stand there my feet burning, body aching. I break into a nervous sweat, the pills sweat their sticky coverings as well. In the end I swallow all four of them. I need this pain to go away.
I can almost feel them sliding down my throat being washed and absorbed into my body, desperately trying to fix a damage that can never be undone. There is still a gaping hole in me and it’s bleeding all over the carpet, but all the doctors have given me is a band aid. The glass clanks as it hits the bench at a terrifying speed, it is a miracle it hasn’t shattered.
I retreat to the darkness of my room and stare at noting in particular. My mind feels a million miles from here. I stare at the wall; the once bright green colour I had chosen on my 8th birthday, now looks the colour of weeds, never taken care of, never loved. That was the year I got my first bike, that was the year Luke and I became friends. We rode around the big posh city like we owned the world, those where the days. Away from the little town into the giant city of awe inspiring wonder and adventure; we could remain anonymous, not knowing anyone, not belonging to anyone. It was elysian bliss. I find it ridiculously ironic that when we are kids we can’t wait to grow up, but when we are adults we wish we could go back. Back to the carefree days, to the days of make believe. It was when I had miserably outgrown that bike that we met Matt.  Luke and I were clad in scuffed tennis shoes, ripped jeans, riding rusty bikes that were exceptionally too small for us. We rode into Matt’s extravagant street, a removalist van unpacking boxes for a woman with auburn hair in a sundress and no shoes. She didn’t seem to fit into the street at all. Women peered out from nearby houses, noses up turned in disgust. We saw a boy crouched on the gutter; faded jeans engulfed his tiny body. He looked as if he was crying; his mother looked worryingly at him as he sat there playing with the ants.
“Hey!” Luke shouted at the boy, he looked the same age as us. He looked up with a scowl, his eyes red from crying, the wet patches on his faded t-shirt proved he had been.
“What!” he growled, probably because he didn’t want us to know he had been crying. Pushing his jet black hair out of his eyes, emphasising the scowl that seemed to fill even his eyes.
“I’m Luke” Luke said as he pointed at himself.
“And I’m Jack.” I interject pointing at myself. I teeter and fall off my tiny bike, falling onto the curb net to the boy; he smiles a big eyed smile and laughs.
“I’m Matt” Matt sniffles and flicks his black fringe out of his face. He smiles up at us. “I just moved here.”
“Do you have a bike?” Luke asks
“Yeah.” Matt replies
“We should take him to daredevil hill!” Luke says to me. “Go get your bike.” he orders Matt.  Matt runs off into the chaos of boxes and old men with beer guts. His mum’s face is split in two with a smile, her auburn hair almost the colour of mine flows in the wind, covering her smile.  Those eyes stare at me; they are the ones from the photograph too. My eyes flick open and I shoot up, and sit bolt upright.
“Ahhhh” I slam my fist into the wall. The plasterboard crumbles buckles and breaks. The white dust covers my body and sticks to the sweat. I lean into the wall and slide to the ground cradling my hand, I feel so empty. I wish I never saw that photo.
I get up and start to pace the room. I should never have gone running. I should never have left the house. I pull my hands up over my head. I should never have… never have…never…
‘MY LIFE IS ALREADY TERRIBLE’ I scream. Punching the wall again, but not hard enough to it break, instead my knuckles split and blood drips down my hand. I push myself with one arm and walk into the bathroom; the cool tiles are a relief to my sore feet. I turn the faucet and watch irrateatedly as the water splutters and chokes before it comes out, as a trickle. The pain that shoots suddenly up my arm is almost unbearable. I watch as the blood mixes and spirals down the drain.
I look at the clock its 12:57 and pools of sweat are forming all over my body.  I feel awful. I stagger back into my room and flop onto my bed
My brain feels like it will eat me alive, my rib cage is collapsing in on my lungs and I feel like I will die. People who tell you to man up have obviously never felt this bad before. I have so many questions circling my head threatening to stab my heart. I lean back into the worn sofa and clutch the photo to my chest waiting for my dad to come home. I fall into a disturbed sleep filled with the image of a small toddler smiling and clutching his mother’s hand, a body hanging, swinging almost, and a gravestone.
---9
The soft thudding of work boots trudge slowly away from my room, the heavy breathing of my dad fills the emptiness as he walks past me. He smells of sadness and disappointment. I hear a heavy sigh as the door creaks and slams shut. I jump up and sprint into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes
“Dad!” I yelp, half angry and half scared.
He doesn’t reply but he has his head in the fridge so he probably hasn’t heard me; his porky body sticking out at an unflattering angle.
“Dad?” I question
“What?” he grunts, as he opens a can of beer, he reeks of cigarettes, beer and sweat. His paint splattered faded high visibility shirt accentuates his rotund belly. He looks like he hasn’t slept, showered, or shaved in weeks, maybe years.
“I…I…need to ask you a question.” I follow him into the lounge room where he flicks on the small television set, with its coat hanger antenna. The small table groaning under the weight of his feet as he kicks, kicking off this morning’s paper along with his work boots; the stench of sweaty socks fills the room. I gag and  look at this old man, almost as worn out as the ancient lino chair his body is encompassed in, I almost feel sorry for him but I shake the feeling away.
I get up and turn off the T.V.
“What are you doing?” he orders, as he takes a long gulp of his beer.
“I need to ask you a question.” I say, as he flicks the T.V. on again with the remote. I step in front of the TV.
“Get out of the bloody road I want to watch the footy!” he says irritatedly. I lunge at him, just grabbing the remote, spilling his beer onto his lap.
“You bastard! Look what you’ve done!” he shouts as he waddles towards me. He leans out to hit me but I hold the photo in front of me.
This time he spills his beer, it drops from his hand at the same time his jaw droops. He tries to grab the photo.
“Where did you get that?” he demands. I tuck the photo into my back pocket.
‘Nowhere.” I reply
“Don’t lie to me.” He spits into my face.
“Who is the woman?” I demand.
“Give me that photo!” he yells.
“Is that my mum?” I question staring into those faded grey eyes.
“Give it to me!” he yells. He lunges towards me, but I step back
“Why didn’t you tell me I had a brother?” I step backwards as he lunges towards me his face scrunched in rage.
“Give. Me that.” he spits.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME HE WAS MY BROTHER?” I scream.
I crumple to the ground and cry for the first time since that night. His footsteps stomp off into his room. The house rattles as his door slams. I think I hear muffled screams, but I am unsure.
---10
That cute smiling face in the photograph, his little chubby cheeks and my mother’s warm smile keep flashing in front of my eyes. How did I not know? Why didn’t anyone tell me? How did I not realise?
I collapse into the arm chair and I hear the distant noise of the shower turn on. My dad must not cope well with emotions as well; there are four empty beers on the coffee table, and the stale smell of cigarettes lingers in the room. Like a thick cloud of fog obscuring my mind. I feel groggy and uncoordinated. I need to get out of this house, but I want the answers and he is the only one who can tell me.
I knew we never had a good relationship but I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. No wonder he hated me hanging out with Matt. Oh why? Why did it all go wrong?
I slip on my old grey hoodie and my worn boots as I head out into the cool air, the ominous clouds cover the moon from my view. The screen door slams behind me and I hear the static of the television turn on. I let out an exasperated sigh, at least he is okay. I breathe in. it’s going to be okay.  I make my way through downtown; one or two beat up trucks, making their long journey home, as I trudge along the worn dirt track. My mind keeps circling why? Why? WHY?
The cool, dark alleyway seems to be closing in on me, just like my mind.  My shoes softly thud against the reddish brown dirt as I continue to walk, slowly but swiftly. The scuttling of rats fills my ears, and the disturbing stench of garbage and rotten food fills my nostrils. A sudden surge of nausea floods through me, I have to stop and bend over for a moment to keep it down. A cool shiver runs down my spine, not from the rats or from the cold. Someone is following me. I pivot lightly on my heel, but I see nothing but blackness. My step quickens as I try to shake the feeling, but I can feel someone’s eyes burning into my back, and for the first time in a while I feel petrified.
Will this alley way end? I turn around again only to see nothing but blackness. I wonder if they can hear my heavy breathing or my heart beating like the bass drum in a waltz. I step up the pace again; relieved to reach the end, however the clouds threaten to dampen my adventure.
Lightning flashes and it splits the sky, a window rattles against its pane; the orange glow of the streetlamp tints my skin a yellowish colour. I survey the sky.  Thunder erupts above my head as another streak of lightning splits the sky. A dog howls in the distance.
I feel a tiny droplet of water hit my face. Damn it! I turn back around to go home but the eerie feeling of the familiar alleyway sends shivers up my spine. I decide to go the long way instead. The slow pitter-patter of the rain on the dirt makes me pick up my pace. A forked strike of lightning illuminates the dark and dreary landscape. The hills surround the small town cast an ominous shadow. I start to run, and the rain starts becoming heavier. My legs burn. I can’t go on. But my desire to out run the storm forces me to continue onwards towards the house, my boots stepping and sloshing in the reddish brown mud that now covers the streets.

---11
When I finally reach the veranda the rain is falling so fast I can barely see where I am going. The tiny droplets landing into my eyes and eyelashes mask my tears and soothe my fears. I run my cold hands through my soaking hair, sending a stream of water down my spine. My clothes stick to me like glue and the sticky sweaty feeling is almost nauseating.
I look down at my now red boots and try to rub off the mud, but I just end up making it worse. Like everything else
I slide down against the wall and pull myself into a tight ball to fight the coldness. I sit there for a while just watching the rain and the lightning in the distance. The thunder sounds like my father’s peaceful snores, the emptiness is almost consoling, as though the sky knows how I feel. Do they know the secrets? Has it seen everyone’s secrets? Does it cry for the world?
The cold is relentless, I try to pull my knees in closer but, it doesn’t help at all. I reluctantly unlace my boots, covering my fingers in a reddish brown paste. I slide up the wall; it pushes uncomfortably against my spine. I open the door and try my hardest not to leave any puddles on the floor as I jog to the bathroom. My fingernail gets caught on a loose thread while I peel off the soaking wet, sticky clothes. I stare into the mirror and I turn away quickly as I see how scared and broken I look, I clasp the back of my neck and bend over the sink. What has become of me? My prune like wrinkled fingers continue to pull off my skin tight clothing, and I toss them all into a pile, my feet burning on the freezing tiles. I pull a new towel from the closet and smell the soothing lavender scent of home. The towel is soft and warm against my bare skin, for the first time in a while I feel comfortable and safe. I wipe my face and stare hard into the mirror, I look away in shame. I stand there shivering huddled in the middle of the bathroom.
I slowly walk towards my room; my dad’s snores are almost inaudible against the torrential rain and thunder. I pull the doona up close around my neck, and fall asleep peacefully, the rain erasing all of my troubled thoughts. Washing them clean, renewing me
---12
The muffled sound of a phone pierces into my foggy brain, I do not realise it is mine for a while, and I roll over to go back to sleep, the covers are comforting. The noise registers in my head and I jump up to answer it, I trip over the lamp cord and swear under my breath as it falls and shatters, glass explodes and creates an almost snow like effect; covering the discarded clothes and packets. The whole scene looks very lonely, but then again so was I. it was a representation of who I am, messed up, lonely, cheap and broken.  I see the phone on the floor just outside the door, and luckily manage to answer it on the last ring.
“Hello?” I ask groggily
“Mr Andrews, is that you darl?” A cheerful receptionist questions as though she has just found out that she has won the lottery. Her enthusiasm is almost taxing and I try to remember how I used to answer the phone.
I swallow and answer with as much gusto as possible, “Yes?”
However I still sound extremely deflated, like a pathetic birthday balloon with a hole in it.  It’s face smile not reflecting its pain.
“Well Luv I am just calling on behalf of Dr Robinson to confirm your appointment for tomorrow. Dr Robinson said you missed last Tuesday’s one?” she questions as though I had just forgotten it, and not run out almost wishing I was dead. Her voice is patronising and it is really irritating, it takes all self-control to not hang up the phone or yell something at her.
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Awesome Luv, it will be a $50 fee if you don’t come, you do know dear?”
“Yes, I do thank you. Goodbye”
I slam the phone down.
I can’t back out now. I just want the answers. They can explain why I am the way I am they will be able to fix everything. Dad is the only one who knows; he must drown his mind inn alcohol to forget. His drinking problem apparently started when mum left. That must be her in the photo, it makes sense. But why didn’t he ever tell me.
That is what hurts the most.
Betrayal, disappointment, despair, disbelief. They all describe this burden that is weighing down on my back. I try not to think about it. Stop.
A body swings in the moonlight. I cover my eyes with my hands and try and stop the images that flash back into my mind’s eye, as though someone is flicking through television channels in my brain. A fly buzzes around my ear. I can smell the stench. I think I am going to vomit
The body swings again.
I slump to my knees. The face is lolling on the body’s shoulders, and is drooped to one side; the lips are blue.
“You can’t save him now I say to myself” as I stare blankly into the distance. A scream erupts from my lungs before I had even opened my mouth. I try to stop thinking about it. The memory pierces my heart, and I am lying, shaking on the floor the waterfall that has become my tears mixes with my snot to form a sticky mess on the floor.
I feel so empty, he was my only fried, I mean I have Luke but we were never as close, people said we even looked like brothers, they were right. I just feel like people ignore me or just keep moving and leave me behind because I’m the kid with the problems. I guess that’s the crappy thing about mental illness is that the world doesn’t stop because you do, it keeps going. And that’s when you realise how quickly you become forgotten.
I lay there trying not to think, trying to erase everything from my brain, but it all wells up and seeps through my eyelids, and it’s like the Nile River has flooded my bedroom floor. I am a sorry sight really, a skinny boy, in black from head to toe, shaking amongst chip packets and half eaten cookies, empty cans and the stale smell of cigarettes lingers in the air; surrounded, almost submerged in water. If I’m not careful I might die from crying, hopefully that will happen. I can see the headline now.
Then I could see Matt.
The front door swings open, and soft footsteps enter the house, I look at the clock that has been knocked into the bombshell wreckage of my room, it flashes 11:27. It’s too early for dad to be home, I frown. Who is it?
I get up and pull the door open to see my dad’s pudgy face, I jump a little.
His eyes look red and puffy probably from the alcohol. I don’t want him to see me like this; he can’t see me like this. I turn away from him. I can hear sobbing, but I’m not crying.
“Dad?”
He clumsily walks over and brings me into his side with a bone crushing hug, his tears cascade down my wet cheeks.
“I’m so sorry” he splutter, he is shaking uncontrollably.
I start to cry again too, “It’s okay dad” I manage; awkwardly patting his back.
“It’s not!” he belts out, as the room shakes uncontrollably from his earthquake sounding noes blowing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was just trying not to hurt you.” He splutters falling back into my chest; nearly winding me. I pause.
“But it hurt me more.”
I sigh wishing I had screamed it at his face.
“I know and I am so sorry…If I could go back I would change the whole thing.”
His face is so sincere; apologetic.
“Why didn’t you stay with mum?”
“It wasn’t working, and adults make stupid mistakes too.”
Yeah dad I learnt that really well from you. But something in his eyes makes me realise that he is trying so hard to keep it together.
He stares off into the distance
“A lot of stupid mistakes” he scratches his beard, his eyes swelling and red. We are matching, but for the wrong reasons. “We just wanted you two to have a chance at something we couldn’t give you.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me though?”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best”
I start to cry again, he reaches out for another hug but I turn away. I jump up and pace the room
“He’s gone”
“Jack… JACK! Calm down.”
I slam my fist into the wall, realising the second the pain shoots up my arm that it is concrete, my eyes sting and blood appears on my knuckles. I drop to the ground in frustration.
“HE’S GONE” I scream. My muscles tense up and refuse to unclench themselves, like their acceptance of Matt’s death has finally hit them. They try and curl up like a see anemone, so violently that I knee myself in the chin. My dad grabs me with his big thick arms and pulls me closer. I feel a sudden rush of anger. How could he betray me like this? I scream and sink my teeth into my dad’s fleshy arm; the skin is red raw but not bleeding. I hit him and kick him, as I struggle to free myself from his hold but I can’t. I keep yelling. But he just holds me and comforts me.
“HE WAS MY BROTHER! NOW HE’S DEAD! I COULD’VE STOPPED HIM.”
“Jack! Calm down.” He pleads, but I push past him and sprint outside.
--- 13
The cool winter’s breeze whips my hair around my face, for a moment it catches the light and glows in the sun, shining gold like the lettering on the harsh shape of a tombstone in front of my cold bare feet.  I kneel down on the scratchy grass, amongst the weeds and windblown, abandoned, plastic shapes of flowers, desperately trying not to fade like the people beneath them.
They were too morbid and I thought for a moment how ghostly they looked scattered around everywhere like the roses a dancer receives after a performance. These were life’s’ last tribute to the dead.
It is ironic isn’t it, how we allow our lovers to fade quicker in our thoughts, than these artificial petals, that we bought for two dollars as an afterthought, at the corner store; aren’t people more than that? Matt was worth more than that, but I hardly gave him a second thought until now. It hurt too much.
“I’m sorry Matt.” I whisper into the wind as it caresses my cheeks; hugging face, telling me that he has forgiven me. I used to come here more but then things got tough.
I lay down on the scratchy grass intertwined with weeds and press my ear against the cool damp earth. The smell of mud and spring fills my nose and I am caught up in the euphoric feeling of nostalgia. I don’t breathe out, trying to trap this feeling forever. My chest tightens and my lungs burn, my body screams for air. I exhale slowly, and I think I can hear him breathing. A faint smile stretches across my lips.
“Matt…Matt!” I start to dig with my fingers, into the cool brown dirt and it clumps around my finger nails; but realise the noise is just the wind rustling in the trees. I lie back down and try not to cry, his face flickering between the grass and sky, laughing at my tear stained cheeks.
I wake up in a cold sweat on the frozen ground, the wind rips at my clothes, and although I am wearing a jacket it feels as if I am naked. I cannot shake this reoccurring nightmare from my mind.  The eerie half-light illuminates the menacing clouds; the creaking of trees echo the aching bones that surround me, I shiver nor rom the wind, or the thought that I am laying on dead bodies, but from the fact that I’ll soon also be a name that no one remembers.  He smiles at me, then blackness, blue lips and a pale face.  AM I going mad? I can’t stop seeing him. I want to tear out my eyes!
I jump up, and start to run, tears cloud my eyes as I hurdle gravestones, and teddy bears, mouldy and half decomposed. I run straight into a small tree, branches claw at my face but I keep going, the warm sticky blood oozes down my face, mixing with my tears. I reach the gates, wide out, blood dripping now onto my t-shirt, and jacket billowing. The pounding of boots onto the bitumen echoes through the empty bushland. I continue back home, trying to outrun the demons inside my head.
Cars flash past me, their drivers oblivious to anything outside of their own coloured bubble. Blue, white, white, red, yellow, I say the colours to distract myself, anything so I don’t have to think about him.
The dream that has haunted me since that day has resurfaced and I am too afraid to shut my eyes. But I have and it is haunting me like an old smell, or a shadow, never leaving.  I try to scream but nothing escapes my throat, as though all the life has been sucked out of me. This dream is eating me alive; can I ever escape my mind? How can I kill the enemy, if I cannot see it?
I reach the main road; the cars are coming faster than my heart is beating. The flashing scenes of a body hanging there are flickering in my eyes, even though I am staring at the tall gum trees swaying in the breeze. Like his body. I remember his face. It’s the same face as the one in the photo that I found
Except he is not smiling anymore.

Alternative Ending
“HE WAS MY BROTHER! NOW HE’S DEAD! I COULD’VE STOPPED HIM.”
“Jack! Calm down.” He pleads, but I push past him and sprint outside
The flashing scenes of a body hanging there are flickering in my eyes, even though I am staring at the tall gum trees swaying in the breeze. Like his body. I remember his face. It’s the same face as the one in the photo that I found
Except he is not smiling anymore.
There is a pause in the traffic and I step out onto the road. White lights, I turn to see his face, Matt reaches out his hand, the baritone sound of a car horn, Bang! Flashing lights then blackness.