MEAN STREETS by Brenton Booth
Alcohol pulsed like heartbeat drowning fear. The two of us, still teenagers, far
from men, downing straight whiskey from the bottle and seeing who could curse
the best, and fill the school football field with the most piss. It didn’t actually
matter anymore—the act itself was now satisfying enough for both of us.
Trapped in single parent families in a small worthless broke suburb in Sydney,
neither of us hiding our disgust very well tonight.
We finished the bottle. I hurled it at the grandstand hoping for an explosion—
though was slightly satisfied with the mess it created.
“ I’m going home,” I said.
“ I’m going for a walk. I don’t want to go home. I would never go there again if it
wasn’t for my little sister. I have to look after her—save her from them,” said
Tom.
I stumbled home leaving him in the shadows, hoping I’d see him again, those
streets really weren’t safe to walk, but we both knew that worse things existed.
