Battling the Loss You Live For.

Sazzy’s Point of View
It’s Sunday, the 24th October, 1999. I turn 18 today. I didn’t have to work, on account of the whole birthday thing, but everyone else did, and it was kinda depressing.
My mother isn’t talking to me, still, because I’m going out with ‘a punk, radical and unruly boy who is inconsiderate and is making you go astray from your culture’. She is just ridiculous, and doesn’t even know what the fuck she is talking about.
So, pretty much my whole family isn’t talking to me, apart from Ani and Shine, as they’re reasonable, and open-minded, unlike the rest.
It still kind of depressed me. I mean, it’s my Mum. She’s meant to be there, no matter what. And it’s just… well, loosing my mother, after everything…

I took a swig of the bottle of whiskey in my hand, clutching my black hoodie closer to me. It was fucking freezing.
I was sat on the beach, hidden next to one of the groynes. It was around 7:30pm, but I really didn’t care.
Bottles surrounded me, and in some of them, I’d stuffed pebbles into them just to pass time. It looked kinda cool, actually. The Smirnoff label kind of ruined it, though.
“Hey, chick?”
I lifted my head up, seeing a guy standing about a metre away. I didn’t say anything.
“You free for some… y’know?” he asked, a smirk playing on his face. Why do I always get the prostitute allegations?
“Fuck off, you prick. There’s a dog over there that’ll need your dick,” I muttered, pointing the end of my whiskey bottle towards the pier, scowling at him. He grumbled something like ‘fucking slut’ under his breath, stalking off.
I pulled my legs up, tucking my knees under my chin. I was getting colder, and the fact that I’d worn some dark blue ripped up skinnies didn’t exactly help much.
After I’d finished all of the drink, I stood up. I was a little drunk, I suppose. I called for a taxi quickly, pulling on my sunglasses and my hood over my head, walking back towards the pier. The taxi was already there, waiting.

“Where the fuck were you?!” Charley screeched, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. I giggled at him, stumbling over my feet and into the lounge. I was hammered.
“It’s almost midnight, don’t you have any explanation?!”
I collapsed on the sofa, my eyes droopy and stinging.
“Shurrup Char-lay. Y’not my muvva,” I slurred, groaning. I heard him sigh, then walk over and stub out his cigarette in the ashtray, hauling me up.
“Gerrof me!” I cried, my arms reaching out to push him away, to no avail.
“Shut up. You have to get to bed.”
“F-fucking kill-joy,” I grumbled, then crying out as he sighed, frustrated at my in-cooperative behaviour, throwing me over his shoulder.
“You’re a mess,” he whispered, his voice shaky.
I fell asleep as he opened the door to my room.