Never shared this with anyone...
but I gotta get out of my comfort zone. I wrote this last year some time. I’m pretty sure it has some grammatical mistakes (and a gang of revisions have to be made), but this is my attempt at writing a short story lol. Enjoy.
You made me do this. It’s your entire fault and no one else is to blame. If only you took heed to the signs. Now look at you, what a fucking waste, a corpse leaving nothing significant behind. There is nothing more reassuring to life than the smell of death. The decaying, rancid stench of rotting meat in the summer’s heat– I’m still quite surprised that no one has found me yet. I bet you didn’t see it coming but then again; you always thought you were invincible.
On your 9th birthday, your father abandoned both you and your mother, which lead to her breakdown shortly thereafter. She tried her best to raise you, but television did a better job. Watching those stupid family sitcoms formed a false sense of your own reality– always comparing your family to the Keatons and the Seavers. But your life was far from the fairytale that you created for yourself. The quaint one-bedroom apartment that your mother could barely afford, felt like the Regan era had exploded on the walls and in the air. The tacky off white tiger lily wallpaper, practically translucent, exposed the cheap drywall that separated you from the junkie couple that lived next door. They weren’t the best tenants, but arguments served as entertainment, when there was nothing on the television. The kitchen was roach infested and the stove had the permanent stain of what appeared to be the remnants of a crack experiment gone wrong. Food options were always scarce, because your mother stayed in practically every day. Deli sandwiches and specials from the Chinese restaurant next door to the apartment building became the only options you were given. Life could have been worse, but you made the best of it. By chance, fate had something in store for you.
On your 12th birthday, you found her body in the bathroom after she had overdosed on a bunch of uppers. Death was the only way out of having to remember the dreadful day your father left– that was the day you met me. None of your relatives wanted you and most of your father’s side of the family were either dead or too poor to take you in, so you became a Ward of State were they placed you in a foster home. High school wasn’t so pleasant either. You were placed in one of the poorest high schools in NJ. The kids brought weapons to school and teachers feared for their lives, but the school remained open, because having the school there would convenient and cheap for the community. Being different is what kids pride themselves on nowadays, but in our time, it only meant trouble. You wasn’t the most attractive guy in school, nor were you the ugliest, but for some odd reason they could not stop picking fights with you. Maybe it was because you were so damn passive. I hated public humiliation– the psychological damage it can cause— laugher can be such an innocent thing, but when used as a negative reinforcement it only caused isolation from the others—if only they had known your pain.
I know that you wanted to see them suffer slowly, but you weren’t ready yet. Too many dark days had fallen upon you, but you found a ray of hope in the petite beauty from Rio. Veronica Q. She was the only girl in school that looked in your direction. She had frizzy golden locks, pouty lips and brown eyes that resembled a caramel apple at a county fair on a spring day, but most of all her best feature was her smile— oh the thoughts it had brought. You loved her and she adored you, but she ended up having to move back to Brazil. She said that her parents were in a terrible accident and that was the last you had seen or heard from Veronica Q.
Prescription drugs became your choice of escape and it consumed you. One of the kids in the foster home had access to all sorts of drugs, because he was diagnosed with some sort of depression. You didn’t care, as long as you could cop a few from him. At first, it was the greatest thing that ever happened to us, but no one could have expected what was in store for you next. It was as if God was preparing you for something, although you did not believe in such a being. You lost your faith on that dreadful day and since then he’s only served as a reminder of all of your grief. At the age of 18, you dropped out of school, because being held back only held you back from escaping the torment, so you decided to sell prescription drugs around your way to make a few dollars. The foster home had no idea of your exploits and it felt like you were contributing something to society. Everyone wanted to escape something. Whether it was their parents, school or the stressful life of an adolescent. They needed you for once. You finally found your calling.
I wasn’t going to allow you to enjoy that for too long though. I fed off of your distress and I needed you to be at your worst.
You’re not happy with your life. What are you here for—what the fuck is your purpose?
At first it began as a joke to see if you’d answer me, but soon I saw you starting to slip through the cracks. You wanted desperately to change something about yourself, but you were always faced with your past whenever you looked in the mirror. You saw your father, your mother and all of the misery that your life had brought to others. Just the other day you heard of how one of the kids you sold to, killed her self. Apparently her and her boyfriend broke up with her because she was pregnant and she threatened to keep it to prolong their relationship—what a fuckin’ idiot. You aided so many kids in their grief, to benefit yourself and you still have nothing to show for it. Half of the time you’re not even aware of the pain that you cause. You have no one to love you and you only had me as a friend.
So I’ll ask again…what is your purpose? What will you make of yourself before your 21st birthday?
For years you had been told to go to school, so you can become a better person, but as you look around, there are families torn apart, because work can consume a person’s life. You saw first hand what it did to your parents. Your father worked his ass off, to come home to a wife who wasn’t happy with neither her self nor the marriage. She left her wealthy family to be with a factory worker from Newark. They cut her off from all of the assets that would soon possess, to live amongst the middle class. For a long time she resented your father and slowly began to resent you—she saw him in you. When they were young and naïve they thought that they could change the world for good and end the war in Vietnam, protesting for peace. That era came and went and what were left of those times were the drugs. Heroin had destroyed our neighborhood during the 1980s—why would anyone want to put that shit into their veins?
I could see the depression coming over you as you start to reflect on your life and what it had become. It was apparent that your parents had failed you, as well as the system that was put into place to take care of you. They owned your life, even once you turned 21. It is the same government that enforces all of the rules put into place afterall, right?
So…what’s your plan? You never had one to begin with, did you? You can’t even save you from yourself, you fuckin’ moron.
“Shut the fuck up!”
Ha! I finally have your attention now. Didn’t think you’d ever see me again, did you?
“I said shut the fuck up!”
There’s no way to shut me up. You’ve never had that power. Your birthday is drawing near and once again— you have no one to share it with.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind. Christ help me.”
No one can help you and you’re better off having nothing. No one would have to mourn you when you’re dead.
“What should I do?”
You know what to do.