Get Out If You Can

Matt | Who Needs A New Home?

I fish out a Camel from my pocket, light it, and bring it to my lips.

The nicotine soothes my throat. It's just what I need. Today, the weirdest thing happened — I got mail. In a fancy, huge envelope. And the mailman hadn't got the wrong house or anything like that.

I didn't think the Callenfield Citizens' Welfare Association would ever take the application I submitted seriously. I'd been as vague as vague can be, and the form they'd asked me to fill required me to be oh-so-fucking specific. I can't be specific. It isn't in my blood.

Had anybody seen me while I filled that form out? I don't think so. I'd gone covered — quite literally, too. I wore dark colored clothes and made sure my haircut was the untidiest it had ever been. I made sure you couldn't remember me if you took a casual glance in my direction. It was easy.

For all I know, this sketchy envelope could be a trick.

Or it could be the best decision I've ever made.

I've read the letter about seventeen times, and I still can't make sense out of it. And I don't know what makes me think this, but — this letter seems genuine. I don't know for sure, but I guess I — I guess I want to believe it. I've kinda had enough of everything. A change would be nice.

I reach into an open pocket of my backpack, pull out the thick, white sheet, and read it, one more time.

'Mr. Hastings, this is to inform you that you are eligible for alternate housing as per the Callenfield Citizens' Welfare Board Guidelines, Act 453 subsection 12A. We would like you to appear for a general interrogation on the twentieth of October, 2021, at the Calleja manor to confirm the details of your current residence and work out an option for you. Please confirm your attendance on the following link.'

I stuff the letter back in the official-looking envelope and fumble in my bag for my phone. It would just be easier if they sent an email and asked me to click on a link to confirm, but it looks like these people want everything on paper. I check around in my bag to make sure it's still there. For all it's worth, this was the real deal.

I open Safari, type the web address in the search bar, and hit search. A website opens, with a declaration and a check box under it. I hover my finger over the box as I read what's written above it.

'I confirm my attendance to the Callenfield Citizens' Welfare Board Meeting.'

I shut my eyes, then open them again. I focus on the wisps of smoke in front of me, watching as they slowly become invisible air. I assess my situation. There's not much to me, but yeah, I go ahead and do it anyway.

Dad wouldn't want me at home. I don't want to live where I do now. Mom's left. I have no siblings. No family. Nobody but myself is dependent on me. Whatever I do, I do for myself. It's perfectly fine to get some help and live alone — and figure out things from there. This letter's pretty genuine, too, if they have a link and shit. Besides, there's no one apart from the staff at the office who'd know my address, and things like that.

Fair enough. I hit my finger on the checkbox and a revolving circle appears, metamorphosing into a black check mark soon after. I close the browser and proceed onto another cigarette, thinking about just where the hell will I be able to find a black blazer.

Just because I'm not normally fancy doesn't mean I can't give it a shot, does it?