KELLY ROBINSON, 16

He showered with his socks on.

They had advised him to, although he would have done so anyway. He really did not want to find out what lurked beneath them, as judging by the amount of pain he went through every time he walked he knew it couldn’t be good. He had had to bite down hard on his bottom lip as he removed his boots before-hand, which had taken him about fifteen minutes alone. The metallic taste of blood still lingered in his mouth.

They had given him powdery potato and watered-down gravy for dinner, heaven to his ravenous mouth. Although he had been offered a bed for the night – which was rare – he had refused, although he’d gladly taken a shower. The refreshing feeling of being clean at last had disappeared by late afternoon the next day, having walked a few miles after waking up from a troubled night’s sleep in the shelter of an unused doorway.

Tugging his coat even tighter round his body, he noticed the harsh chilling winds whirling around him, and the absence of a sympathetic Sun. Winter weather had awoken. The caring warmth of summer had once again deserted him and cruel November had taken her place. He pulled his frail rucksack closer to him and gritted his teeth as he continued along the roadside.

Specks of water began to fall irregularly on his face, making the wind sting, keeping his senses awake. As he struggled to free his food and retain some warmth, he attempted to conjure a plan in his head. After several minutes, all he knew was that yet again he’d find a supermarket or busy store in a few hours, just like always, full with stressed shoppers after work and sulky checkout staff wondering how they had managed to get the evening shift. No-one would notice him, quietly slipping a sandwich, a can of coke, a packet of biscuits. They made a point of not seeing him, not knowing he was there: then it was just impossible to help him.

Spatters of rain became thick droplets, splashing on the road. Cars drove past, hurrying to get home, windscreen wipers on and lights blaring. Workaholics, young couples, elderly pensioners, families, blurs of colour and faces.

His mind stirred, distant memories shifted. A woman was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. A young boy, fair-haired but no face, was laughing in the back: Are we there yet? The memory sped up, voices, echoes. It faded, glowing dim like an ember, unwanted, shunted back to where it came from, forgotten, not there. He walked faster.

Dark started to descend. Roads blended in with each other as he trudged down them, his pace slowing with every step. His rucksack was heavy with the distance. His swollen feet throbbed against painfully tight boots which had lost all of their comfort through constant use. Stopping, he closed his eyes for several seconds and breathed. His brain was focused on the pain and he had nothing to distract it with. He was weak from lack of food and energy, his body was bruised and aching from having to sleep on solid concrete night after night. He didn’t know where he had come from. He didn’t know where he was going. Opening his eyes he took another step forward and his permanent journeying continued.

A gang of teenagers stood huddled together on the other side of the road, hoods shadowing their faces, their breath visible in the cold air. The familiar clink of glass told him they were drinking; their loud, hysterical laughter suggested they’d had too much. His heart beat faster. He wasn’t scared, just wary. He automatically looked down at the ground as he passed, fiddling with his gloves and quickening his pace. But they didn’t take any notice of him. Involuntarily he pictured their parents sitting at home, believing they were sleeping at a friend’s house or concerned about their whereabouts.

Suddenly an image flashed through his mind, followed by another; like an ancient film roll, silent. He was waiting, drumming his fingers on the work surface. A phone next to him was ringing. He was sprinting out towards a car. The scenes had taken him completely by surprise, he hadn’t been prepared. He struggled to force them into a box, to turn the lock forever. He had no memories. He had no past. He moved faster.

As the stars began to peer through the thickening black, the rain eased off. For him, they were a small, glistening symbol of hope. Their mystery always held him bewitched and their company was always welcomed. They would watch over him as he drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep; almost like distant angels.

Then the night was upon him. The streets around him fell into a watchful silence, with the exception of an odd group of friends on their way to the pub. Although the rain had come to an end, the wind was still as fierce as it had been and he was still wet and cold. It was too late for food since the stores would now be too empty, or most likely closed. His body was crying out for sleep but he knew the horrors that could let loose, when his mind was in its most vulnerable state. So he soldiered on.

Half an hour later he had to stop. His body wouldn’t function properly, his head ached as his mind battled against things another alien part of him was fighting to remember. His feet were numb, making him stumble and fall and he couldn’t walk in a straight line. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep for so long, having always deliberately made himself uncomfortable, unwilling to be properly asleep, to become trapped inside a dream or memory. A bench was just a few metres away. He curled up on it, resting his head on his rucksack.

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