Buried In The Past (2/7) By Joe Hakim

(1/7), (2/7), (3/7), (4/7), (5/7), (6/7), (7/7).

You've probably stepped over me, holding your nose because of the smell, and called me a fucking smack-head. Sometimes you take pity on me and throw me a penny. Sometimes you piss on me and flick cigarette butts at my face just to see if I react. As the evening draws in, I feel myself returning. My time begins again. This how I exist, grabbing every moment I can before the day starts again. I am a virus. I live on the shit you throw away. As the night begins, so do the hunger pains, but I'm above begging and scraping. I don't ask anyone for anything. Instead, I go to the building site at the back of what will be the new station.

As I circle the foundations, I think about the tatty iron shelter that used to stand there. I think about when I used to wait there for the bus to school. I remember getting on the bus and being kicked in by all the lads - remember them laughing at me and punching me in the face because of the clothes I wore and the house I lived in. I remember my glasses being stamped on, my wrists broken. I remember lying to the teachers, telling them I hurt myself by falling, because the beatings would only get worse if I told them the truth.

I am a product. They made me what I am. A rat scuttles past me and I pounce on it. They're quick, but I'm quicker. I tear its head off and bite into it, squeezing it until its innards turn to mush, and then I suck it all up. It's only small, but it's enough to keep me going. I am bacteria. I live on vermin. I'm back in Hull for a specific reason. There's no time to waste, so after my meal I head back towards Spring Bank. I manage to find a small café that's still open.

It's nondescript and fairly empty. The chipped, fake teak panelling around the counter, the plastic tables pock-marked with cigarette burns, and the smell of old grease and burnt sausage meat give me a strange sense of comfort. As I walk in, the women behind the counter looks me over, disgust displayed across her face. I can smell the chemicals she douses herself in to try and keep herself young: the fake-tan on her face, the peroxide in her hair, the wrinkle creams on her hands. She probably sees people like me every day.

I am scum. Something you wish didn't exist. She crosses her arms and continues to stare at me. "If yer wanna use the toilet, yer gotta buy summat," she says, loud enough to make a couple of guys sat at a table eating sandwiches look over at me. Why is it when you try and fade into the background, you only end up drawing more attention to yourself? It makes me think about school again. Reminds me of how I used to wish I was invisible, but the more I tried not to be noticed, the more punishment I received.

Continued...Next Page (3/7)

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