Alright. So here’s the truth of it.
I used to have a decent life. Not flash, nothing shiny. But solid. Worked on building sites mostly — scaffolding, labouring, whatever paid. Early starts, muddy boots, proper graft. I liked it, in a weird way. You knew where you stood. Pay came Friday, pint after work, fish and chips on the walk home.
I looked after my mum too. She weren’t well in the end — lungs packed up on her. I was living with her when it happened. Just the two of us in a little flat that always smelt like TCP and boiled cabbage. When she died, everything sort of caved in. Grief’s like that. Comes in quiet and then shouts the house down.
The flat went. I missed rent, missed letters, missed appointments. Next thing I knew, I was out. Just out. No big drama. No one watching. Just… silence.
First night rough was behind a Tesco. Cardboard, sleeping bag, and this ache in your bones you can’t explain unless you’ve felt it. It’s not just the cold. It’s the nothingness. No one calls your name. No one knows where you are. It’s like being rubbed out.
Drink helped. That’s not a sob story, it’s just fact. Stops the shaking. Gives you something to focus on that’s not the hole inside you. I didn’t even like the taste after a while — just the way it blurred things. Days, memories, guilt. All of it.
Teeth went eventually. Didn’t notice at first. One cracked, another fell out when I bit into a sandwich. A bloody sandwich. That’s when I laughed. Like, full belly laugh. What else can you do? I looked like a broken piano.
People treat you different when your smile’s gone. They think you’re dangerous. Dirty. Like bad teeth are contagious. You get used to it. You learn not to expect much.
But I’ve still got this grin. That’s the funny bit. I still smile. Why not? I’m still here. I’ve slept on benches and under bridges and in hostels with peeling paint and cold toast, but I’ve also met people who’d give you their last smoke without blinking. I’ve had better conversations at 2am on a park bench than I ever had at a dinner table.
I’m not proud of all of it. But I’m not ashamed either. Not anymore. This is my face. These are my years. I earned every bloody line.
