So I woke up in the morning, and identified who I am. Danny. My name is Danny. Danny Sinclair. 18. High school dropout. Homeless. Without family. No qualifications. Without an actual address. Heaped in a corner of an abandoned shack. Yeah, life was pretty terrible.
And by in the morning, I mean really fucking early. And by that I mean too early. This being due to the intense amount of sheer cold creeping in through the hole where the door used to be. So I went for a walk in the fear I was gonna die of pneumonia or hunger. I remember it was -5c, and I was dying of starvation due to the last thing I remember eating was a packet of crisps the morning I was kicked out.
The first opportunity I remember seeing is a grown man throwing out a half-eaten kebab. After he had put it into the bin, I pondered to myself if I could stoop so low. I was fucking starving and I needed some hot food to stay warm. So I crept over to the kebab and retrieved it from the bin. I stared at it for a while, embracing the beauty of it to me. Looking back on it, it was and looked fucking disgusting, it had the remnants of a curry smeared on the bread from the night before and a few flies landing on it to smother it with its germs. I would usually be a kind of germaphobe to this, but it was vital for my survival. I stuffed it into my mouth as if it was a godsend. I looked at the house where the man resided, in hope of thanking the saviour of my life, however, all I saw was a woman, staring straight at me with disgust. She was quite plump and short in build with fiery ginger hair. She looked hilarious, but this was no laughing matter. After stuffing my face, I ran back to whence I came, to the shack in where I now realise I have nothing to sleep with to keep me warm. So I make my way out into the cold, harsh streets again.
I soon saw a charity bin outside, yeah you guessed it, a charity shop. I approached it cautiously, considering the fiasco earlier on presented me with a short, plump woman who looked at me as if I had murdered her child. No one seems to be around, and by the time I had made my way to the bin, I realised it was locked. I thought to myself ‘Score’ and ransacked it. The contents were heavy to carry, but I was determined. I ended up with around 6 bags of rags. This being exactly what I need. I quickly made my way back to my hovel, avoiding all human contact.
The shack, or house, or whatever it was, had a council flat overlooking it. It was a constant reminder of the superiority of even the lowlife scum that infected the council flat. It was located by an off-street of a main road in Hull. Holderness Road. Many well recognised names, selling ‘cheap’ products to the masses... It was loud, too loud... It was hard to sleep. Traffic horns during the day, sheer cold during the night. I glance at my rags, they feel warm in my hand already and I wished to revel within immediately. Walking has also become an issue, as I’m not necessarily in the best shape as it is, and considering my already injured leg from the ordeal of accessing my shack the day before, it feels as if my abode is miles away, even if it was in my peripheral sight. That in mind, this caused me to go into a wild sprint to the hole in the door. As I reached the shelter, I slung the rags into a corner causing my shack to shake, and dived upon the rags. In doing so, something catches my eye. A rat had decided to attempt to take residence in the corner opposite. “Only if you pay rent” I said to the little bastard, stamping the floor beside the rat, startling it and causing it to flee
The piles of rags proved useful, after I rearranged them to suit me. Two bags to support my back against the wall, four on top of me to repel the cold. I could actually sleep that night, occasionally being woke up by the passing car, reminding me that I would never be able to achieve that kind of wealth. I was a cynic. I still am after everything that happened. I despised and cussed at every car that had passed by that night for two reasons. One, the fuckers woke me up. Two, I had an extreme hatred for the wealthy now, considering my parents were just that. They came from an successful background. My mother was a nurse for a short while, then quit to become a housewife to ‘tend and care’ for her children. My father worked in the police force in a high position. We owned a four bedroom house on a private housing estate, yet I didn’t allow myself to become a snob. I constantly protested to my parents, who were constantly implicating rules which in their mind were considered accepted. Almost like Stalin or Hitler or some shit. I fucking hated them. And if I got a chance to murder them, I wouldn’t hesitate to.
Mid-September, Same day, 2010, 1:45 P.M.
I woke up to the sound of heavy traffic and realised I wasn’t going to get any sleep. I wanted to erase the vision of myself from the peripheral vision of the public. Again, I left Sinclair H.Q. for some kind of miracle, to scavenge and to generally survive in the urban area.
A few hours later all I’ve had to eat is scraps of discarded fish and chips from the ground and the occasional bag from the nearby baker, where people left flakes of pastry inside the bag. That was a treat for me. I was surviving in that kind of lifestyle. It got me nowhere, but I guess I was alive. I was an eyesore to the utopic setting that Hull wished to show, but as if I cared, I was alive. I remember stumbling upon a child’s playground after I had worn myself out, and promised myself I would only spend two hours lying on the slide there, as it seemed comfortable as anything would when you’re homeless and fatigued...