I Don't Have Much In Life But Take It - It's Yours.

For some people, coming out at night is a culture thing, a scene, a way to meet new people and drink until the early hours when you'll pass out. A time when you can wear neon shag bands and have glo-stick necklaces and pink fishnets on your legs. It's a social thing, a way of life, a laugh.

It's a way of life for me too, but it's far from a laugh.

I can't wear pink fishnets (not that I'd want to) or glo-stick necklaces or neon shag bands because I have hide, have to stick to the dark back alleys, have to hug the shadows and keep away from the light cast in orange pools.

I'm not a vampire, though.

I'm in an alley now, raking my hand through the mess that is my unwashed, uncut black hair. My roots are starting to show, and I need a way of getting them done. It's dyed, the natural colour is a dark brown, and I got it done for free in a local salon, in exchange for finding them a new sink to go in the back rooms.

That's how it works; I get things for people, people don't ask questions and I take whatever rewards I get offered, no matter what they are or how much I get. Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's not, and sometimes I have a back room to sleep in, next to the boiler, a chipped mug of instant coffee by my side. That's the best reward.

But tonight, it's going to be another night of sleeping on paving slabs, stones digging in through my flesh, the wind whipping around my body and just a thick patchwork blanket I picked up from a local charity shop to cover me. It's going to be another night of tucking my backpack into the hollow tree the park, in the hope that no one will steal my possessions, another night of hoping it won't rain and give me pneumonia again, another night of hoping that I'll stumble across a girl passed out on the floor and be able to take her purse, call an ambulance and then leg it.

I jump on the spot, making the too-big, too-heavy backpack I'm wearing hitch itself further up my back, and I blink, watching for any drunken clubbers stumbling out of the nightclub, a mixture of hardcore and electronica music pounding out of the doors. There's a girl and a guy standing outside, practically eating each other's faces, and through the open doors I can see strobe lights and dancing bodies and neon lights.

A boy with shocking black and blue hair stumbles out of the door, his hand pressed to his forehead; his eyes clenched shut in pain. His face is dusted with orange eye shadow and his jeans are bright pink and covered in black stars, held up by a yellow belt covered in blue plastic studs. Black leather boots covered in buckles reach to his mid calves, and have stars painted on them in glowing paint. The plain white vest he's wearing is covered by another yellow vest, with stars and rainbow printed on it. He's walking in a wobbly line, and I sink further back into the alley and hope he won't see me.

Because he's the one.

Only rich kids go out on their own at night. They've grown up being protected; being given everything they want, being oblivious to everything that goes on. They don't think for a second of people padding along the dark alleys, people hiding in the trees, people with weapons shoved deep into their pockets and hoods up so their faces are hidden from CCTV cameras.

And this rich kid is drunk.

Which makes it all the more better for me, of course.

I slowly raise the hood over my head; the hoodie is a Bring Me The Horizon one I picked up for free at Camden Market when I was trying to track down a leather jacket for someone. I was about to nick one off the stall when a guy came along, and told me he'd pay for it if I kissed him, so I did. I'm not one to turn down an offer of free stuff, especially when it keeps me warm and keeps me away from the police station. I tighten the straps of my bag slightly, so it doesn't fall off when I have to run, and I crouch down and I wait.

He trips his way towards me, and I scramble backwards as quietly as I can, hoping the dark and my clothes will hide me and the guy will try and take a short-cut home. I try to slow my breathing, try to keep it quiet, and I let my black hair fall across my pale face to try and hide some more of it. My hands curl under my sleeves.

I had to choose between platinum blonde and black for my hair, so I chose black, because you can't really rob someone when you've got shining hair, can you?

The last person I know who did that got caught, and now she's in juvvie somewhere. She sends me letters, via the local corner shop. I just go in there, once a week, and get the letters and read about what's happening to my best friend and how she's feeling. I can't write back; paper and stamps cost and I can't waste my money; but sometimes I'll find some extra money and buy a stamp and then scrounge around for some paper in the local recycle bins.

It's not as hard as it sounds, honestly it's not.

As the guy leaves the lighted street and starts down the alley, I can see the rips in his jeans and the yellow fishnets through them. He smells of smoke, sweat, sex and drink, even from a few metres away, and his hair is all over his face, covering his eyes, stopping me from seeing him properly.

But that's a good thing, because then he has a personality and then I feel bad about robbing him.

There's always a question hanging in the air at times like these, an important question, one that runs through my head every time there's a dark alleyway and a person near me, the question that I've never been properly able to answer.

The question is, how did I end up robbing people in the night and begging in the day? Why did I have leave my home? Whose fault is it?

Sometimes I think I'll never know the answer.

The guy walks past me, not noticing I'm there, and this is the most important moment, the time where everything can go wrong, the time that could screw everything up and land me in police custody with a busted up nose and a pair of handcuffs snapped to my wrists.

I cough lightly, barely a sound, keeping myself as small as possible, a huddle on the floor. I drag my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead on them and let my hair fall everywhere, making sure I'm just darkness.

I hear the guy stop, and I can see him turning slightly, searching the black alley for a sign of movement, a sign that someone's there, but he obviously doesn't see me and that's exactly what I want. "Stupid cats," he mumbles, and that's even better for me.

As he begins to walk again, I rise to my feet, silent as a ghost, and I step behind him, digging a pair of scissors out of my pocket to cut the strings on the Dora The Explorer bag hanging off of his back. I've done this before; as long as I don't touch him, I'll be fine and I'll be able to get away. If I touch him... Well, I'll either have to peg it or make my fist collide with his face.

I'm just about to cut the second string when a light goes on in the apartment building next to the alley. That shouldn't usually be enough, but it's just level with where we are so there's two huge shadows projected onto the opposite wall, and the guy stops.

I turn and start to run, but I feel a hand grip onto my bag and jerk me to a stop, and I tug as hard as I can, but the guy is strong and he grabs my shoulder and spins me around, his leg slamming into my shin.

I wince and hiss loudly, but lash at him with my fist and hear a grunt as I clip his forehead. The bones in my knuckles crack loudly and a sear of pain shoots up my arm, but I'm ignoring it because I can't let this happen. I can't, I can't, I can't, I won't. I won't ever.

I see a fist coming at me from the corner of my eye, so I look up so I can take this punch while looking him in the eye, because there's no way I'm going to be able to avoid it. I can't duck and run because he's too strong and I can't run so I'm just going to have to take it.

That's when the strange thing happens, that's when probably the weirdest thing I've encountered since I've been on the street happens.

He stops.

Nothing else, he just stops and releases my shoulder and looks straight into my eyes, like he's just noticed something, like he's just seen something new. I'm frozen to the spot and he's scaring me.

He opens his mouth to say something and that's when I come to my senses.

I do the coward thing; I do the thing I have to do every day just to survive.

I run.