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They stared at each other across the living room.


“There ain’t much difference between you and me” said Tim

“Yes there is son” replied his mum before she grabbed her drink from the table that separated them.

“What’s that then?” Tim said, smiling quickly

“Your addiction isn’t sustainable. Mine is” she said and took a sip of her drink

“You’re drinking vodka at 8am in the morning and your telling me your drinking is more sustainable than my smoking?”

“You don’t just smoke though do you? You ain’t just puffing tobacco… you have that crumby dealer hear every other night. You’re keeping that man from getting a real job. And speaking of that, when are YOU going to get one of those? At least I hold down something to keep this fucking roof over our heads. Don’t you dare come at me boy.”

“You finished?” he asked as he rubbed his right hand in between his eyes

“Yes I am” she replied

“I meant your drink, not your speech”

“You cheeky piece of s…”

“Here’s the thing mum. I don’t judge you for your quick tot in the morning to get you through the part time job that helps you buy the bottle for you to have your morning tot to cope with your part time job and so on… what I do judge you for is you coming at me about my own personal habits, some similar to yours and others not so, and besides, my dealer, he’s a good guy. And for the record he actually has a job, working in a supermarket, but it don’t pay enough. So maybe if we paid attention to the economy we might be able to do a little better, but as for now, weed selling will keep up the standard of living. And let me not even start on how my weed smoking over a week or two is wayyyy less than the amount of bottles I have to turn into recycled flower pots every week, even if you’re buying store brand or Glenn’s that adds up”

“You need to leave” she said as she finished her drink and put the glass on the table

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me… you need to leave”

“I heard you, but what do you mea…”


“Whoa, whoa mum, take it easy…”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that in my house you miserable git. Get out! Get the fuck out”

She rose from her chair and pushed Tim out of his seat on the sofa, “I said GET OUT”

“Fine then, I’m going, I’m going” Tim answered as he felt his mum brushing his arms towards the back door

“Out the back you go! You don’t deserve to go out the front!”

“You’re heartless for this mum”

“Qui sera sera Timmy, now fuck off! Think you can talk to me any which way… disappear will you!”


Tim stepped outside as she slammed the door, his fingers were still caught in the gap between the door and the hinges. The door slammed and all the pressure of the door went onto the ends of his fingers. Tim screamed and put his hand to his mouth.

His mum stepped outside

“What the fuck are you crying about?!”

“My fucking hand. You slammed it on my fucking hand!”

“Oh did I? I got something to fix that. Is it cut?”

“Yes. There’s some blood. For fuck’s sake”

She stepped back in the house and came out with her bottle of vodka.

“Here,” she said, pouring it onto Tim’s hand “that should ease the pain.”

Tim sighed a relief of pleasure and looked at his mum

“I’m sorry mum”

“I know you are. You still can’t come in the house. Get going”

She went back to the door and slammed it


Tim opened the back gate in silence and proceeded onto his road.

He kept blowing his hand to ease the pain as the vodka wore off after 10 minutes as he meandered around the streets. After an hour of roaming around, he finally could feel his fingers

He pulled his phone out his pocket and started texting


‘Yo J, I’m by your bit. I need an ounce. Holla.’

His phone beeped almost immediately after he sent it

‘Come through. Did you mum kick you out again?’

He replied, ‘Yeah she did. Still thinks I’m smoking it.’

‘Bless her. If only she knew you’re keeping the lights on’ J replied.