Chapter Two - Part One
Fucking Monday mornings.
I hate them so much.
Especially when trying to deal with depression and physical exhaustion. I am well aware that these are the side effects if my drug use but I cannot live without my six hours of happiness.
I remember how it all began. I was hanging with my guy friends when one offered me a joint. It was pretty awful but after a while, I decided it wasn't so shirty. Within a week, I was ready to experiment with other hard drugs.
The psychologists prescribed dekapote and xanax for my PDD and social anxiety. But my body is used to those so I added the molly and cheap beer.
I know the drugs do shit to my body once the six hours of euphoria are over. It's almost scary how I lose control of my mind.
But that's the feeling I want. That numbness, it's a moment where I get to take a step back and let someone else worry about the mess I am.
I know one day I might go too far, take a few too many pills than Im supposed to, drink a few too many beers. It's happened before. Lucas never found out about the stomach pump I had to get. He doesn't know I almost died a negligent suicide at sixteen. That thought me a lesson.
But it wasn't enough to make me stop the drugs because truthfully I can't.
My body feels heavy as I crawl off the floor where I fell asleep last night and make my way to the bathroom.
The mirror above my sink is broken. I had slammed my fist into it during one of my withdrawal days.
I like it this way. Because I don't have to remind of the mess I have become by staring at my reflection.
I get dressed for school in ripped jeans and my customary black hoodie. The hoodie is the only thing I have that had belonged to my mother. When I wear it, it makes me feel like I'm close to her even though I can barely remember who she was.
Thirty minutes of lazy walking later I have arrived in front of Westreet Prep, my current high school. My older brother Lucas went there and I'm pretty sure both my parents went there too. Westreet Prep is just another high school, with federal style brick buildings and a large courtyard in front.
I used to ride a motorcycle to school. It was a Yamaha FZi. But after my arrest, many of my privileges were taken away from me.
It's always different walking to school from the way it used to be when I had my bike. The longing is almost enough to turn to regret.
Walking into the school, I head to the cafeteria. Repeatedly hitting the rundown snacks vending machine earns me a glare from the lunch ladies and honey nut granola bar which I rightfully paid for, thank you very much.
I find a table in the corner and set up my stuff there. My history report was supposed to be on the American Civil War.
After borrowing several books from the library and paying for old reports on similar topics from the school's black market, I have only now decided to begin my report, fifteen minutes before it's due.
I interchange between nibbling on the end of my pencil and munching my breakfast bar while composing my essay. It's concise, with a little less than four hundred words.
The teacher is an impatient oaf called Mr Beier so I think he will appreciate my concise and accurate essay, not at all like the verbose theses my classmates will no doubt submit.
An alarm on my phone alerts me that it is time for class to begin so I pack up my stuff, through my trash in the bin by the exit doors and head to Mr Beier's World History class. I take my sweet time doing all this, I couldn't give a flying fuck if I was late.
Why am I taking a history class? I have asked myself the exact same question over a dozen times. I am not sure who I want to be in the future but I am pretty sure it's not a history buff.
The tardy bell goes off the same time I walk into the class.