Shane Holland (5)

It was pissing down rain by the time we got to the takeaway shop, hiding under the rain cover while we smoked spliffs and ordered food, which most of my lads didn't pay for.

Most of the people who worked at the takeaway were old and sad, living of minimum wage to afford cigarettes and rent. But, there was one girl my age, she worked every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and the occasional Saturday. I swear it was a coincidence that I always ended up there on those days.

But—fuck—she was gorgeous. She had long, straight hair which she always had tied back in a high pony tail which she braided, but always took out when she was walking to her brother's car after her shift ended.

She gave me free food, not even because she was scared of me, too. She just liked my company. We'd talk sometimes, just casually mention how shit life was going, and the occasional consideration of just giving up. She got me.

But today the lads all headed home early, and I was too pissed drunk to come home to my brothers—I felt shit being around them while wasted, I wanted to be better around them.

So, I was alone in the rain, jeans soaked through, shirt sticking to my skin, feeling like a loser. I was standing their, leaning against the window sill, waiting for my order number to be called out so I could bring my brothers some food home.

I had a shit day, cops sniffing around, losers expecting freebies, screamed at by some lass for accidentally looking in the direction of her tits, and a little fight I'd had a few days ago.

Usually, I didn't mind getting in fights, they were a usual occurrence for me, but this one was different.

“Poor fuckin' family, have tondeal with your disappointing ass,” were the words Conor Fitzgerald spat before I threw my fist into his jaw.

Those bleeding words had been running through my mind, screwing me into a fucking spiral, wondering if I really am fucking up all their lives.

Those same words were the reason why I was chewing on my nails.