52. (BoyxBoy)

52. Page 3.

Chapter 2

Aiden lay in his bed. The window was left wide open, and he was freezing. He liked leaving the window open, it made him feel like he was cold out of choice. His radiator didn't work. He'd made the mistake of asking his mother to turn the heating up, a few years ago, aged twelve. She'd stormed into his bedroom and started smashing it with a hammer. Various liquids burst out, and stained the already stained carpet. He was standing too close, and was consequently splattered with water - or at least, what he hoped was water. His mother had laughed in his face. She laughed, and laughed, before laughing became too much and she had shouted, and shouted and . . .

Aiden didn't finish reminiscing the memory. He couldn't.

He hadn't asked her for anything since then.

The wind was soft tonight, it had a thick chill, but it was soft, and slow. He could hear it whistle through the trees and float down rivers and flutter amongst flowers. It was calming.

Aiden leaned back into his bed, his head resting deeply on the pillow. He closed his eyes, and listened to the wind. The wind: whistling and floating and fluttering and. . . .

"Beep. Beep. Beep, beep. Beeep. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep."  Aiden rolled over, and rubbed his eyes. Morning already?

No.

"BEEEEP!" His mother stood over his bed, in a drunken state. "Geddit? I'm you' ala'm clock, 'coz you ned to up get, and buy m' some milcchh." Aiden could hardly make out what she was saying, through her drunken slurring. He stared at her, still half-asleep, and his mouth wide open.

"Mum. . ." he started.

"Get up!" She pushed him out of his bed and she passed out onto it.

Damn, he thought to himself, the sofa again, I suppose. He was used to it, after all. So many nights (and mornings - and 3pm on Tuesday afternoons) she had come home, wrecked. Sometimes she would bring home male 'friends' too. Although, it was obvious they were more than 'friends', thanks to the paper thin walls. The artichect who had designed the house was obviously a pervert. Seriously, Aiden did not want to hear the screeches and moans of his mother in bed. It gave him vivid nightmares.

So, Aiden lifted himself up from his rough floor, and headed down the hall. Why couldn't his mother sleep in her own bed, for God sake? Maybe she preferred being sick on his bed.

He didn't fall asleep on the sofa. It was  short, and his legs hung over the side and his head rested upon the arm of the settee. He hugged a cushion and stared at the ceiling, counting ducks (so much more interesting than sheep). 1, 2, 3. . . 752.

Then it was morning. The sun shone happily through the shoddy curtains. It glistened throughout the room, shining upon the sheer mess of junk. Aiden kicked his way through a small heap of empty vodka bottles, and returned to his room. The room was filled with the sound of heavy snoring, and smelt deeply of alcohol. He picked up his pile of clothing, perfectly folded, and his hairbrush, and escaped.

So this was Day 2. Five days left. Or six, including this one.

Day 2 of his life was a Thursday. Thursdays are like Tuesdays: boring and mundane on the outside, but secretly, they are a total lie. A lie of a day. They don't exist.

Everybody believes they exist, so they do. But if you don't believe, then you'll see what I mean. Then again, everybody will think you are a total freak - and who can blame them?

So Aiden didn't really mind too much about this Thursday. Day 2, with 5 days left. 5 days left, and it's only Day 2.

The walk to school was simple. He crossed the road three times, and went under a subway. He arrived at school 52 seconds early.