Dead Boy Walking

11 - G L A S S

My memory was hazy and I barely remembered where my uncle lived. Even though I hadn't seen him in a while, every Christmas, Dad still sent a card over to him. I wasn't sure why - maybe it was to show Mum he was still a decent guy or maybe he was running out of friends to keep in contact with.

Walking passed the closed coffee shops and indie bookstores, it clicked into place upon seeing the charity shop. My uncle, Louis lived on top of it. I remembered going inside the shop once with my mum and loving the patterns and colours as a child.

"£17 for a dress," she'd scoffed. "Yeah, you're having a laugh, mate."

This was the right place.

I ignored the dirty looks the pigeons gave me and knocked on the door hard enough so that my uncle, Louis could hear from his room in the flat above.

There wasn't a moment of silence. From the train, as it rushed along the tracks nearby to the people as they laughed through their inebriation and even the loud screeching of birds, something was always going on in the background.

The door opened quickly and my uncle stood tall, clearly annoyed. His lips were pursed and a long robe tied loosely around his body. Though I hadn't seen him in what felt like forever, he hadn't changed.

He was a lot younger than Mum, closer to my age than hers. The babyface proved as much with only a whisper of dark stubble above his lips.

"Quincy," he spoke. There was nothing to his voice that suggested any sort of emotion. However, from the purple circles under his eyes and messy mop of dark hair, I probably woke him up.

The light that crawled toward him from the street lights behind me cast dark shadows across Louis' face. It was haunting. As if his skin was melting, distorted.

"Louis," I answered with just as much animosity.

"Are you on your own?" He asked, running a hand through his hair slowly.

"Yes."

"Does your dad know you're here?"

"No."

Louis sighed, long and hard. It was the same sort of sigh Mum did a lot. Sharp and loud through the flared nostrils. They were very similar.

"Well, come in then," he grumbled reluctantly and stepped to the side, allowing me room to walk inside.

I took off my shoes and slowly climbed up the stone stairs as every step echoed uncomfortably. My stomach churned. It wasn't that I didn't love my uncle, I just didn't like him very much.

His flat was cold and the decor made it look less like a home and more like a shed. Tools were discarded across the floor along with various gym contraptions. Uncle Louis attended university in the city, making the family proud but becoming miserable while doing it.

Still, it was exactly what I expected his place to look like. Even after more than four years living here, the wallpaper was still half done, no curtains and messily hung pictures on the wall. Mum had tried to get him to clean it up but he was stubborn, something that ran in the family.

"What happened to you?" Louis pulled me from the analysis of his messy home. He didn't sound concerned, though. Almost as if he was ready to laugh at me.

"I was at a party and fell," I murmured the half-arsed reply. He hummed along, not questioning it further.

"So what are you doing here?" He continued.

"I needed money for the train," I turned around from the mess and met his eyes. He leant against the wall with his arms crossed and scoffed.

"Of course, the only time you see me is to ask for money."