Red Sky In The Morning I have been here many times before. I am alone. Nothing new there. This is just how it is. How it has been for the last twenty years or more. I look around, not exactly a palace but it's somewhere for me to call home...for now at least. I'm standing in the kitchen. No appliances, no cups, plates, knives or forks. A few cracked, beige tiles cling to the wall above a grubby stainless steel sink that is dotted with seventeen flies, two wasps and three large black spiders. All #lifeless, their legs (all one hundred and thirty eight of them) point to the ceiling as if beckoning to some imaginary light. Resting on the skeleton of a base cupboard is a chipped and battered cinnamon coloured worktop. Covered in takeaway menus from restaurants that have probably long since closed. The worktop is also home to a scattering of cigarette ends and a couple of crushed cans of Special Brew. I am facing the hole that once housed a window. The boards, criss-crossing it in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out undesirables, allow only a slim view of the honey coloured sun's fight as it slashes its way through the battleship grey clouds. Looking down I catch my reflection in the shards of broken mirror that are strewn across the cheap laminate floor. My pale blue eyes, complete with elephant skin bags, in one shard. A mop of dirty blond hair in another. My sandpaper stubble, cracked top lip and broken front tooth in a third. The badly constructed photo-fit reminds me that the years have not been kind. The side step from the kitchen to the living area highlights just how small my new home is. The tatty double mattress with the olive green sleeping bag lying diagonally across it is framed by the cold, concrete floor like a piece of carefully thought out modern art. The metal grill covering the window hides the sorry scene from the eyes of the Sunday morning church goers. I peep through a gap in the grill and watch them. Wrapped in heavy coats, hats, scarves and gloves, protected from the cold wind that attacks from all angles, they disappear one by one. Through the large, arched doors they go without so much of a thought of what may lie beyond their faith. The pin holes and gap in the window grill allow in just enough light for me to be reminded of the creativeness of my home's previous tenants. Their desire to rid the world of nuclear weapons and their belief that 'Whatever they say, squatting will stay' had obviously inspired them to create the colourful mural that was daubed on the wall above my four bar gas fire. Removing the lid from the large take-out Cappuccino, I take a sip. The sound of the cuckoo singing from the pocket of my fur trimmed Parka makes my stomach tighten. ' Are you there yet?' The text reads. I tap in the most basic of replies, 'Yes'...Send. The cuckoo sings again, ' How are you?' How the hell do you think I am? Is my instant response but this is not how I reply. I take a moment. Another sip of Cappuccino. ' I'm fine, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.' I lie. I'm grateful that it is just a text message. You can hide behind those toneless words. Drop the Portcullis and raise the Drawbridge to prevent potential invaders from intruding on your thoughts. 'Me too', came the reply. Then the cuckoo sang, ' I love you xx'. I put the mobile back into my pocket, finish my Cappuccino and leave. It's dark when I return. Sitting on a rickety wooden dining chair in the corner of the room, a tea-light flickering over my shoulder, I take out the envelope that has been burning a hole in my mind for the last two weeks. The words 'Do not open until 27th November' printed on the front create a knot in my stomach that I feel will never be untied. Today is the 27th November. It has been for the last twenty three hours and fifty two minutes. I slowly open the envelope, careful not to tear it in the slightest. Even in the dim light I recognise the writing immediately. The knot tightens. It's now November 28th... only by ten minutes but it feels like a #lifetime has passed. The knot has gone and the tears that I had been expecting didn't show up. Before opening the envelope I was tempted to use the last of the tea-light's power to destroy it. To free myself from the content before it could infect my thoughts. I'm glad now that I resisted...soon it will be over. I wake at eight thirty four to the sound of a mother shouting at her son to 'stop at the kerb' and 'wait for me before you cross', presumably on their way to school. The damp, musky mattress is too close to my face and the sleeping bag is too tight and restrictive around my legs. I should never have slept in my socks! Desperate for the toilet and a large coffee, I need to get up. Now. With no water, heat or light I leave my home, but not before texting to arrange to meet at the coffee shop. Two hours later and I'm sitting by the window, watching out for her over the rim of my large Americano. The knot has returned. I hope that she fails to show up. I chose this place because it isn't the easiest to find...especially for somebody who has lost all of the morals that she was born with. No such luck. Here she is. Long, assured strides as she briskly slaloms through the parked cars. Her short black hair, shaved into her neck, bouncing as she walks directly towards me. Eyes, slightly too close together, focused on her prey. The hint of a smile crosses her bright red lips. No sign of a knot. 'It's good to see you darling, ' she shrilly as she enters the tiny coffee shop. Her arms wide open in anticipation. A father and son, like a Bulldog and his pup, are distracted briefly by the entry of the 'celebrity'. They soon return to the page page of The Sun when they realise that it's nobody special. My sentiments exactly. She always was loud. Full of herself. She prefers confident. So confident that she expects to walk into my every thought whenever she pleases. No invitation needed, permission is never sought by her to trespass in my #life. 'Cappuccino, Latte or Americano?' I ask, avoiding the invitation of affection. 'Large Cappuccino', she said, slotting her legs under the table for two, followed quickly by, 'Happy Birthday James'. 'Thank you', I say (although it was my birthday yesterday). I open the envelope that she has rested against the small, ivory coloured vase that is home to a half dead pink carnation. 'Happy 40th Brother' ...Since when did I like sailing boats? My big sister, Annie. Seven years older than me and full of resentment for as long as I can remember. I didn't ask to be our day's favourite when we were children. I didn't even know that I was until she told me. From an early age I remember her invading my privacy. First my room and then my mind. One minute I'm loved, the next I'm loathed. A big hug for family photos, a thick lip and a cracked tooth for (apparently) embarrassing her in front of her boyfriend. 'Did you get a card from Dad?' she asked, her smile fading slightly. 'Yes'. A single word answer is all that I feel necessary. 'We missed you at the funeral.' 'I was there' again no need to elaborate. Leaning in towards me, she whispers ' Was there anything in the envelope for me?' I haven't seen my father for over twenty years. I was driven away. Drove myself away. I was convinced that he was disappointed in me and I couldn't stand it. It was easier to leave. Now that he had finally been in touch, she was here. Sniffing around. I could see her thoughts. There must be something for me. What have I got? I could almost see the pound signs in her eyes. 'Yes there was.' My response as cold and to the point as my previous ones. 'Dad loved this place,' she said as we approached the flat along the busy, tree lined road. 'He bought it over forty years ago you know. He used it as an art studio before it became his bachelor pad after mum discovered that he wasn't just painting the models. It must be worth at least a quarter of a million by now,' she said, the pound signs larger than ever. ' He told me that he would leave it to me one day to make up for you being the favourite, ' she said childishly. Not trying in the slightest to save my feelings she continued, the sly smile returning to her lips, ' I suppose Bro, that day has come.' She doesn't know that my #depression stems from her years of bullying. She doesn't even know that I get depressed. She thinks I get a bit down. ' Come on James, pull yourself together...it could be worse.' Could it, could it really? The grassing to mum. The ridiculing of me in front of my friends. The constant snipes about my sexuality - so what if I'm gay, what's it to you? The unlawful entries into my mind to plant her countless seeds of doubt about how day 'would be disappointed if he knew'. The seeds that eventually grew into a forest in the wilderness. The forest that I have inhabited alone for the past twenty years. The drinking. The self harm. The attempted suicide. The endless weeks spent in psyciatric units. It is all her fault yet here she is again. Trespassing in the place that had been my home for the last two days and doing her best to batter down the defences that I have worked so hard to build since our last meeting two years ago. 'Where is it then?' She said impatitiently. I reach inside my Parka and hand the envelope to my big sister. Silently she opens it, the anticipation clearly visible in her predatory eyes. She takes out the card. Her eyes skip past the words that I lingered over for so long the night before. 'To a much loved Son on your Birthday'. She hurriedly opens the card, again missing the vital message, 'All my love, now and always, Dad xx'. Her prize floats to the floor. A single piece of A4 paper, folded perfectly in half, her name scrawled diagonally across it. Dropping the card, she greedily grabs at the sheet of paper. Glancing swiftly in my direction, Annie smirks as she prepares to savour the moment, the moment that the ground floor flat in the heart of the City finally becomes hers. It's dark again, I have no tea-light now but at least there is a full moon. It may mean frost in the morning but I can live with that. The words will keep me warm. 'I'm sorry...All my love...a much loved Son...now and always...I'm sorry...I love you...Dad'. My throat hurts. I swallow deeply, trying to stop the inevitable. It's impossible. All those lost years. The hurt and the anger. The realisation that he has gone. It's too much, too painful. I don't remember crying at any time in my #life. The release never seemed worth the effort. The blotchy eyes and the runny nose that bring sypathetic noises from those who pretend to care. Much easier to allow the pain to trickle out through the secret lacerations. But now, at forty years of age, my cheeks covered in salty tears, I feel liberated. The letter that my sister thought was the key to her fortune was in fact the chainsaw that helped me to cut down the forest of despair that I have inhabited for over half of my #life. At least I feel in control of my #life. In control of my mind. The broken shards of mirror have long since gone and the graffiti now hidden by a Scrumptious Aubergine coloured feature wall. As I open the heavy chocolate brown curtains I see that the sun has won today's battle. Red sky in the morning... The Sunday morning church goers don't seem to be worried by the Shepherd's warning as they stroll peacefully towards the large arched door in their shirt sleeves and summer dresses. The boiling kettle whistles to me from the kitchen. Turning away from the window I look around. Not exactly a palace but it's somewhere for me to call home...for #life.