Hiya, everyone. I'm deciding wether or not to develop this story as I've stuck some seriously badass writer's block.

So yeah..i'm starting off with the preface, and depending on how many reviews I receive, i'll see if I'll continue on to the first chapter..


Losing Focus


Dragging my feet to the living room, I slumped onto the couch and tucked my feet under my knees. School was tiring. Work was bland. Merissa, my rival at work, was off for the next week - lucky bitch was probably 30,000 ft in the air by now, on her way to Barbados with her new boyfriend. Skank. It was barely a month since she broke up with her last boyfriend, James, and already she'd had it off with his best mate. What was him name..Luke? Lucas? Lord knows how she hasn't ended up with all the STD's in the world. Well, Lukey-boy, let's hope she doesn't ditch you for anyone tropical. I grumbled. I never was too tired to be sarcastic.

My iPhone vibrated, and I suddenly had a strong urge to hurl it out the nearest window and snuggle deeper into the velvet cushions that rubbed seductively at my back. But the window's fate was wiped clean as soon as I saw who was calling. Seriously? I groaned inwardly, though I could've roared and screamed to my hearts content in the currently empty house. I saw no point in rejecting the call - it would only lead to bigger shit later on.

I tapped the 'answer' button reluctantly, and pressed the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I began, expectant.

"Amy, where are you?" The words were slurred.

"I'm at home...Mum, have you been drinking again?" I had anticipated this, hence, the expectant 'hello'. The drinking...the slurred words...it's all become too frequent ever since Dad left a year ago, and I can't say i'm surprised at his departure. They never had got on after Jamie - my younger brother - was born. It was just constant rows, the throwing of flower vases, smashing plates in a fit and slamming coffee mugs on the table. It really is amazing how Dad could endure all of that for the next so-and-so years. I guess he just wanted to see his little boy grow up; it wasn't rocket science in the least. And you can forget about 'Daddy's Little Princess' - he'd rather skin puppies alive than spend time with the mini-reincarnation of Mum - me. But I never have been like Mum. I admit, I might've been, long, long ago, when we were all happy, and I was the only child in the family, and I'd look up to my Mother to see her eyes full of admiration and sacrifice, but now, all I see in them are over-dilated pupils.

"It doesn't hurt to drink a little..." I think she was smiling. I couldn't tell. The miracle was that I could make out her incoherent words, really. Little? I mentally scoffed, she's never had a little swing, just ask her liver. The last time she was that drunk was at the Christmas Party at the local pub, last year. And, oh yes, how could I forget the two blokes she brang home with her? It was a surprise she'd even made it past the bloody door frame, let alone assisting the two foreigners to her bedroom, unscathed. Jesus, Mum! There are times when I come home to find you clutching a bottle of Swedish Vanilla Vodka to your chest, never wanting to let go, and the sofa is all damp and sticky. How many men do you bring home at night - or more precisely, morning? Are you being safe? Well - at least I know you are being safe; you've shoved a whole load of condoms under the bathroom floor tiles. Nice stash(!).
"Hey - have you...the...white drapes...summer...and...take Jamie.." Mum garbled incoherently. There was someone with her, I think. She always spoke bull shite when she was getting high...getting high...

She was starting to tell me - in little garbled sentences - to cook dinner for Jamie, when she moaned. How inevitable. Then the signal went wayward.

I held my breath, listening for anyone who was not my Mother, in the background. I heard heavy breathing - which of course was my asthmatic mother, (weird for someone with asthma to be so sexually active!) - and a man's voice. I knew it; she's never alone, is she?
I listened harder. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I could hear something...I dunno', moist? And it soon became obvious what was going on when Mum started giggling. Eww. She called me when she's getting teased? That is so fucked up. And i'm not in any mood to put up with it.

"MUM." I put as much force as I could in that one word, trying to grab her attention and to show her how pissed I was.

"Yes, baby?" she murmured. Ugh. I could hear everything too well now - where was the dodgy signal when you most needed it? - and it was disgusting. Oh, why didn't i just hurl the frikkin' phone out the window? I wouldn't have got into bigger-shit after rejecting her call - she would have. And she damn-well knows I don't want to speak with her.

"What in God's name are you doing? Wait - don't answer that - 'coz I don't even wanna' know! See, this, this shit right here is why I do not want to speak with you! And you know that! So, why bother calling me in the first place? If I wanted to hear sexual orgasms, I would start subscribing to Porn Channels, not listening to my mum having it off at" I glanced at my toy-watch, " 4 in the afternoon with a complete stranger! What kind of Mum does that? You're sick, you know that?" I paused for breath, taking the silence on the other end meant that she had sobered up a bit. "How d'you think Jamie feels, eh? You have no fucking consideration for your children - okay, fine, forget about me, but not Jamie. Jamie's 15 now, he's been without his Dad for 9 damned years. He could do without having a skank-of-a-mother. We all could. And Thank the Lord that Dad is real and isn't a complete tramp that you've got off with in a club. God, I hate you. I hate you SO much." Tears started to well in my eyes, from anger or pain, I didn't know, but I scrubbed my free hand over them and continued ranting. "Sober the fuck up and then when you can call me, I might, just might pick up, and don't even think about walking past that front door with your new boy-toy, because if you do, im changing the locks and burning every thing of yours I come into contact with. I've had enough of finding used condoms in God-knows-why-you-put-it-there places." I didn't wait for a reply when I hung up. Neither did I expect one.

I sighed heavily as I threw my iPhone into a corner. It's collision with the wall was satisfying, and deafeningly loud in the quiet house. I ran my fingers roughly through my hair, and succumbed to the cushions.

Wednesday morning was thankfully cool and cloudy when I left the house. I walked slowly, rubbing the remnants of sleep - careful not to smudge my mascara - from my ever-drooping eyes as I wondered how to get out of work today. Call in sick? Say my Mum had a stroke and was on the verge of dying? - a mental wish - or I could tell them the truth: that life's a bitch and I can't be asked to get my arse to work to type on a fucking keyboard for 7 hours straight. Realistically, the latter would have got me sacked - how ever true the statement was. I sighed and checked my forever present baby-blue toy watch: it was 8:02. A gust of wind rustled my black hair as it passed, trying, it seemed, to wake me out of my morning stupor. It had worked...partly: goosebumps covered every inch of my visible skin - not that there was much of it - and I shook my tussled hair vigorously which was like a little kick start for my brain, zipped my leather jacket as much as I could, and then thrust my hands deep into its pockets. All the while resisting the urge to run right back the way I had come - which wasn't much, what with me being a slow walker and all - and dive between my warm, retro coloured union jack bed sheets to get the full 8 hours of sleep sans mums-early-morning-orgasms that I so desperately and frequently needed.

But that rarely ever happens. Little things like that you don't get when you live with a mother like mine.

Agh, I groaned mentally. I can barely think of her without my hands balling into fists, let alone speak to her.

Life: she's a bitch. A bitch who created...Mum: a demon summoned to bring me into 'life''s lair.

Partners in inevitable crime.

No way was I going to let that get to me, though. Just like I wasn't going to let drama at school deter me in getting good grades, Merissa, most probably in a skimpy bikini, having sun-lotion rubbed onto her back by L-, get me sacked from work, and Sam Bolton - my testosterone-filled ex-boyfriend - stop me from flirting with the cutest guy on this side of planet earth: Jesse.

Ah, Jesse...but that's a story for another time.

Tired of having to think about someone who would probably never be mine was hurting in a way. So my fingers rummaged around the pockets in which they were caving in and pulled out my mini-savior: my purple iPod nano.

I untangled the Skull Candy headphones as I crossed the road. Once they were fully embedded in my ears, I scrolled down...down the list of tracks until I came across the most loudest, crushing song I could find. I made do with Careful, by Paramore.

The intro thrummed through me, kicking my brain fully awake. Guitars and frantic drums swirled lividly around my head. Haylee's voice soon broke through the intro, taking a confident place amongst the eccentricity of electric guitars. I sang along with her, nodding my head with every live beat. Listening to Paramore always did clear my head - and thoroughly, at that.

Minutes passed, and as the song shifted onto a more calmer note, I glanced up ahead the street, realising that I was nearing my destination.

I walked straight and finally turned into an archway, standing in front of a black door. I smiled slightly as I lifted the-brass-lion-thing-you-bang-back-and-forth, knocked thrice, and waited. The door soon opened and Callum, my gay best friend, appeared. Once he saw me, he wore a set of pursed lips and his eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down, appraising - or shall I say, inspecting - my outfit for school.

I dressed casually today, wearing a white, baggy t-shirt with a retro slogan scrawled all over it, black skinny jeans and black/white Converses. My make-up was light, too - I dared to draw out my eyeliner more than a couple of millimeters thick, framing it with black mascara-ed lashes, and applied my favourite lip-gloss (DuWop Lip Venom) to my lips.

"So," I drawled out the word, "What's today's verdict?"

He cocked his head to the side, and after a moment or too, he shrugged. Translation: You've done worse. (Which equals...a pass.)

But before I could say anything, he grabbed me by the wrist, pulled into the hallway - all the while kicking the door slam behind me - and began towing me into the kitchen after him.

The usual routine.

I drummed my fingers against the kitchen table as I stared up at the ceiling. Dirty splatters covered it, commemorating the pie-blast from last years Thanksgiving. I half smiled as I remembered all those care-free years I spent with Callum.

We used to go camping in Minnesota with his Uncle Graham every Summer for 2 weeks. My smile grew even wider as I remembered the trip we'd take to Quarterdeck Resort on Gull Lake the day before we went home. We'd spend hours on the pebbled shore, building those really bad topple-over-the-minute-you-step-back-castles, eating - and then spitting out - oysters fresh from the Gull L. Café based at the sand-dunes, and attempting to drown each other until Uncle G had to jump in - fully clothed - and save us from our self-inflicting 'swim'.

I missed those days.

So did Callum - but he's gay. He'll never show it.

"So," he began as he buttered his toast happily. "Hows your mum?"

"Eh." I shrugged, my eyes now watching him make breakfast. "She's...breathing."

"What a surprise!" he cried - sans the sarcasm. It really was a miracle how the woman was still alive. He reached into the fridge and then fumbed about with the saucepans, when in walked Dylan, his younger brother. He nodded at me - the little twerp - and began demanding his brother for sausages.

"Grow up, honey. Start making your own breakfast - you cant keep relying on this lovely Richard Chamberlain reincarnation." He winked.

Dylan shuddered. He couldn't care less about his brothers preference of the same sex over the other sex; he'd taken Callum's coming-out speech quietly. But that didn't mean he was altogether comfortable with the whole thing.

"Cal, first of all, Richard Chamberlain is old. And ugly." Callum gasped and clutched his heart dramatically, as if his brother's blunt words sliced through his many gay layers. Dylan rolled his eyes toward the heavens. "And secondly, you're a morning person. I'm not. So therefore, it'd make sense if you made the breakfast, instead of me attempting to."

The 13 year old boy then made his way to the table, sitting accross from me, waiting expectantly for his food.

Callum and I shared a look. I shrugged - he sighed. The smell of frying sausages soon filled the air, followed by a very smug look etched onto a very satisfied boy. Dylan always got his way. Even if he wasn't so good in the mornings.

I kicked Dylan under the table.

He raised his head and narrowed his eyes at me.

The staring contest began.

Minutes past, tears filled our eyes and I could see Dylan just about to blink, when Callum slammed a mug on coffee onto the table and shoving a plate towards his brother, joined us at the table.

Dylan looked down at his food and groaned. "Now, this is more like it!" Grabbing the cutlery laid at the side of the plate, he tucked vicously into his breakfast fry-up. Not a word left his mouth. We chuckled.

"Well, I guess I need to cook for you more often if it keeps that gob of yours shut, honey." Callum smiled, sipping from his mug of Espresso. Dylan's eyes sparkled. "You know," he said, his mouth full of potato waffles, "maybe you being gay has its advantages."

"Honey, being gay doesn't nesessarily mean i've suddenly grown house-wife testicles. It just shows how willing I am to learn and carry out the things most guys shy away from."

"Yeah, stop being so sterotypical, Dylan. It's not like your so amazing - your no better than Milly when she's off her meds." I added, smiling evilly when I mentioned my neighbour's spasticated daughter.

Dylan sent daggers in my direction but I dodged his kick under the table. Callum groaned, muttering something about how the kitchen was supposed to be a happy and calm area for people to socialize in - especially in the morning.

We ignored him. I twirled my hair around my fingers and rested my head against his broad shoulder.

We talked for a bit about shit and that. Then about what cars to buy - Dylan had a very imaginative mind - and we'd gone on like that for a bit until I asked for a drink.

By now, the boys had pretty much finished their food; dishes were stacked in the sink.

"Well, that's me done; see ya." Dylan grabbed his backpack from the stairs and walked to the front door. "Someone's a little eager to get to school. And it's not even Friday yet." I remarked. I nodded in Dylan's retreating back. Callum grinned. "He's got a little crush, you see." He wiggled his eyebrows menacingly.
"Ooh. Name?" I asked as he placed a glass of Tropicana orange juice – without the bits; bless him – before me. He held a finger to his chin, thinking. "Well, from what I've heard – or more accurately, eaves dropped – from his phone conversations with her," He spoke low, waiting for Dylan to leave the house, even though he was well out of earshot.

There was silence for a few moments, the click of the front door opening, and, finally, a loud bang as it closed.

"Her name's something along the lines of Gemma." I felt my eyebrows rise. "Wow. Dylan's gone and bagged himself a girl – he's growing up so fast!" "You sound just like Mum." He giggled.

I sipped from the glass in front of me.

"Well," I murmured to myself. My mood immediately darkened as unwanted memories began pushing to the front of my mind. "Let's just hope neither of them gets too hurt along the way."

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