CHRIS POV

"Shit... Shit... SHIT!" I start to panic as the stir-fry goes up in flames. The flame raises high enough to burn the ceiling, and I see a huge black mark. Admittedly, there was already a black mark up there from the last time I tried cooking, but that one was not as noticeable. The smoke alarm's gone off and I'm stuck worrying what to do, as I know my mum has to be home soon. What was I thinking, trying to cook when I'm home alone?

I feel like a little kid, who, fazed by the independence of loneliness, decided to do some dumb thing that looks easy, but really isn't.

The flame is still there, but lower. I wonder whether the smartest thing to do is act on my first instinct and chuck a cup of water onto it, or look it up on my phone. 'What to do when you set food on- oh shit. Now my arm's burning.'

Water will do.

'Wait!' I stop myself while I'm filling it. 'Remember when the firefighters came to your school when you were 14 and they threw water on their fire and then it burst into flames? Was that a stir-fry?'

I decide that I should probably ring my mum, but I hear the door open before I press the button. "Chris? What's that smell? Are you cooking AGAIN?" She runs into the kitchen, a scowl on her face. Her expression briefly resembles terror before turning into anger. "Christopher Kendall what the bloody FUCK have you done now?" she screeches, as near to my face as she can get. She's pretty small, and I'm about a foot taller than her, but she can still scare me, even after my growth spurt.

"Chris, the fucking tea towel!" She yells as its corner catches light and the flame gets bigger. "Why the fuck didn't you do something?" She smacks my arm harder than she intended to and runs out the room, almost tripping over her own foot. "Come on or I'll shut the fucking door on your dumb arse!" I dash out behind her and she slams the door shut.

She takes out her phone and dials 999. "Shut up while I'm talking." She snaps at me. I hear a woman on the other end and my mother calms down her voice and makes it slightly higher and sweeter, the way she does in public. She explains that there's a fire in the kitchen and makes sure they know that it was her son, not her, who caused it. I'm unsure whether I should slink onto the sofa in guilt or run out of the house in panic. For some reason, I'm not that worried. I've caused fires before. Not big ones. But it's happened.

"You clumsy little twat!" My mother yells as she slaps me across the face. I detect a hint of alcohol in her breath and realise she's probably a bit drunk again. That explains why she came home at 2am.

"Chris, you could have fucking killed us!" My mother tells me after the fire is out. As if I don't know that, I want to tell her, but I know she'll get mad at me for 'answering back' and ground me as if I'm still 12, which I'm not. I can vote, so why can't I answer back?

"What is that, the fourth cooking mishap? Chris, that's fucking pathetic. What's going to happen when you move out? When are you moving out?" she pauses for the shortest amount of time possible "Why don't you move out?" She says.

"Because I'm fucking skint." I mutter.

"Don't you swear under my roof!" She demands. I'd point out her hypocrisy, but she would only deny it.

"I don't have enough money to move out." I tell her calmly, in a careful way that cannot be taken wrongly.

"Of course you do. Your Dad..." Mum's voice falters. We try not to talk about my Dad, not since he passed away three years ago. Whenever he gets brought up, Mum goes out drinking and comes back a wreck. "Your Dad left you money for 'the future'. It's in your bank account. It's not loads though, don't get excited."

My mother has never let me use my bank account, saying I was too young to. Maybe she thought I'd spend all the money Dad left on expensive designer clothes or something.

"Obviously, I'll give you a little bit. I'm not going to kick you onto the fucking streets." She says, with a trace of disgust in her tone.

"So... So am I moving out?" I murmur.

"Yes. And don't even think of cooking a 'last supper' or shit like that."

I'm not sure whether she's trying to be hurtful or funny. Maybe a bit of both.

"I'm... Moving out... Now?" I ask. This is something that isn't usually decided within two minutes.

"Not now, no one's going to sell you a fucking home at this time of night, dumbass. Start looking tomorrow. Now get to fucking bed." I nod and go to my room.