Page 4 of Worse Fates
The guy I took it from was a wanker, so it doesn’t count as stealing.
“Let’s see if I’ve missed the five-course meal I forgot packing,” I mutter as I dig through my ratty backpack and come up empty. Unless you count a dirty sock as dinner, and I’m not that desperate, yet.
I don’t even know where the second one is, and if you’re going to eat a sock it’s at least gotta be the pair.
As much as I wish a magical fairy, Father Christmas, or, I dunno, Jesus? snuck a steaming burger and chips into my bag, it’s the fifth time I’ve looked today.
“Would’ve been nice, though.”
I found a mint yesterday, and that was pretty exciting.
Heaving a sigh, I grab my bag and stand, popping my fists onto my skinny hips and tapping my booted foot while I think.
I’ve been slumming here for three days now and explored everywhere. The list of treasures I’ve found begins and ends with this shitty guitar, which I can’t eat or sell.
A sudden stab of pain doubles me as a cramp bites into my stomach and twists until it gnaws at my spine. Slumping, I hug my middle, shushing it like a pissed-off cat but only get an annoyed grumble as an answer.
Time for dinner.
When the pain passes, or I’m starting to get used to acid eating my ribs, I straighten and leave the room I’ve made comfortable. The curtains and sheets might have holes and smellof mildew, but get enough of them together, and I’ve stayed pretty warm; the candles helped, too.
I grab one to help me light my way as I exit; it makes me feel like a hero in a movie, like an old treasure hunter scavenging the ruins of a long-dead duke who went mad and killed the family goldfish.
The cold slaps me in the face once I step out of the room and into the hallway, stealing the little bit of warmth I had stored. “I hate winter.”
Clenching and unclenching the hand not holding the candle, I bounce on my toes to get warm blood pumping through my veins. But as I’m starting to get feeling back into the tips of my fingers, another cramp has me gasping, my vision doubling and I cling to the wall to stop from falling.
I’ll worry about freezing to death later; right now, I need something in my stomach.
Floorboards creak as I make my way towards a grand winding staircase. All the windows are knocked out and boarded up. Rotted wallpaper hangs off the walls, most of it crumbled onto the floor.
I wonder what colour it used to be. I bet red or navy, maybe purple. Rich people love that shit. If my friend Kai was here, he’d be able to tell all the colours that sound like ice cream flavours, like periwinkle and marigold.
The steps groan as I make my way carefully down, testing the aged wood before gradually putting my weight on it. It’s a slow process, but the foot-shaped hole on the second step taught me a valuable lesson.
And if I listen carefully, I can still hear my scream echoing around this place.
The landing is spacious and was probably grand back in the day, like a hotel I used to sneak into. The bathroomattendant would give me all his tips if I let him watch me jerk off in an empty stall.
He gave me a cheese sandwich after.
Damp stains the ceiling, making this ancient mansion stink like an old man’s sweating balls.
I stroll through rooms, hand tucked in my black jeans, that definitely have holes in them to look cool and not because I’m homeless. When I stumbled on this place in the middle of nowhere, I hoped to sell some of the rich shit, like a vase or an Air Fryer. But the only thing that might be worth money is a sofa in semi-good condition.
However, I don’t have a car, and it might be a bit noticeable if I drag it towards the bus stop, and drawing attention is the last thing I need right now. Since I’m hiding from, well… everyone.
I push the barely holding on door into the kitchen. My candle lighting up the bare room. It’s kind of sad looking, like it should be full of warmth and laughter. But it’s empty, abandoned, like everything in this mansion.
I’ve searched through the cupboards, scoured under the sink and only found cobwebs. I even pried up the floorboards, hoping the previous owners hid a bottle of something very, very alcoholic—but nothing.
At least the water is still running.
I place my candle into a broken mug, then turn the faucet on before shoving my head under the tap. Filling my mouth with shockingly crisp water until I can convince myself I’m full.
I wet my hands and run them through my dark curls and across my face. The chill bites at my skin, making me wince, but I’m feeling marginally fresher—if only a little less like a homeless loser.
I have a guitar and live in a mansion, after all. That’s gotta give me some cool points.
