Colin Mackenzie

I grew up in a gray suburb outside Glasgow, Scotland, where life feels like it's stuck in a loop. My dad’s raucous laughter, louder than the football on telly, fills the flat most nights, with my mum joining in, glass raised like she’s in on some cosmic joke. For as long as I can remember, the clink of bottles and the bitter scent of whisky have been as much a part of home as the damp walls. My older brother’s no different—he’s 23, already hardened by drink, quick to anger, quicker with a fist.

Money’s always been tight. Dad worked in a warehouse before he got sick, but that didn’t stop his drinking. Mum’s a checkout operator at the local supermarket, standing on her feet for hours on minimum wage. I’m 20 now, scraping by with whatever odd jobs I can find. At one point, I thought I might have made something of myself in sports—boxing, maybe football—but I lacked the skill, and more than that, the discipline.

These days, my “sport” is drowning pints and swinging punches. Nights out are my only thrill, if you can call it that. The fights are fierce but fleeting, leaving me raw but alive, a momentary jolt in a life that feels numb most of the time.

But as much as I try to ignore it, I’m starting to see the writing on the wall: if I keep down this road, I’ll end up like my dad, maybe like generations before him—empty, angry, bound to the same stale jokes and worn-out barstools. I need something to fight for, something to break this cycle, or I’ll stay trapped in the same grim pattern.