Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
My grandmother died when I was three and Mum inherited her house.
She’d been leaving me alone in it ever since, working several jobs at a time in between partying, and she paid some of the bills when she remembered to.
The soft expression on her face told me she was in a self-pitying mood. “It’s all right,” I muttered, pulling back.
She grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “You’re a good boy.”
Then why can’t you stand to be around me?
“Get some sleep.” I yanked my wrist from her weak grasp and walked toward the door.
She whimpered, “I’m sorry I’m such a shit mum.”
I halted, head bowed. My chest burned as a swelling sensation moved into my throat, a familiar choking feeling.
“I stay away so I won’t hurt you,” she admitted on a quiet sob.
I glanced back at her.
Her eyes begged for forgiveness for all the times she’d left me with no food in the house. For the times I’d had to rely on Deirdra, my elderly neighbor, who fed and took care of me whenever she could. For all the times Mum had beaten me black and blue while she was drunk or high and ragin’ at a life she could have changed, if she’d only tried hard enough.
The truth was, I knew that’s why she stayed away. Because some part of her didn’t want to hurt me. “I know.” I gave her a small nod, unable to give her anything more, and walked into the bathroom across the hall to get washed.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The bathroom was clean because I cleaned it. Our small, terraced home had become the place my friends crashed and hung out since there was no adult supervision. For so long I’d lived in filth as a kid, but as I got older, I learned to keep the house clean. People didn’t need to know how bad my situation was, and a clean house helped pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.
And ultimately, I could take care of myself. I knew how to cook, how to tidy, how to do my own laundry, and now that I was making some money online from game testing and reviewing and play-to-earn games, I could afford to pay the bills Mum forgot about. Deirdra let me use her bank details so I could get paid. She took the money I earned out in cash for me.
“You’re a good boy.”
Then why didn’t Mum want me? I thought for the millionth time as I stared at my unremarkable face.
Why wasn’t I enough?
“Fuck,” I muttered, squeezing my eyes closed.
I needed to get my shit together.
It was stupid to let those thoughts in.
Better to do what I did daily and act like most people’s opinions didn’t matter. It seemed to work for me. Girls seemed to like my “couldn’t give a shit” attitude. I’d lost my virginity a year ago and my best pal, Lewis, who was definitely better looking than me, was still a virgin. He’d made the mistake of falling in love at sixteen. Callie, his girlfriend, was a nice lassie, but love held you back. Love had you building sex into something it wasn’t so you were still a virgin when you were dating the hottest girl in Sutherland. Not giving a shit had you losing your virginity on your fifteenth birthday to an eighteen-year-old stunner from Inverness.
What can I say? She liked my confidence.
And I’m a fast learner.
Since then, there had been three more girls. Until Carianne. I didn’t love Carianne. She didn’t love me. But she was pretty and she liked sex, so it was convenient for us both. But honestly, she was kind of irritating me lately. She wasn’t academic, which was fine, but she was constantly on my back when I wanted to study. Calling me a geek had turned from an endearment into an insult. And I’d been insulted enough over the years to last a lifetime.
Time to end things with Carianne.
It had been a crap day.
Carianne did not want to be dumped. She made a scene and I hated scenes because, again, it’s all I’d had my whole life with Mum, so I told her she could tell everyone she dumped me. That sorted her out.
But I’d gotten a B in my history class, again, and it was pissing me off. My history teacher, Mr. Martin, had taken a dislike to me and was always lowballing me with grades. This time I’d had enough and had a word with my favorite history teacher, Ms. Heron, and asked her to look at all my papers for the year. She’d been shocked by the request and I knew it probably put her in an uncomfortable position, but ballsy Ms. Heron said she’d look over them and get back to me. She knew how important it was for my grades to be top-notch. I needed to get into university.