11
These Are The Best Days
Nicholas was tired of his town. He was no longer a child and so people had ceased to be interested in him. Eyes at half-mast, he cast his gaze to the floor. He was the twisted coil of wire, the broken comb, the discarded fast food box, greasy and reeking, left strewn across the pavement. He was the rows of bleeding bin bags, ripped by ravenous foxes. Every drop of trodden chewing gum was a bully’s push on a bruise. At school he travelled corridors scented by stale socks and exuberance to find the most out-of-the-way, undisturbed bathroom and contemplated his face. He was tired of being a boy. He had refused his six-week visit to the hairdressers and the ends of his hair were split, unkempt. They reached away from his head, pointing hair-clumped fingers in all d
