Page 1 of Mace

ONE

MACE

PAST…

I blow out a breath,watching how it steams in front of my face. I don’t feel the chill anymore, so used to being cold. Instead, I make shapes, like I’ve seen some of the older boys do when they’re smoking.

The darkness no longer bothers me. I prefer it. It’s easier to hide in the shadows, easier to see the monsters that exist in the light.

I interlace my fingers behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t see the cracks and water stains, but I know they are there. The smell of damp and mould that covers every inch of the flat makes my chest tight sometimes as it coats my nose.

How the fuck is this my life?

Huffing out a sigh, I roll off the bare mattress and step up to the window. The vehicles parked around the base of the building look like toy cars from up here, and in thedistance, the twinkling lights of the city remind me that I’m not alone. There is a whole world out there waiting to be discovered, and I hope it’s better than this shitty existence I’m trapped in.

I press my forehead to the cold glass, watching the first flurries of snow as they spiral towards the ground, carving a path between the high-rises crammed together. It won’t take long until the ground becomes a blanket of white, transforming the ugly concrete world below into something beautiful, but like everything else, it’s not real.

“Mason!” The cracked slur of my name would usually send fear skittering up my spine, but all I feel is irritated.

I don’t have the patience to deal with her tonight… or any other night.

I grind my molars together as I grab my trainers, stuffing my feet into them before snagging a hoodie from the floor. I do a sniff test, and it ain’t clean but it’s not disgusting either, so I drag it over my head.

“Mason!” she yells again, and this time, my stomach knots.

I should have gone before she got back. I know better than to be here when she is, but there’s still a part of me—maybe a naïve, stupid part—that hopes one day she’ll walk through the front door and be everything I need.

As I step into the living area, she’s standing at the sink with her back to me. Her silhouetted frame is outlined against the light pollution streaming through the windows, and although I can’t see her fully, I can make out that her long hair is lank and probably dirty. She never remembers to shower or wash when I’m not around to remind her. She’s not wearing a coat or shoes either.

Despite everything, a tendril of worry works throughme at the thought of her being out in the cold dressed like this, but I clamp my teeth together. Arguing with her is pointless. She never listens. Sometimes, I swear she wants to die.

Sometimes, I wish she would, and I hate myself for it.

None of this is her fault, and I have to remember that when my thoughts turn as sour as hers. She’s lost, trying to find her way out of the same darkness that chokes so many people in life. Her addiction was caused by events far outside of her control, but it’s hard to see it that way when my stomach aches with hunger and my body is cold to the bone.

“Why did you take so long to respond?” she bites out without turning.

I ignore her question, asking a far more important one. “Where have you been?”

Her shoulders tighten. “I didn’t realise I had to run my movements pastyou.” Her words are sarcastic and laced with a bitterness that I’ve become used to hearing. Still, it cuts me like a knife to be the subject of her poison.

“It’s been three days.”

“And you couldn’t manage without me?” She scoffs. “You’re not five, Mason. I don’t need to be here to wipe your arse. And why the fuck aren’t the lights working?”

“You have to pay the bill for them to stay on.”

She turns to face me, white milky light cutting across her sallow features. I’m pretty sure if the electricity hadn’t been cut, I would be looking into her yellowed eyes.

“I’m your mother. You don’t get to talk to me that way.”

She sways on her feet as she stumbles in my direction, and I step out of her way before she can grab me, but I’mnot her destination. The cabinet behind me is, and my stomach plummets. She’s already drunk and she’s still looking for more booze.

“Then act like my fucking mother.”

I shouldn’t let her rile me, but she has a talent for getting under my skin.

“You’re fifteen years old,” she says, dragging the top drawer open. “Act like a man.”

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