Since I was 21, I’ve been that unmistakable northerner in the south. Never lost my accent in fact, I clung to it harder. It wasn’t just about where I came from; it was my way of saying, you’re not changing me. My ex moved me down there, away from work, friends, and family. Isolation was the game plan. That plan didn’t work out so well for him, though. As you know it ended: me, facing an attempted murder charge.
After that night, my life wasn’t the same. Finding work when your face is plastered across local papers as “the local stabber” isn’t exactly easy. Not that I blame anyone for turning me away. Stabbing my ex repeatedly, then accidentally catching my mate in the crossfire, wasn’t exactly subtle. If you’re wondering about the injuries, they were bad. Bad enough for emergency surgery and severed tendons. I didn’t hold back. When someone’s coming for your life, you make damn sure they don’t succeed.
On bail, I got tangled up in a whole different mess. Ended up working for a Shoreditch gangster. At first, it wasn’t so bad. He had money to burn and no clue what to do with it, so he’d throw it my way. Tried washing it through half-baked businesses around town. But it was only a matter of time before the cracks showed. His coke habit kicked in, and suddenly, things weren’t running so smoothly. Sloppy decisions started piling up. Then my boyfriend thought it’d be a smart move to message my boss’s daughter on Facebook. Let’s just say that didn’t go down well.
I came close to picking up more charges thanks to a certain Bank situation. By the time prison came knocking, I wasn’t even mad. Truthfully, I was relieved. I’d gotten in way over my head.
Now? I’m still a northerner in the south. Still miss my roots every damn day. Down here, every time I open my mouth, people look at me like I’ve just stepped off a dinghy. The north-south divide is real, our culture and heritage are completely different. But I don’t care. My accent, my heritage, it’s all I’ve got left. I’ll never let it go and I’m still “MAD FOR IT”.



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