Autobiography Part 2

Another piece of autobiographical work for university.

15


When I was 15, I went through an emo phase. I will be eternally ashamed of this fact, but have grown to accept and even cherish the memories. I dyed my hair black, invested in the staple black clothes and didn't leave my house without a stick of Kohl around each eyes. I wrote emo poetry to show the 'pain' I was going through, convinced nobody but my notebook could understand me. I'm embarrassed to admit that there was even heavy use of the words 'razor' and 'scar'. Every Saturday morning, we would meet at 10am at the postbox on Nangreave Road and together we would walk to the A6, to catch the bus to town. We would begin our assault on Manchester in Afflecks, where nothing was ever bought but many things were obtained. We would smoke endless cigarettes in the cafe, ordering a token can of coke between us 4 so we could stay. Urbis is where we would always end up, shimmering like an 'alternative' beacon. The gardens outside were teeming with life, black crowds lurching drunkenly from one social group to another as friends were recognised and enemies chastised. As day turned slowly to night, we would link arms together and, high on life, poppers and Morinov vodka mixed with whatever we could find that day, begin our weary journey back to the bus stop where our carriage awaited.

Once, there was a Battle of the Bands taking place in Urbis, which was obviously too good an opportunity to miss. It was hot, sticky, smoky inside as the bands competed furiously. It seemed like an excellent idea to go paddling in the fountain, and in hindsight I think that's because (despite the gallons of tramps piss in there) it was a good idea. With our skirts sticking to our damp limbs and our feet rubbing in our Converse, we boarded the 192. Now, whenever I mention the 192 these days, I always say "You take your life into your own hands with the 192." and it's mainly because of this night. We headed for our usual seats at the front of the bus on the top deck, taking no notice of the other passenger nearby. His tedious life did not concern us excitable, chattering girls. Our exciting lives, however, seemed to concern him. His eyelids were heavy with alcohol and he seemed furious that we would be daring to enjoy life in such a manner. He questioned us, why were we out so late, where had we been. We answered truthfully. "BATTLE OF THE BANDS?! BATTLE OF THE BANDS?!" The man bawled, disbelievingly. He seemed harmless enough. We tried to ignore him, but he went on screeching. A young couple had joined us on the bus, and one of them asked the man to be quiet. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. There was a flurry of action, a knife was drawn by the drunken sod.