by Princeorbury
Book 2 Comming soon Nineteen is meant to be the year of bad decisions. You're supposed to spend it nursing a hangover in a greasy spoon down Newland Avenue, or crying over a boy who doesn't text back, or staying out so late that the sunrise over the Humber actually looks pretty for once. It's the year you're allowed to be messy because you're convinced you have all the time in the world to fix it. Instead, I'm nursing an arm that looks like a turkey twizzler. I'm not making "bad" decisions anymore; I'm making survival ones. I'm deciding if the tin of peaches is worth the calories or if I should save it for when the humming from the Port gets loud enough to make my nose bleed. I'm deciding if I should trust the soldier with the Glock or the hairless freak with the mercury skin who watches me from the shadows of the loading bay. I found a poster today. It was peeling off the brickwork near the old fire exit, dampened by the Hull mist until the edges curled like dead skin. It was for a gig at The Adelphi-some indie band with a name I can't even remember now. The date on it was February. I stood there for a long time, just staring at it. That Friday in February was supposed to be loud. It was supposed to be sweaty and crowded and full of people spilling out onto De Grey Street with ringing ears. We were all supposed to be there. An entire city of us, just being young and stupid. Now, the only thing loud is the silence.
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