A Boy Exiled From Home

I put on my winter anorak, hood up, and go out, heading down Dead End Lane. The wind bites away at my fingers and toes, causing them to feel swollen, and I'm light-headed. I want to scream on the streets and set the facts straight, but it's too late for that.
 
The sky's turned from sepia to overcast, and a sharp gust is blowing. Vapour-like rain dances about, splattering on the pavement. It pounds my anorak and soaks the pockets through, lashing my eyes and my mouth as I hurry down the lane.  
 
I weave my way through the railings on the promenade, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground. Mud and sand merge with the rain. The air smells of petrol or oil. The promenade appears deserted, although I can't tell for certain.  
 
I wander around aimlessly, my breathing shallow and rapid, my stomach muscles churning in frustration as mad colours flash in front of me, dancing before my eyes. Impressions of Max and Little Conrad and Vanessa and the maisonette where I spent most of my childhood. The airing cupboard, the blue wallpaper in the hallway, the coat rack near the main door. The school corridors smelling of walls and floors.  Baxtendale Court and the stairwell by the lift shaft, stretching up the fourteen or so floors. The images whirl round and round, impressions and thoughts of all I've lost. Gone, gone, gone.
 
And then that final impression of the old flat when I was really small...the white container with the toys, the red lid, a man in a scruffy leather jacket bounding down the stairs, hurtling towards the front door, chased away by Max and Little Conrad.