It was a normal day in the streets of Fareham. People bustled about, they went to work, they shopped, and they ate, then they went home again to spend the night with their family. I was different. My day started with not getting up on time, being late for work, digging around the corners of a tattered wallet to find some change for takeout, finishing work, clocking out and returning to my empty house to read, and then go to bed. My Fridays are okay, though, because that’s my day off. I get up at about 1pm and go for my weekly walk and pick up a book form the shop. They always have something new in there. I would then read until about 6pm and make my way to bed, satisfied with the ending of my new book. My weekend is like my normal weekday, but I visit one of my 2 only living relatives, my Father, in his mouldy hospital room after work on Saturday. I usually give him my books that I finish because he has nothing to do there and it keeps him occupied until my next visit. He has the same taste in literature as me, so he never complains about the stories I give him. I don’t really have anyone but him to talk to. All my friends have moved away to have better futures instead of staying in this dustbowl of a town. I have only one number in my phone, and that’s my friend, Jack. But he only comes back to Fareham to visit me and his family, usually on special occasions and holidays. All I have now is my books and my Father.