SEBASTIAN AND DANIEL
A semi-autobiographical LGBT coming-of-age story about a pair of social outcasts who find peace within each other’s company. May contain uncompromising real-world situations.
CHAPTER TWO
Daniel sat in the second-hand bathwater wafting away the long strands of black hair left by his older sister. The hairs were drifting perilously close to his horrified stomach. The monthly water bill had arrived in the post the day before, with its bottom line shocking the pair’s mother so much so that she had declared a cap was to be put on the supply’s usage. The self-imposed drought meant that Daniel, who was yet to be old enough to perspire unpleasantly, could only bathe once a week, and only then in his sister’s used mire. For the rest of the week, he was permitted only a cursory stand-up wash at the sink once he had gotten to school.
This, alas, raised more than a few eyebrows amongst his more affluent peers.
As the strands of alien hair floated away towards the overflow grille, Daniel noticed a trail of black dye spilling out in their wake. He smiled, knowing full well that his sister had begun resorting to the cheaper brands again, which, in turn, meant that she had parted ways with her working-age boyfriend, a man who would certainly be footing the bill for the fourteen-year-old girl’s vain aspirations.
Daniel had not heard about these events explicitly, but it now made sense of the fact that his sister had unexpectedly morphed from a vibrant redhead to a mournful raven. She had also been refusing Daniel access to their shared bedroom, a luxury allotted solely for her monthly menstrual cramps. The ten-year-old boy, by way of compromise, currently had to make do with curling up inside the generations-old armchair in the living room, the sofa usually being taken up by their mother. The matriarch would generally pass-out in the living room after leisurely downing a bottle of vodka each evening. Daniel reasoned that he should probably just ask if he could sleep in his mother’s empty bed, but broaching this subject would require his mother to acknowledge her nightly alcoholic ritual, thus shattering the calm denial with which the boy had become so accustomed.
Now suitably uneasy with wallowing for so long in his sister’s murky swamp, Daniel swung himself out of the bathtub and onto the browning matt, dragging a good cup-full of water with him.
“Oh shit.” The boy said, as the wave of soapy expectoration splashed against the opposite wall.
He shrugged his shoulders and allowed himself to drip-dry in the bold summer warmth, turning his attention to the sink and examining the forest of toiletries that congregated, in no particular order of owner, around the mouldy taps. The two women the boy shared a home with clearly dipped into each other’s collections, although his mother’s was now thinning out, no doubt due to her slow-descent into unkempt, spirit-based apathy. Daniel selected the communal nailbrush, pressed it into the slither of pink soap that hid beneath a hairnet, and flicked a barrage of tiny soap spots onto his chest. As soon the one-sided battle was over, he dug around the plastic mug for his toothbrush, which was blue, gave it a rinse, and brushed his admittedly well-disciplined row of teeth with the unpleasant spearmint toothpaste. He had been outvoted in the great peppermint versus spearmint debate of three years ago. Once the plaque was efficiently scrubbed off for another day, the boy then spat, rinsed again, gave a final polish, then javelin-threw the brush back into its mug.
The ad hoc toothbrush holder, under the force of his olympian triumph, toppled into the sink with a cacophonous clatter.
Daniel, after giving a deafened wince, dismissively rolled his eyes, picked up his towel that was wedged under the door to stop impatient feminine invaders, and tiptoed across the hallway into his sister’s-and-sometimes-his bedroom.
It was unoccupied, which went some way to explain the scent of cannabis drifting across from the darkened living room.
Daniel threw his towel purposefully at the head of his sister’s vacant bed, then dove onto his own, which lay as far across the small room in the corner that his sibling could possibly push it. The boy then sat, still waiting to dry fully, idly picking the now-concrete soap spots from his chest, vindictively flicking each one at his sister’s pillow before the soap had time to melt.
Ten minutes later, and at last in his school uniform, Daniel found his sister slumped in her brother’s makeshift armchair-bed, with a smoking roll-up teetering dangerously on the edge of her thickly-painted bottom lip. Their mother was awake, but still horizontal. Yesterday’s bottle of vodka, with only a swig remaining in the bottom, diligently stood to attention on the ash-singed carpet. The television was on, but Daniel suspected neither woman knew what they were witnessing. The curtains were drawn, but sunlight lapped at them excitedly from beyond.
“I’m off to school,” said Daniel, pulling his regulation-defying trainers over the balls of his feet, “are you walking with me, Gert?”
Nothing.
“Mum, tell Gert to answer me.” He said, waving a hand in front of his stoned sister’s face.
“Just go, Danny.” Said their mother, eyes not daring to move from the colourful images on the television screen. “Mummy’ll sort it out in a bit.”
Daniel, fully aware that the woman had no concept of what her son was talking about, lightly kicked over the thimble-full bottle of vodka, if only to illicit any response at all from the two women. After nothing was forthcoming, the boy sighed and casually shuffled out of the hazy den.
In the kitchen, he took a bite out of an abandoned takeaway pizza, being careful to avoid the mushrooms, then took a ten-pound-note from his mother’s purse, which lay next to a pool of knocked-over garlic mayonnaise dip.
“I’m taking a fiver, mum!” He said, choosing to at least mention his thievery.
Nothing.
After placing the purse delicately onto the pool of mayonnaise and pressing down slightly, the boy navigated towards freedom. Out on the pavement, Daniel noticed the estate was alive with contrastingly motivated humans. Commuters, dog walkers, postmen, bin collectors, children going in Daniel’s direction, and slightly more dedicated alcoholics than his mother, heading to the shop for another round. Stadge was largely strewn with blocks of single-bedroom flats and family maisonettes, with the odd row of coal mining terraces and betting shops haphazardly thrown in for colour.
The piercing morning sun was managing to cut through the estate’s usual patina of depression to raise Daniel’s spirits. He almost began to saunter merrily, but instead kept to a more socially-acceptable plod.
As would usually be the case when such a wave of unprovoked positivity washed over the boy, Daniel began to grow suspicious, even anxious. He decided he would treat the day with great caution, perhaps even leaving school early to hide in Waddlescross woods. The letters from his school regarding such tardiness would surely go ignored, even unopened, by his mother, as would the follow-up phone calls by the idealistic school secretary.
Yes, Daniel would play it safe today.
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