Poor boy

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(This is also another submission for a writing contest that I'm doing. The chapter 'Jump' is a submission as well. And just in case you don't know what a 'Maori' is, it's just the native people of New Zealand.)


Footsteps tapped steadily on the sidewalk, hands clasped around bag straps that were strewn on his broad shoulders.

He could feel the heavy homework burdening him with the weight of his textbooks and papers, but nonetheless, he continued to make his way home without a complaint.

The sun was steadily setting, the sun sinking slowly behind the silhouette of mountains and hills.

He breathed in then exhaled shortly as he saw his home come into view. He hoped he wouldn't see his mother passed out on the couch again.

As he walked down the beaten and cracked footpath that led to the battered oak front door, he could hear the telly crackling softly inside.

He slipped off his torn and dirt-covered shoes and placed them neatly on the side of the steps that led to his porch. He twisted the door handle open and walked through, and alcohol instantly hit his nostrils like a punch to the face.

He sighed in disappointment. She was drinking again.

The smell of cigarettes and alcohol combined together made him want to gag. As he tried to breathe in as little as possible, he slipped his t-shirt over his mouth and nose and cautiously made his way into the living room where he expected to find his mother. And as he predicted, there she was, sprawled on the couch, alcohol bottle in hand, snoring softly.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He walked over and softly laid a calloused hand on her forehead that was dotted with a cold sweat. He caressed her cheek and rubbed it softly, her dark hair covering half of her pretty face.

When was she gonna stop?

He stood up, towering over his mum. He looked down at her, placing his hands on his hips.
Even though he was the son, he couldn't help but be disappointed in his mother. Time and time again, she promised that she'd stop, but he always found her running back to 'comforting' addiction of smoking and drinking.

He's been looking after her as if she were his child which wasn't the correct role for him to play. He's been needing to work for money, scavenge for any loose change in the gutters, stretching himself thin, so he could provide the necessary needs for both himself and her. She didn't deserve it. But, she was his mother, so, he didn't really have a choice.

He went away and retrieved a blanket for her and he carefully arranged the material over her sleeping frame. He patted the blanket as it settled on her and then went to freshen up the house.

He walked over to the clouded windows from the cold weather and opened them, letting fresh air gush through. He tidied the empty cigarette boxes and threw out the burnt buds in the ashtray. The ash pattered on the rubbish bag as he discarded it. He placed the ashtray down and leaned on the bench, burying his head in his arms.

He needs to get away from this. He can't keep doing this every day.

Maybe I should go for a walk, he thought.

He nodded to himself and shrugged his bag off. He left it by the kitchen counter and he made sure to carefully sneak out of the house, even though he knew his mother was out cold.

He slipped on a worn out jacket over his shoulders and left the house, not bothering to put on his shoes. The sun has sunken which led the moon to slowly rise. But as it turned darker, the weather got colder, and soon, cold, bitter rain pitter-pattered on the pavement he walked down. The street lights illuminated every corner of every turn as he made it down to where most of the shops and eating places usually resided. Convenient store lights blared, showing off a slight neon glow in the darkness of the night.

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