• County Lines

Imagine…

Imagine how it must feel to live knowing there’s no emergency services. No police, ambulance or fire engines. The number 999 doesn’t exist. You’re stuck in a burning house with no route of escape, having a heart attack with no available transport to get to a hospital, you’re being robbed at knifepoint but can’t call the police for help.

Imagine living in the most crime ridden, dangerous part of a city. In a old building with such weak doors, anybody could gain entry with no more than a gentle shove. Every single person fully aware that a lone, vulnerable female lives in that building. An easy target, no repercussions for whoever takes aim.

That’s my life.

I am too terrified of calling for help, in case I’m accidentally named the perpetrator instead of the victim.

All the while being terrorised by ex criminals, junkies, homeless people and conceited individuals who’s lives revolve around personal gain- not giving toss about how they go about it.

Every day I am relentlessly threatened, blackmailed, intimidated, pressured, and harassed.

Every day I am targeted, backed into a corner, involuntarily set up to be the fall guy. Rinsed financially, used abused and spat out. Emotionally drained, accusations slung at me from all directions.

My options, decisions, rights, opinions are all taken away from me.

If a homeless man demands I wash his clothes- I have no option but to do it. If a junkie decides to smoke drugs in the communal hallway- I have no way to remove them. If my friends ex partner wants money- he will buzz my intercom until mine and my neighbours ears begin to ring, if I don’t give in; he will forcefully smash the door down to enter or throw a brick through my window until I am sobbing with terror, and have to relent or lose my home.

I’d love to move. I’d love to have a £800 deposit to hand, and the first month’s rent on top. A landlord willing to overlook the lack of glowing references, payslips and tax returns for the past year while being imprisoned by a gang of drug dealers and doesn’t bat an eyelid about the prospective tenant spending the past 4 months under investigation by the police charged with BEING the drug dealer rather than the victim.

I haven’t got a hope in hell. I don’t stand a chance. You need friends or family members to sofa surf. That’s out. I’m not 6 months up the duff with a fake back injury to qualify for a council house. I won’t have been on the streets long enough to get a room in a hostel.

Im utterly bloody fucked

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