Is my mom living in same apartment?

Ronnie Derek pulled around the corner of Kent Street and found a parking space big enough for his Nissan Z between a fire hydrant and somebody's trash can that had fallen into the gutter.

There was something unpleasant in the trash, a rotten fish.

"Nahh Man," Ronnie muttered to himself, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Seriously, who throws out a whole fish? What is this, some kind of bad joke? Could have been wrapped in plastic."

He tried to look away, but then he saw it. "And to make it worse, now a rat!" he groaned. The rat sniffed around, came to the fish, and started eating.

"I swear to myself, I'll puke... The fuck, mate!" Ronnie clutched his stomach, feeling a wave of nausea.

"Welcome to Sydney! hah!"

"Do I really want to deal with this right now?" He glanced at the horn, his finger hovering over it. "If I honk, I'll wake up the whole damn building. It's 4 in the morning! People will kill me."

He took a deep breath and tried to focus. "Alright, let's try the lights," he decided, flicking the switch. The headlights flashed on, and the rat darted away into the shadows.

"Yeah, like it wasn't even there," he sighed, feeling a bit of relief. He leaned back in his seat, wiping his forehead. "Uhh, fuck!."

He glanced around, making sure the coast was clear, and then settled back into his seat. "Just gotta get through now."

Ronnie sat in his car, the engine now silent. In front of him stood the dilapidated building where he had spent his tumultuous childhood.

'Does my mom even lives here right now?' thought crossed his mind as he wondered if she is in same apartment right now.

The graffiti on the walls was a haunting reminder of the past, unchanged, frozen in time.

He could almost hear the echoes of his younger self, running through the halls, carefree and innocent, before life took a darker turn.

"Home sweet home," he muttered under his breath, the irony not lost on him. He had left this place at 18, right after his father's death.

The memories flooded back—his grades slipping, his teachers' disappointment, and the wrong crowd he started hanging out with.

As he stared at the building, a vivid flashback consumed him.

Flashback

He was walking home after a wild night out with his so-called friends. The streets were eerily quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a dog. He had just rounded the corner near his block when four guys surrounded him.

"Hey dumbass, trying to look cool? Huh?" one of them sneered, his voice dripping with menace. The others clapped, laughed, and whistled, their eyes glinting with malice.

"What do you guys want?" Ronnie demanded, his voice trembling despite his efforts to sound tough.

"Aren't you the guy who's growing cannabis?" one of them asked, his tone low and conspiratorial.

Ronnie's heart skipped a beat. He had been careful, or so he thought. "Yeah, but keep it down, alright?" he replied quietly, glancing around nervously.

"Watch your mouth, chick," the leader spat. "We can gang rape you right here! What, not getting enough pussies?" The others roared with laughter, the sound echoing off the empty buildings.

Ronnie's fear gave way to a surge of anger. "Why don't you just mind your own business?" he shot back, his eyes blazing. "I can do you a favour, and no one has to screw anyone up. Alright?"

The leader stepped closer, his breath hot on Ronnie's face. "We're serious. Tell us about it now."

Ronnie took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Look, I'm growing it, but it's not ready yet. Once it's done, I can sell you guys some. What do you say?"

The guys exchanged glances, their expressions softening slightly. "Yeah, that's some cool shit," one of them admitted grudgingly.

"Better than cocaine," another one added with a nod.

Ronnie forced a grin. "It's not better, but it's much cheaper."

"Yeah, cocaine costs a ton," one of the guys muttered, scratching his head.

"Alright," Ronnie said, feeling a flicker of hope. "I'll get it to you once it's prepared."

The deal was struck, and for a while, Ronnie managed to make a few bucks. Ronnie had managed to keep his cannabis operation under wraps, making enough money to feel a fleeting sense of independence.

That illusion shattered the day his mom got a call from the school. She came to know his grading and his behaviour at school.

She hung up the phone, her face a mask of disappointment.

"Ronnie," she said, her voice strained with frustration, "Your teacher just called. They caught you smoking weed at school. This isn't just a cigarette we're talking about. And your grades are slipping. If this keeps up, you're going to fail and not graduate."

Ronnie slumped in his chair, refusing to meet her gaze. "Look, Ma, I told you. I'm not interested in studies, and I can't concentrate. Just let me be, and I won't fail. Stop worrying."

"Maybe if you stop taking drugs, you'd be able to study!" she snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Can you stop?"

"I'm 17, Ma! I'm not a kid! You don't have to know what I'm doing every minute of the day!"

"You are grounded!" Her voice echoed through the house, final and unyielding.

"For fuck's sake, Mom!" Ronnie yelled, storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His anger seethed, but a part of him knew she was right. Still, he couldn't let go of his dreams.

Secretly, he continued sneaking out, making money on the side. His mom, unaware of his activities, kept a closer watch on him.

She even made him take weed tests regularly. "Negative again," she'd say, relief flooding her voice.

Ronnie played the part of a repentant son, knowing it was the only way to keep her off his back.

When he finally made enough money and turned 18, he barely scraped through high school. The day he brought home his diploma, he tossed it on the kitchen table. "I'm a graduate now, Mom. That's what you wanted, right?"

"Good job, son," she said, her voice tinged with pride and hope. "Which university are you planning to go to? Have you thought about your future, what career path—"

"Look, Ma," Ronnie interrupted, his tone resolute. "I did what you wanted. I finished school. But I can't live like this anymore. I'm 18 now. I need to follow my own path."

Her face fell, the hope in her eyes dimming. "Ronnie, I don't want you to become a guitarist, how much would you even make? ."

"No, Ma," he said, his voice softer but firm. "This is something I wish to do. I want to be a guitarist, and I need to give it a real shot. I can't do that here."

She sighed, tears brimming in her eyes. "I just want what's best for you."

"I know," he replied, hugging her tightly. "But I have to try. For myself."

Packing his few belongings, Ronnie left the house that had been both a prison and a sanctuary.