He gazed outside and thought about how many other foster homes he had been through before this. Tired and worn out he drew the fraying, rotting curtains back with a screech. He flopped onto his bed, or rather air mattress, and began to unpack. It was quite late, and he had tried to sleep, but the squeaking of his new bed, and the smell of the rusty window frames was enough to keep him up.

Quietly as possible he unzipped the little suitcase and pulled out his belongings; he had to stifle a cry when he pulled out a card from his mum. Her handwriting stirred up so many memories, like someone had just stepped on the ocean floor, unearthing sand and seashells of happiness, heartbreak and pride. “Stop crying” he told himself “boys don’t cry” he said. His father’s words crashed round his head, giant waves falling on the rocks, washing the people on the shore away. It stirred up more and more grains of sand; except these were boulders. Boulders of rage. Boulders of envy, of hate and fear and resentment. They were hurled around by the sea, churning faster and faster, being thrown at his lighthouse of sanity. The black boulders were launched with such precision, smashing the glass and snuffing out the light. The shadowy stormy shore of his mind was spiralling out of control. It felt like he was falling into a dark abyss. Tumbling down, to be devoured by the jaws of the broken. Consumed by the darkness. Not even the flames of anger could light your way if you’ve fallen this far.