Barcode

This is the beginning of a story that I've started writing. It's very personal to me and is based off parts of my life. It's my therapy.

Barcode

Now:

The wind howled against my face, chapping my lips and breaking my spirit in one constant gust of Nitrogen, Oxygen, and whatever the f**k else was in the atmosphere. My hands were grasped tightly around the handlebars of my single-speed fixie, too cold to put in the pockets of my hoodie. The harder I pedaled the slower I seemed to go, and the harder the wind blew on my red cheeks. Cars honked at me when I swerved into their lane, as if I didn’t know they were there. A******s.

Half of me wanted the cars to hit me and just put me out of my misery, while the other fifty percent of my drunk mind just wished they would pull over to the side and make me warm for the first time in three months. The only problem was that nobody is going to pull over for a sixteen year old teenage boy at two in the morning.

I get a buzz in my pocket and reach for my “dusty” iPhone 4s.

iMessage: Samantha Jones

The adrenaline that rushed through my veins gave my hands enough warmth to release the icy grip of my handle bars. Now, I know you’re not supposed to check your phone when you’re biking, but it’s different for me. A: I don’t give two f***s about whether I get hit by some jackass driving home from striking out at a bar. B: I won’t get hurt because the part of me that feels pain has long been on the back of milk cartons. C: I don’t care if the driver has enough guilt to become suicidal after killing a tennager with “so much potential”. D: A.

So I slid my rigid thumb along the cracked screen, cutting my numb phalange. It f*****g hurt.

“Yes,” read the text message.

Whatever had warmed up my fingers lowered to my stomach, giving me a big enough butterfly that I threw up. It wasn’t from the Vodka. I swear.

“And you knew for sure?” I asked, streaking my blood across the touch sensitive glass.

Delivered.

The last time I had talked to Sam was three months ago. That’s when my life turned to s**t. That’s when I realized that life is like Survival Mode in Call of Duty: You aren’t going to win. It’s impossible. That’s the idea of the game. Your soldier keeps on fighting and fighting until eventually he gets shot in the face, falls down the stairs into a pile of grenades, and gets blown up into a million pieces. And right now I was at the point where the AI brings in some tanks or whatever the f**k kills the a*s players. I’ve only play COD once, so don’t laugh.

Ok, I should probably just tell you the gist of what happened so you don’t think I’m some weird kid writing about his “First World Problems”. But I don't really care if you think I’m some weird kid writing about his “First World Problems”. Because the part of me that cares is lying in a heap with my heart next to the liquor store on 44th street.



Author's Note

This is just the beginning of the story. I have a lot more that I've written and a lot more that I will write.