The Lost Boy - Chapter 8 – part four - Snapshots Through Fog

That incident in the last part was shit — but it wasn’t the shape of our whole relationship, not from what I remember anyway. Sure, there was always a risk of me being an absolute prick when I drank too much, but generally and overall, we got on really well.

I say “from what I remember” a lot, don’t I? Truth is, my memory isn’t the best. I think, as humans, we have this strange ability to reshape things — to smooth the edges of the past so it fits the version of ourselves we’re more comfortable carrying. That’s not me denying accountability. I’ve owned my part in plenty. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t tuck certain bits away, deep in the shadows, where they’re easier to ignore.

If my ex turned around and said it wasn’t mostly good between us, I wouldn’t argue. In fact, I’d probably believe her. Her version might be closer to the truth than mine.

Because memory is a slippery thing.

But let’s get back to some of the normality that was there. We had a great group of friends — some nearby, some further afield. We were never short of people to hang out with. One group we saw regularly lived in Bournemouth.

We’d visit often enough for me to still have a few solid snapshots of those times tucked away in the fog. Most visits were for the usual — gaming, laughing, getting high. From what I remember, no one smoked weed inside the house. Maybe not even fags. But definitely not weed.

Instead, there was a shed. A proper “smoking shed.” A little hideaway where we’d pile in with our shotty pipes, hotboxing the air with smoke before heading inside red-eyed, grinning, fully chilled, ready to sink into another marathon Call of Duty session. It was easy. Familiar. A kind of home in a time when I didn’t always feel at home in myself.

But it wasn’t just about smoking and gaming. There were nights out too. And one of those nights is burned a little clearer in my mind than most.

We were going out to celebrate something — I think it was the sister’s birthday, but honestly, that detail could be wrong. My memories from then are like flashes of light through fog. Not a full story — just fragments.

One snapshot: all of us crammed into a flat, bottles being passed around, everyone already buzzing before the night had even started. Pre-drinks, laughter, music.

Another snapshot: the next day. Me, hanging. No — worse than hanging. My head thumping, mouth like sandpaper, body drained in that special way only drugs can do.

Because it wasn’t just drink. I didn’t know it at the time, but that night was probably my first experience with m-kat. I only pieced that together years later when I tried it again and recognised the same ugly, bone-deep comedown that haunted me the next morning.

The comedown was horrific — that kind that seeps into your bones and steals your joy for a couple of days. At the time, I’m sure I must’ve said, “Never again.” But if I did, it was just the same old line everyone speaks when they’re halfway through a hangover from hell. Empty words that evaporate with the next good mood.

And sharing that memory has pulled another one up with it — another stupid, reckless, utterly typical Gareth moment.

I’m pretty sure it happened that same night, before the drinking even started. A few of us had gone on a drinks run for pre-drinks — a Tesco trip. But not one nearby, for some reason. We ended up at a Tesco in the centre of Bournemouth, miles from where we were staying.

And that’s the only reason I still remember it.

We had no money. No plan. Just that “fuck it” energy that always got me in trouble. I walked into Tesco, picked up a couple of those mini Heineken kegs, and headed for the door like I owned the place. There was a security guard, of course — there’s always a security guard when you’re trying to get away with something. He clocked me and started walking over.

So I ran.

I think one of my mates ran beside me, both of us laughing and panicking at the same time. Somewhere in the chase I hit a corner, lost my footing, went down hard, then bounced straight back up. I was fast back then, fuelled by adrenaline and stupidity. I bolted.

I think I managed to hang onto one keg, maybe dropped the other. We legged it through the streets in the middle of the afternoon, security shouting somewhere behind us, weaving through car parks and backstreets.

The walk back felt like forever. I remember us trudging along what must have been a dual carriageway, jumping over a high wall at some point, lugging that one surviving keg like a trophy.

That’s it — another fragment. Another little window into who I was then. Reckless. Careless. Cocky. Acting like life was one long dare.

Looking back now, it’s hard not to wince at that version of me. But I can see him clearly — lost, restless, craving something to fill the gap inside. A young man who didn’t think, didn’t feel, didn’t care about tomorrow because today already felt too heavy to carry.

Somewhere around this time — though the exact order of things is a blur, as so many parts of those years are — my ex and I made the decision to move to Bournemouth.

I couldn’t tell you the conversations that led to it, the dates, the packing, or the plans. What I remember is fragments: living at Mum’s in Southampton, clocking in and out of shifts at Domino’s, those regular trips to Bournemouth to see friends, the gaming, the drinking, the chaos… and then suddenly, I wasn’t visiting anymore.

I was living there.

I was living in Bournemouth with the girl I loved. The girl I’d fought for, hurt over, clung to, and built a little world with in the middle of all my noise.

I don’t remember the shape of the move — but I remember the feeling of it. The quiet, naive belief that this was the start of something new. A clean slate. A chance to build a life somewhere else.

Looking back now, I can see how much I craved that fresh start. I was always chasing new beginnings, hoping they’d fix the parts of me I didn’t know how to fix myself. Bournemouth felt like that next beginning — even if, deep down, the same Gareth was still coming with me.