home

So here we are. The place I call home. The flats loom above me like they're daring me to go inside, as though if I do I'll just be swallowed up; swallowed up by the dank and murky corridors, by the creaking lift with the flickering light or the shadowy stair well reeking of urine and stale cigarettes. Deep breath. The door creaks like the laughter of an old hag, echoing up the cold concrete stairwell and the hollow sound of a drinks can can be heard as it bounces from step to step, stopping with a triumphant clatter in some distant, empty landing bleeding out the sticky remenants of its contents.
The debris around the hallway betrays the kids that have been here, skivving from school, meeting up with their mates and talking of things to do to numb the boredom or how far they went with Kayleigh from the eighth floor. The estates teenage bike. A dog end lies, still weakly smouldering and spiky, dis-jointed writing crawls up the stippled wall glorifying who hearts who and how far Kayleigh went. Their names street hardened monikers, graffiti tags for these faceless vagrants to hide behind.
The dog end rolls drunkenly in the breeze I bring with me revealing a dirty smear of cheap lipstick on the filter and the tiny glow is extinguished.
The stairs stretch out before me like a bad day and I mount them, one step, two step, three step all blending into one grey ascension, weightless, repetitive. I hear the lift screech and creak beside me through the wall, the sound of it dull and haunting yet familiar.
you get used to the noises and sight in this place, all the little quirks and behavior patterns of the people cooped up around you. After a while you don't notice these little things so much, they just all blend into the overall character of the place, you take them for granted. Until you come back here and then they're just as vivid as ever, like a recurring bad dream. Somewhere in the towering block a baby hoarsely screams.