A Sick Boy

A Story by nobody99

Just a sick boy.

My story is one of truth and good-intention. I was raised by two parents noble in spirit, but frugal in means. My father was a mechanic by trade and my mother, a maid. Needless to say I had much free time on my hands to go out with my friends and delve into all the adventures life had to offer. It never bothered me. A matter a fact I reveled in it. Now, I do not declare that I ever suffered any abuses by my parent’s hand or that they loved me any less than any other child’s parents. I merely mean to say that they trusted me enough to let be on my own. Of course I saw them, we spent every Sunday together sitting in church listening to father’s explosive sermons about forgiveness and humility. Humility. I always classified myself as a humble person. I don’t think I ever had a coveting thought throughout my entire existence on this dot we call Earth. However my life was my friends and my soul bound to them as was theirs’ to mine. We did everything together. From reciting nursery rhymes during our youth to playing basketball at the park in our adolescence. So when they asked me out I naturally came running. Before I say more I must stress one important notion. As I stated earlier, our souls were bound, our lives intertwined. My friends were good, through and through. The type of friends that would give you the clothes off their backs and every last dime in their pockets. I never thought I would ever have to ask them for the latter, but one night when I came running that all changed.

It was a still, clear, brisk evening when they called me. The rendezvous was an address I did not recognize. Odd, I thought to myself, but if they called me it must be for good reason. When I arrived I stood at the base of the old, stoic, lopsided, concrete stairs, which were stained with years of wear and abuse by visitors of yester year. As I began to climb them, my eye caught a long crack that seemed to snake along with each step, stopping at the point where the porch began and the stairs ended. My eyes darted upward toward a decrepit, but still solid, weathered door with a gold handle. I quickly turned the nob and stepped inside, there they were the pack of snakes that called themselves my friends, huddled around a small, rough, weak, rickety old coffee table that was bestrewn with minute, but sharp slivers of cheap wood that had lost its glow and allure years ago. Before them on that very coffee table, lay as a mound, a conspicuous white powder. Now I had seen drugs before, I knew what they were and what they could do. Hell, I indulged myself in their amusement, and on more than just a few choice occasions. Weed and booze, of course, cocaine, even my fair share of prescription pills, but the stuff that lay before me, I couldn’t tell what it was. “Yo, get your a*s over here, you just gunna keep standing there lookin like a p***y.” One slithered at me. I gave a short, but sweet comeback, of course in jest and proceeded to squat down, cross my legs and sit next to my brethren. I made myself a small line and snorted, the powder entered my nostrils and with it, inflammation that scolded my nose and throat. “I don’t feel s**t. This is some bunk a*s s**t my man.” I muttered. So in retaliation for the comment his hand slid across the table to procure a playing card, used as a blade to dissect the still, calm, portion of the unknown powder. He, his movements were minute and precise, to the liking of a craftsmen. Soon the small portion that he had cut from the larger mound, morphed into a straight, long, fat line. “Now try.” He said with a tone of confidence and reassurance. So, what did I do? Took a try. I snorted again, but this time, unlike the first I felt the substance travel right to my brain, passing through each and every individual synapse in between my neurons. It coursed through my entire being and I began to feel as though I was floating above my own body looking down at the pitiful scene in observation. I felt euphoria and an extreme sense of spirituality overwhelm me, the explosive sermons that father bellowed out each and every Sunday paled greatly, in comparison to this. This was my start. The start of new me. A more perverse, twisted and mangled form of me, that tightened its grip as the days, months, and years carried on.

When I had finally floated back down into the shell of my old self, I notably asked the question that many of you are asking. “What the f**k was that s**t?” “That s**t, that s**t, right there, well that’s morphine my brother.” My buddy slowly slurred out. Weeks passed before I saw both my friends and the morphine. One night again, much like the first they called and like that first night I came running. Unlike the first night however, the rendezvous, the address, and the feeling of the morphine were all that I recognized. The continuity of the calls and the running carried on, until one night the calls ended. Maybe I had begged for that last dime too often or maybe they were just as desperate as I was, whatever the case, they were gone and so was I. It was those damned friends of mine. “Friends.” I chuckled to myself. “Yeah some real through and through companions.” As I let out huge burst of Ha Ha’s. The calls had stopped, but the running hadn’t. Years went by and I never saw those people that I had held so near and dear to my heart. Did I mourn that loss? Of course I did, but the weeps were quiet and the tears only temporary. I still had to keep running and find more. My friends weren’t calling, but the devil was.

As time progressed my financial situation became more and more deplorable. My parents, oh my sweet old folks, let me loose without even a second thought of my well-being, let me loose to fall right into the devil’s hands. He greeted me with open arms and took me in, gave me a ramshackle dwelling with a dirt stained mattress, imbedded with dust and at its foot, small docile springs that protruded through its soft polyester out layer. It was here that I began to lose my mind. For the devil, himself, had me, gripped body, mind, and soul. This is where the egg that hatched the fiendish plan was born. As I stated earlier my financial situation was more or less deplorable and I needed to provide myself with, in essence, liquidity. My mind began to manufacture scenarios that would give me a means to this end. Convenient store. An innocent enough of a thought, when placed only with its own singularity. Other words began to meet with it and together they created ideas that I am not at liberty to share. Not out of embarrassment of course, but out of humility. Sweating profusely, my left leg shaking uncontrollably, and my mind racing, while every other fiber in my being began to almost tear and twist with every diminutive movement, I was compelled to action, in order to cease this senseless torment. A long shard of glass, caught my peripheral. I leered in wonderment. At the base it had a sort of rectangular shape wider than the rest of the body of the shard, and the tip, I thought was sharp enough. That word popped into my head again, convenient store. I hobbled out of my dwelling and made my way there.

I had been here hundreds of times, for the occasional drink to quench my thirst or the occasional pack of cigarettes to quench my anxiety. The same old man always worked this time of night, approximately 2:00am. He was a giant man, both in stature and in personality. I suppose if he had more ambition or if the circumstances were different, he could have had a spot on his own personal late night television show, but alas this was not the case. I almost wished he had been though, he was such a gracious, humble person, much like myself. A shame indeed. However he was here and so was I, a sad matter of mere happenstance. When I approached the counter he greeted me with a big smile and me a question, one mundane question. “Well what’ll it be there fella?” I stood frozen in time and space, my heart beat was so loud that I began to feel as though my eardrums were about to burst. His smile had faded away and was replace with a look of concern, I had to act. I leaped over the counter and grabbed him by his collar, there the shard made its appearance and so did the blood that flooded from his old wrinkled neck. I felt his body began to pull mine down to the floor behind the counter and I drew quickly, stabbing him over and over again, senselessly all about his face until I couldn’t recognize him. I had no time for remorse I got to my feet quickly and proceeded to ransack his cash register. When the drawer opened it was accompanied by a “DING.” That was the sound of my liberation, however when I glanced inside, I only saw small bills. I had just ended this man’s life, for short of twenty dollars. I was sick, an overwhelming feeling of nausea held me until, I vomited all over the drawer. I fell back, sliding down the wall of cigarettes, until I sat legs out stretched next to the innocent old man, crying. I prayed for remorse and humility, but there was none to be had. “POLICE!” I thought and began to make my flight, but as I swung the glass door open, I was bombarded by a series of bright lights and commands.

So today I sit up against a cold brick wall on a stiff mattress awaiting my judgment. For all that it’s worth, it was not me that killed that old man. It was mere happenstance and my past that got the better of me, and the culprit above all else is the that damned substance, that led me into the devils embrace.