The sun had almost set. It was that in-between that cast a strange, night blue across the sky, and yet lit up the ground in orange dapples, like pockmarks, and eerie grass of blade would sway, dancing to the beat the sun set. The scenery stretched out in front of them, curving down into a lush green field, and beyond that, more field, farmland, trees, rivers, who knew what. And not too far away a tree silhouetted against the sun, with orange tinges around the edges, where the sun nearly broke through.
            Martin didn’t see it. He couldn’t see five feet in front of him. All he could see was the group of boys he cuddled in one arm, forming a row, singing a song the five of them couldn’t remember the lyrics to, so it was inconstant, and made no sense, with murmuring to fill in the gaps. The words were slurred, and if he leant forward, even slightly, he would probably lose his balance, and keel over.
            They finished the songs, which took about eight seconds between them, because most of them hadn’t realised the were at the end of the song, and the others didn’t know if the song id end there either. Martin broke off giggling, took a heroic swig of the coke in the glass bottle, cringed slightly as the vodka hit the back of his throat.

            The car drove on past, fast, it was a nice, corporate Mercedes, with a nice man with a suit and a moustache inside, but for all his sensibility he couldn’t help snatch a glance at the poor, blonde girl at the side of the path, smoking a cigarette, trying to remain inconspicuous. The Mercedes drove on, and Sophie didn’t look up once, she was the interest of many men, if some of them decided to drove by, well, she couldn’t make him stop so much as make everyone else on this goddamn earth change their minds. The sun was setting, she could see it from across the street, hiding behind the house. It cast her into a shade, and she could feel the change in temperature almost immediately. She pulled her coat closer to her person. Before taking a drag on her cigarette, throwing the rest down to the road, missing the drain. She pulled a small mirror from her pocket, one that flipped up and had a mirror on one side, and make-up with a brush on the other. She looked at her face, as heavily made up as it was she couldn’t help but think it wasn’t enough, or maybe it was too much. She was so young, and the makeup just didn’t suit her, but guys liked it, didn’t they? With a snap she closed the case before throwing it back into her pocket. She pulled another cigarette from her pack, before discarding that as well, with caution she flicked on the lighter, and lit her cigarette. Careful the whole time to not break her nails or chip the crimson red nail varnish she had put on just after a phone call.     
            Surely he should be here by now.
            Maybe he wouldn’t turn up. Maybe he didn’t want her, and she felt distraught. And any good feeling she might have had at the thought he wouldn’t show up diminished. Why would no one want her? Surely someone had to want her, didn’t they?
            But no, here it came, the car she was told to look out for, but she was still trying to remain inconspicuous, and didn’t notice the car for a few seconds, before she noticed the expectant abruptness with which it stopped. She looked up to the drivers seat, where her new client sat. he was young, with medium length hair and glasses, he looked like he would normally be enjoying his life, but now he looked nervous, uncommitted, was the word Sophie would use. She threw her cigarette to the floor before hopping in the passengers seat, asking up front for cash. He looked as if a zombie had just entered his car, ready to eat his brains, rather than a sweet little girl, but still he nodded, and she smiled reassuringly at him, the condescending look adults give toddlers when they’ve done something simple, but still feel proud about it. They drove off, to where, she didn’t know, his house, a discreet turn-off-road just out of town? She’d faced them all, and so long as they paid it didn’t matter. Sure, she was selling herself.

            Tom checked his watch. For a sixteen year old to read their watch was normal, for Tom it was an accomplishment, and he wore his watch with a hidden pride. But now that pride was crushed, and nothing could pick him up. All he could hear was his shoes softly patting on the pavement. Every now and then they would catch on a defiant root, or a crack in the path and he would stumble, but not fall. He felt so down. He hated Thursdays, it was maths on Thursdays, his worst. Even though his school finished at four o’clock, that would explain why he was walking home at eight in the evening, and the sun, setting down on his shoulders confirmed that.
            The key rasped ominously in the lock, as if even the lock knew of was awaiting for him, and in sympathy didn’t want him to go inside, and half of him was convinced to turn and run.
            Still, he had to face the onslaught he would soon receive. The door opened, slowly, like some haunted mansion from a cliché horror film. Even the air seemed daunting, heavy, and it made breathing harder, till he was almost panting. He heard the buzz of a T.V, but that soon died. Slowly, he took off his bag, he hung it on the banister at the top of the stairs. And walked slowly into his living room. He heard the soft creak of the sofa, he gulped, and turned the corner into his living room. There was his mother, the source of his worries the life of all his fear, embodied into this woman.
            His mother was a large, brooding woman, whose husband hardly appeared home, who had to look after two kids, and the knowledge her husband was cheating on her, lacking the strength to leave him. But now, now she had to do what she could to help her one and only son. Why couldn’t he be more like his sister? The greetings were amiable, simple questions such as how his day at school was. He knew she just didn’t want to make it seem like she just wanted to have a go at him, so he wouldn’t do something drastic. Then she pounced on him, innocent at first, but getting more angry as she went. She asked him how classes were, but, more importantly, how he did in his exams. He hung his head, knew this was coming all along, foolishly, with some false pretence a mother has to cling to, she hoped he had been getting better. Apparently not. Immediately she roared at him, raised her hand and bore it down at him. She didn’t have to ask if he had failed, or how pathetically he had done, it never changed, always the same pathetic mark. How would he ever achieve something in life, he cant even pass his remedial classes, cant even pass the papers made specially for people like ‘him.’ Every week it was the same, if not every day he had an exam. And she always hit him. He couldn’t go to the authorities of course, he couldn’t rat out his own mother. But neither could he change, he was the dumbest kid in his year, his school, and he couldn’t change that, it would never change.

            Chloe sat on the bus in agitated anticipation, or maybe it was nervousness. It was her birthday today, she was fourteen. But she hadn’t told anyone that, not even her friends, no one knew, and that’s how she intended to keep it. Of course she might, but it depended upon her arrival back home. The bus pulled up at her stop, one of the last stops, she ran through the door, murmuring a hurried ‘thanks’ at the driver. She walked ten minutes home. She put the key into the door and walked in. the smell was musty, mixed with some kind of tangible food smell. The walls were damp, and the wallpaper was ripped, and pallid. The carpet under her feet was moth bitten, and in some places gaping holes had been taken out by some unknown means. She kept her bag with her, she didn’t know what was in this house to bite at it or anything else. She turned into her living room.
Some kind of youthful naivety had obviously plagued her mind, she had almost believed her mother had remembered again. But still, no. not this year, not last, nor the one before. Not since she was six years old. How unfair for a child, a naïve youngling who expected presents, who knew they were coming, and then got nothing. she didn’t understand. Why hadn’t her mommy got her anything, like the last years, didn’t people always get presents on their birthdays? She just couldn’t comprehend it, didn’t understand, and blamed herself for it.
There her mother lay, spread eagled on the sofa. Fat legged, fat stomached and useless. The coffee table drew her attention most, where her presents might have been.  And there they weren’t. just as she expected, just as she hoped with every gut-wrenching emotion they might have been, that just this once, for, if not one more year in her life, to have gotten even one birthday present. And yet…not even that, a hug, a kiss, a ceremonial greeting a quickened ‘happy birthday’ would have abated this longing. And nothing greeted her but her fat, useless mother.
She fell to the floor. Hopeless, self-loathing, useless. She sobbed, and wet, but didn’t cry. She threw her bag to the sofa, barely missing her mother, got to her feet and ran into the kitchen. She sat at her small, round table, laid her head on it and bared her hands to the table, palm down beside her head. Shaking it no and then as if the emphasise her disbelief. But then, why should she have believed. Her mother was ill! And she couldn’t tell no one, lest she was taken away, she didn’t want anyone to know, you see, didn’t want any more attention, bullying potent attention. With a strength she hated possessing, she got up, strong eyes, ready to water, but not now, hopefully never. She turned on the gas ring, and started to cut potatoes. Maybe later she would walk down the shop and buy a small cake, celebrate her birthday on her own. For now, there was her mother to attend to. Ill, useless, selfish, forgetful, bitch. She served the stew, she had forgotten the days when they would sit at the table and be a family. And her mother would care for her grades, and her schoolwork, and if some girl bullied her, her mother would storm the school, and demand justice, for now, though, Chloe had to cry off the bullies.
After tea she put on the TV, any of the four channels they had, her mothers vegetated mind didn’t have any preference to the TV channel, more that she preferred the flickering lights, the strange gimmicks, the sophistication of the square use of black and white TV, a box that scored there small living room, two antenna poking up from it like it were a visitor from mars, no DVD player, no VCR!
Chloe went to the kitchen, where she completed her homework, and she struggled, because there was no one there to help her do it. It got late, she went in again and turned off the TV and wrapped a blanket around her mother.
She went back into the kitchen where she removed the cake she had attempted to bake earlier, it was no larger than both her hands put together, and no taller than her finger. It was just sponge, so she melted some chocolate and spread it over, it was unruly and patchy, so some of it was a nice, chocolate brown, and the other was a powdery white, the mixture was something that didn’t look too appetizing, but it was all she got for her birthday. No one else got her anything, she had to cook tea, work the TV, put her mom to bed when justice demanded it was the other way around, no chance! She cut the cake in half, wrapped cling film over one half, and put it in the nearly-empty-fridge. She ate her half with glee, though both the chocolate and the cake were burnt, so the chocolate had more of a burnt taste, and the sponge was too hard, and tasteless, but she was proud, no one had taught her to cook, after all.
She licked the melted chocolate from her fingers and decided bedtime was upon her. Again she remembered it was her birthday, and that she had to do all the work, even her homework because not doing it would draw attention, and if that got parents involved…bullying, orphanage, she shuddered. But still…she was fourteen, a number that she would never have again. She ran up to her room, pity and fear and shame rising in her stomach through to her chest. Slowly she undressed, making sure the clothes were in a nice pile for washing up, making it easier for her. She dressed into her pyjamas, too small for her.
Finally, almost with relief, she cried, and cried and her sobs were loud enough to wake a normally sane person, her mother was oblivious to all of it, and it was just so not fair! She hugged her pillows and the thin blanket hugged her too, and she roared and ached into her pillow. Her blonde hair crumpling against it and messing up her poorly straightened hair. And she cried until her head hurt and her throat burned, and her eyes were red, and her fingers hurt from clutching the pillow so much. And it still was not fair.