The day I turned sixteen was the day everything turned to shit.
It's not as though I had everything together in the first place, truth be told, but before that day those broken shards had some hope of being fixed.
I really didn't want anybody to make a big fuss over today or act as if it was some kind of accomplishment. "Congratulations, you're going to die, now have some cake!" didn't seem like much cause for celebrations.
Among other things, that was why I was lucky to have Brendan.
He never makes a huge deal of birthdays; he didn't shower you with affections and novelty gifts like huge buttons.
He began that day like he began every other.
At 6:30am. Sharp.
Bang bang bang, "Steven? Up, now!" the Irish man yelled through my door, rudely awaking me from a rare dreamless sleep.
I mumbled something unintelligent into the pillow, probably along the lines of 'get lost I'm sleeping'.
"If ye not up in ten ye can drive ye-self to school!" He banged again.
"Gimme a minute, alright!" I yelled, sitting up and rubbing bed from my eyes, "Thought you were supposed to be nice to me today!"
"Ye not dying, are ye?"
"... I could be!"
"Well, yeh still going to school." He gave the door a final bang before hurrying away, his footsteps creaking on the floorboards.
I was up and awake approximately eleven minutes later.
Dragging my half asleep self into the kitchen, I expecting a bollocking for the extra minute of sleep I felt I'd earned, but instead found a plate of pancakes, hot and buttery beside a small pile of red presents waiting for me in the kitchen.
"Bren, I said I din't want any fuss..." I said, though my stomach growled at the sight of them.
"Don't be ungrateful, just eat the damn things." He retorted over the rim of his coffee mug.
Now there was an order I didn't feel like ignoring. I fell into my chair and attacked them with a fork, watching the butter drip onto the plate as I cut into them, "I never knew you could cook."
"Whatcha talking about, Steven? I cook all the time."
"Toast and bacon doesn't count, Brendan."
He scoffed, "Englishmen..."
I ate up the surprisingly tasty pancakes, looking over the stack of presents beside me. A few cards rested on top, hidden away inside their envelopes. On one I recognized Brendan's handwriting, another Aunt Cheryl's (she wasn't my real Aunt, but she loved to make a fuss over me whenever she was over and loved it when I called her Aunt). The third was probably from Cheryl's friend Lyndsay, but I dared to hope. "Did, my er... mum send anything?"
Brendan took a little too long to swallow his coffee, "... No, Steven. She hadn't."
Of course she didn't. She hadn't contacted me in eight years, why would she start now by spending her precious booze money on a card for her son? I shrugged, trying to act as if I didn't care. I ate another bite of pancakes, studying to shapes of the presents. I could feel Brendan was watching me,
"... Wanna open ye cards? Save the presents till ye home from school."
I nodded, wiped my fingers on my panama bottoms and grabbed the one with Aunt Cheryl's swirly handwriting. The card itself was much like her, bold, bright and colourful. Huge letters demanded I had a happy birthday, while multicoloured balloons danced around it. I opened it, two tenners fell out.
"Happy birthday, babe!
Have a fantastic day! Still can't believe you're 16!
Hope Bren gets you lots of presents (I'll have a word with him if he doesn't!) for your special day! All grown up now!
Lots of love, Cheryl xxxxx"
The next was a simpler card, cream with the words 'have a great birthday' next to a present.
"Dear Ste,
Hope you have a good day and an even better year!
Love Lyndsay xxx"
The final one must have been from Brendan. I pulled it from the envelope and looked it over. It was a picture of the Dublin pier. Feeling a little confused, I opened it and three plane tickets fell onto my lap.
"Dear Steven,
Hope this makes up for last year's camping trip. How was I to know you hated camping?
Have a good one, Brendan."
He snatched the tickets up as I went to hold them, "Hey, clean ye fingers first! These cost a fortune, ye know!"
I stared up at him, grinning like an idiot, "We're going to Dublin?"
"That's right, Steven. This weekend, you, me and yeh Aunt Cheryl. She booked the BnB, so don't go blaming me if it's bright pink or anything."
I could feel myself bouncing but I couldn't stop, "Dublin! We're going to Dublin!"
"Ye don't have to tell me, Steven, I booked the damn things."
I swallowed down the remaining pancake, jumping up and practically running to my room. I was so excited I thought I might bring the pancakes back up again.
As I pulled on my uniform I glanced over my Man U calendar; it was Tuesday. Never had the weekend seemed to long away.
As I came out to cross to the bathroom. Brendan was still sipping his coffee, leaning against a counter while reading over an unfolded newspaper with one hand.
"Tuck that shirt in before I staple it to yeh ass, Steven." He called after me, not looking up.
"That's child abuse!"
He looked up from his paper at that. He was giving me that death stare of his, the one that went right through your skin. "Tuck it in, Steven." He repeated quietly, and went back to his paper. I daren't disobey when he used that voice.
The drive to school was at best awkward. Brendan barely spoke (save some angry swearing at passing drivers) and wouldn't let me turn on the radio, claiming he have a headache. I passed the time by staring out the window of the surprisingly expensive car (he told me it was a gift from an old friend), thinking about those red presents back on the kitchen table. I wondered if Cheryl had gotten me another jumper, or whether Brendan had gotten me the new COD game I'd been asking for. It took years of begging for him to lend me the money to get my PS3, but he still insists that his old Nintendo 64 was better. No wonder he wanted to raise me, he was such a dad.
From the moment he dropped me off outside Hollyoaks Secondary School, everything went back to normal. Nobody spoke to me, let alone wish me a happy sodding birthday. I knew my place within those walls and I knew what everyone thought of me.
I'd heard the whispers.
'Look! That's Ste Hay' 'I hear his mum's an alcoholic and can't even look after him' 'He lives with that Brady guy' 'He's such a moron, bet he can't even spell his own name' 'Fucking chavs like him should be shot'.
Within those walls I was Ste the chav, who never tries in class and will end up just like his mum. That's who they wanted me to be, somebody to judge and laugh about to make themselves feel better. So that's who I became.
Sob story aside, I couldn't really complain about that day. Everyone kept their distance, nobody spat on me and the teachers didn't call on me to answer questions. By my standards that makes a pretty good day. Must have been a birthday miracle.
That was until the day ended and I had to go back to Brendan's.
Brendan normally arrived home about fifteen minutes after me on Tuesdays, so I had to walk home. I swapped my bag from shoulder to shoulder as I walked, my back stinging painfully from the strain of all my books. As I passed through the road to Brendan's, my eyes still rested on my mum's council house. I couldn't help wondering what she'd be doing right now. I wanted to believe she was studying for some online course or finally taking control of her drinking in the hopes her son would come home to her. Of course she wouldn't be... she probably hadn't realized I'd stopped coming home. Brendan used to come around all the time, to make sure my mum was still alive. When I was six, he'd invite me around after school to give me a hot meal and help me with my homework. When I was eight, he told me that, if I wanted to, I could live with him. I agreed. I'm sixteen now, and my mum has yet to even try my mobile.
I passed the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of my mum through the permanently closed curtains, and hurried across the room to Brendan's place. The first thing I noticed was that the door was ajar, like it had been forced open. My heart froze and my blood ran cold, had we been robbed?
I shoved open the door and ran into what used to be the living room. The sofa was torn apart with what must have been knives, the chairs and tables smashed and tipped over. The walls were stripped bare of the decor, the TV lay in parts all over the floor. I could feel myself trembling, my legs threatening to give way. I stumbled into the kitchen and found it in just as bad condition. Among the rubble, unconscious and battered, was Brendan Brady, laying among the trashed remains of what was once his home.