Eighteen Year Old - Alex

Alex 15

Then we came to a very neat like cantora with typewriters and flowers on the desks, and the like chief desk the top Millicent was sitting, looking very serious and fixing a like very cold glazzy on my sleepy litso. I said:

‘Well, well, well. What makes, bratty. What gives, this fine bright middle of the nochy?’ He said:

‘I’ll give you just ten seconds to wipe that stupid grin off your face. Then I want you to listen.’

‘Well, what?’ I said, smecking. ‘Are you not satisfied with beating me near to death and having me spat upon and making me confess to crimes for hours on end and then shoving me among bezoomnies and vonny perverts in that grahzny cell? Have you some new torture for me, you bratchny?’

‘It’ll be your own torture,’ he said, serious. ‘I hope to God it’ll torture you to madness.’

And then, before he told me, I knew what it was. The old ptitsa who had all the kots and koshkas had passed on to a better world in one of the city hospitals. I’d cracked her a bit too hard, like. Well, well, that was everything. I thought of all those kots and koshkas mewing for moloko and getting none, not any more from their starry forella of a mistress. That was everything. I’d done the lot, now. And me still only fifteen.