Memoir Draft: Staying Safe
A draft extract of when I first when into care and stayed in a children's home.
It probably should have taken me longer to get used to the fact that every time my big white heavy-duty bedroom door slammed behind me, I would need to ask one of the care staff to let me back in, but I was distracted by the sudden splurge of abundance. I needed my haircut; I got my haircut. I needed new shoes; I got new shoes. I needed toiletries; I got toiletries. I wanted a lift; I would be driven. I wanted a Big Mac; I went to McDonald’s. I wanted to see the new James Bond film, travel to Liverpool to watch a football match, play laser blast, drive to the other end of the island for ice cream, hair gel toothpaste toffee yoghurts phone credit sweets go for walks… I got them. And when I wanted to get back into my room, one of the care staff would shuffle a key into the handless door and let me back in.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. My bedroom was roughly the same size as the one I shared with Sam back at my mother’s house. When I arrived, the lamp was on, the bed was plump, a TV packed neatly in the corner, while the cherry air freshener toasted under the throbbing heat of the radiators. It appeared more like a hotel room than one belonging to a teenager. Still, it was crowded enough to hide my lack of clutter.
I couldn’t wait to see Sam’s room; I hoped mine was bigger. After all, what would he need the extra space for?
“You’re only allowed in your own bedrooms”, They told us with an reinforced tone. I couldn’t understand why this rule applied to Sam and me. Ever since I could remember, I dreamt of us both having our own space. Except this was one step too far. We may have still shared the same house, but we no longer lived together.
The four other people I cohabited with were older than me, and despite the fact none of us had a say on whether we came or went, I still felt like an intruder. I was not bold, brash, or brazen, just a thirteen-year-old boy who was twisted and tangled by my own imaginary hierarchies. For years, my mother would threaten to put us in care and tell us how rough it would be in an attempt to squash my ‘bad’ behaviour. I’d decided this was a new start. I’d decided I’d be cool, I’d make friends, I’d be sound. I had no idea how to do this, but I headed down the stairs anyway. Praying none of the other kids would be up or in.
“Hey”, shouted a voice from outside. I froze and everything I had decided had slid out of the door. “I’m Ben. Did you arrive last night?” Ben was a tiny bit taller than me, had a well-established moustache and goatee, with longish brown hair and the latest fashion trend of blond streaks. He could easily have been mistaken for one of the staff had it not been for his school uniform.
“Hi, I’m Matty, and…yeah, I did.”
“Do you smoke?”, he asked pushing a shiny grey and silver box towards me.
“Only weed”, I smirked, hoping he’d have some, but he just ignored the comment.
“How old are you then?” he continued to ask while showing off trying to blow smoke hoops. Your age tells another person all the benefits you receive in the care system. Pocket money, bedtime, free time, everything. It’s your placement in the hierarchy.
“I’m thirteen, what about you?”
“Fifteen. Not long till I’m sixteen.” This meant Ben would get the latest bedtime of 11 p.m. and the most pocket money of £10 per week.
There was a toilet under the stairs by the front entrance, and I hadn’t noticed that a male member of care staff had just gone in,
“Wanna see something funny?”
“Yeah, go on then”, my voice cracked into a whisper. Ben walked over by the stairs, placing his back to the wall, with one foot flat against it. His arms hovered at waist height. Then he just looked at me. It was too late to change my mind as his eyes had already narrowed. Thoughts started sprinting through my head. Is he going to batter me? Is this my initiation?Where the hell do I run to, I can’t get into my room? My feet edged towards the door leading outside. He just stayed perfectly still, like a lousy prayer mantis. Staring at me. Ben couldn’t have waited more than five seconds, but each one circled the room before I saw his leg move. Then, with one animated swoop. My face clinched. He belted the wall with his foot, and a massive plunk vibrated from the other side.
“Fucking hell…” followed immediately after. It was the care worker in the toilet. “For fuck sake” The toilet seat had slammed shut while he was peeing. Ben and I couldn’t stop laughing. The care worker walked out, wiping the top of his jeans. My chest jerked from compressing the laughter.
“Don’t ya hate it when you have a piss and then ya miss?” Ben asked.
“You think you’re mature, do you?” the care worker scowled.
“Dunno what ya talking about?” replied Ben. My body stopped juddering, and I looked at Ben for direction. Then, as the care worker continued to wipe, my face held the same grim smile I’d give myself whenever I noticed milk started leaking from a shopper’s bag. This wasn’t going to be the scary hell hole my mother would threaten us with. Maybe I could be sound.
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