They said I was guilty.

They stared daggers as I walked to my fate.

Then, why did I feel so good?

I’d done time for minor things. But this time, it’d kill Mum.

Watching my feet crumble the ground, doing my walk of shame, the smell of burnt rubber lingered. Then, the itch began. A nervous itch that crawled along my scar. An old burn covering my arm, a reminder of my old man’s rage.

Shuffling along, I was handicapped by another gift from the old man. Living in his same wimpy frame. Mum would say, “At least ya got yer ol’ girl’s brains ”.

She did her best, Mum. She was doing it tough, cleaning up people’s shit every day. Drunks and druggies. Got paid bugger all for it.

Dragging my feet, a slimy voice rose above the shouting crowd.

I knew he’d be here.

Turning, I saw his box head smiling smugly. My ribs ached where he’d buried his knuckles. He punched his fist into the air. His mates did the same.

Clenching my teeth, I watched the ground to hide a fire inside: burning the part of me that’d felt so good.

Thought I’d been smarter this time…

Thought I'd planned it....

Thought I wouldn't get caught.

A man in uniform led me to the metal door, dread looming in its every scratch and dent.

As I pushed the door open, the overcooked smell of microwaved food hit me. Old Baldy stared at his desk, twirling noodles around his fork.

‘You know the drill.’

I nodded.

Baldy looked up, stuffing his mouth while spitting his words, ‘Your mother’s on her way.’

At home, I felt the shame in Mum’s silent tears.

Wrapping my arms around Mac, his tail thumping, that happy bit of me returned. A suspension from school was worth burning those bastards’ bags.