"Are you filming me again, you pervert?" comes a voice, rough and torn by accent. You turn, silently. You weren't filming him in the slightest; you were only filming that plastic bag that happened to be behind him. You don't even know why you were filming the plastic bag – maybe it had something to do with the flowing contours, the ripples in the material, the fact that it made you think that there can be beauty in something ugly. That's why you began filming stuff in the first place. The city you live in is urban and destructive, but only such a place can be heaven if you look at it the right way.

"No…" you mutter, but your voice sounds weak even to your ears. You've never had the power to speak to people properly.

"Don't lie to me, Weird Kid" he snaps. He's in a particularly bad mood, and you don't really know why. The nickname sometimes sounds gentle in its mocking, almost affection, friend to friend and man to man, but most times it bruises. Now is one of those times, and it makes you wince.

"I wasn't filming you…" you say. It's funny how all your sentences seem to end in ellipses. Dot, dot, dot. Always trailing off, always interrupted. Invisible endings.

He growls, and lunges at you, making a grab for your phone. You quickly swing your hand away from his grasp.

"Leave me alone!" you cry out. Later on, you know you'll have yet another film of blurring orange jumpsuit and grey concrete. You grind your fist, and your phone, into your stomach as he attempts to jump on your back, straddling his legs around your waist, but he slides off again. He's got you bent over now in a ball, your arms protectively hugging your chest, trying manically to shove your phone back into your pocket. Here you are again, bending to his will…and his fists.

"Didn't I tell you to stop filming us, you freak?"

"I wasn't filming you…no!"

And there it is: his hand swoops down and grabs a hold of your phone. Triumphant, he whoops, and waves it over his head.

"Beg for it, doggy!" he taunts. You feel the fury in your gaze, and you do nothing. "Go on then, Weird Kid"

Silence. Stillness. He shrugs, straightens his arm into the air, and drops it. The phone, your phone, falls hard and fast and hits the paving with a sickening crack. Your mouth drops open as it lies there, still as a dead animal, shining black metal on lifeless concrete.

"Oi!"

He turns, frowning, and you barely notice her standing there. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she crows angrily, and you see him shrink just a little. She doesn't notice it, but your films have carefully trained your eye for detail.

"Me? Oh, I'm not doing shit!" he protests, his voice light and cheeky. "Freak-Show here was being his usual, weird self and I told him to quit being such a panty-sniffer"

You slowly sink to your knees, and slowly pick up the phone, oblivious to the sounds around you. You turn it over, wincing at the long crack on the screen. You give it a quick dust-down, and then hold down the on button. Slowly, after a painful second, it flickers into life, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

"…And his name is Simon. So stop being such a dickhead, ok?" she finishes, although you don't know what she started with. He flashes you a look of dislike.

"Fine then!" he shrugs. "I'll just leave you with your boyfriend then, shall I?" Then he flounces off, ignoring her protest of: "He's not my fucking boyfriend, you prick!"

She watches him walk off, arms folded, and then she turns back to you.

"You should just ignore him, you know" she says, her arms folded, and it almost sounds like she's chiding you, but it's a much softer tone than the one she just used. "He's just a twat"

You look up; meeting her eyes, and straighten into a stand. "I know…"

She smiles a little, gently, awkwardly. "He's just jealous, yeah? 'Coz he aint got a superhero power. He aint special like us"

"Yeah…"

"Is your phone ok?"

"It's been through worse…"

There's a small pause. You want to film it. You live for these small pauses; the tiny indents in the bigger picture of life that make it just about worth living. You want to film it, but you're worried of what would happen if he suddenly came back and saw you filming her. You want your balls to be safe for a while longer, thanks very much.

"He isn't like that to you…" you mutter, and the moment fades. Normally you're not one to break a second like that, but still. The lopsided smile intensifies.

"That's 'coz he knows I'd rip his balls off if he was" she says.

You know that isn't true. You know he likes her. You don't say anything.

She looks a little uncomfortable now, at your silence. "Well…I'll see you later, yeah?" she mutters, and turns to leave, her ponytail swishing behind her. You pocket your phone, and smile a little, just to yourself. You like her. You like everyone, really; it's just that not everyone likes you. Matt doesn't like you, but then again, you don't really like Matt anymore either, so at least it's mutual. You like everyone here, certainly. You like Alisha, because she's sassy and she makes you laugh, and she's a real actress, so whenever you get a film of her she isn't particularly bothered – actually, you think she quite likes it because she always strikes a small pose. You like Curtis, because he's thoughtful, and never rises to the opportunity to insult you…in fact, he's called you smart on several occasions, and he treats Alisha right, and he's generally a very nice guy. You really like her, because she's always been friendly to you, she doesn't mind you hanging around her and she stands up for you (Although you really should stand up for yourself, because you're strongly built, if not skinny, and can throw a good punch. It's just when the teasing starts, the old primary-school method of ignorance is the only one you can remember). You even like him, most of the time; because although he's a complete wanker and more perverted than you'll ever be, he is funny and you see how nice he can be to everyone else, and if he were to die or something you would miss him, really.

They'd make a great couple, him and her. You can see it. They just have perfect chemistry, fantastic for a film. The films you have of Curtis and Alisha together; they're almost beautiful they're so perfect together, and you know that given half a chance, they'd be even better. There's a very small part of you that hopes that it'll end up being you she bestows her affections upon, but you know that's not going to happen. Anyway, if it did, there'd be nobody to film it, so it's probably best off the way it is.

You pick up your phone from your pocket. The plastic bag is gone.