@n0nym0u$
11-05-2011, 07:40 PM
“Parker, we don’t have time for your bull****! Get in the car!” screamed a voice I had once loved, a voice that could have made me follow it into the very depths of hell, once upon time. But that time was no longer here. “**** you Marcus!” I shouted back as I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat, and slammed the door of his 97 Mustang so hard it shook the windows.
As I strutted away angrily, cursing him under my breath with each step, I could hear him shouting from the car, “You’ll regret this you stupid *****! You’ll get yourself in deeper **** and I won’t be there to save you this time! I WON’T BE THERE!”
I didn’t need him to be there. I could save myself. Or at least I thought I could.
~
Marcus and I had come down to Mexico from California. I never really had a home but I’d been [temporarily] living in Orange County, before heading down here. Yeah, I’m talking about the O-****ing-C. I always hated it there; reminded me of the show. I mean, it perceived the people to be stuck-up, snobby *******s, but in reality they were so much worse. I guess that’s why I figured stealing their **** wouldn’t matter; they wouldn’t miss it. They had millions of this, and millions of that, what was the big ****ing deal if I helped myself to a little something here and there? That’s how I met Marcus actually. We’d both robbed the same house; got a little shock seeing each other in there. We actually ended up doing the dirty in that house, until the ****ing pigs showed up. We got charged with a misdemeanor for breaking and entering. My parents bailed us out and we fled down here. Find me a better hideout for criminals than Mexico: I dare you.
~
I’m a ****ed up seventeen year old with a bad habit of sticking a needle in my goddamn arm every three hours to feel the rush of something other than my **** life. I have no family: my parents were junkies that OD’ed at the back of an alley in Tijuana while on the run from the FBI, thinking they were the next goddamn Bonnie and Clyde. Ha. Imagine junkies robbing a bank, I just laugh thinking about it. Isn’t that ****ed up? Laughing at my parents’ death? In my situation I guess not, being a junkie myself. Oh, and now I didn’t even have Marcus. Marcus was once the love of my life. Love. Love is the **** that dreams are made of right? Wrong. I was so wrong. Love was my biggest nightmare. I hoped for ****’s sake that I would never be in love again. I pulled out my pack of Marlboro Reds. “****.”
It was almost empty. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. I looked around for the first time, to notice I had walked right to a gas station. I walked in and that stupid “ding-dong” sound came on.
“Hola señorita. Cómo puedo ayudar a?” Of course the clerk would be speaking Spanish, when I didn’t know a goddamn word of it.
“Uh, can I get a pack Marlboro Reds?”
He looked at me with this quizzical expression on his face -yeah big word; I know- and I could tell he had absolutely no ****ing clue what I was asking for. I could have been confessing a murder I had just committed and he would have been smiling and grinning at me.
“Dumb ****.” I said, holding up my almost empty pack. He smiled like an oaf, and turned around to get a fresh one for me. I noticed he was frantically looking for them to no avail, so he turned back around, mumbled something again in Spanish and went to the back. I figured he went to open a new carton. He was gone for maybe a minute before my brain realized the ****ty register sitting on the counter. It looked fairly easy to just break into, when I noticed the little key in the slot. I unlocked and emptied it, grabbing a few packs of Marlboro Lights off the shelf before booking it out the door. Were there security camera’s in there? Hope not. Probably weren’t, I’m in the middle of goddamn nowhere.
I had been out of the store for maybe a minute when I heard someone shouting in Spanish. I turned around and, just my ****ing luck. It was the fat Mexican clerk trying to sprint after me with a loaded revolver. I started running as fast as my heroin-loaded *** would go and ducked into a little café. I ran right past the servers, into the kitchen and out the backdoor. It was the angriest Spanish I had ever heard in my ****ing life. Puta this, puta that; yeah, yeah I know I’m a *****. I just didn’t need seven beaners spitting verbal venom at me, especially not while I was crashing. I needed my fix. I ran to the back alley behind the café and sat behind a dumpster. I pulled out a little box of what was once Altoid’s mints, and opened it to find my treasure exactly where I had left it. People often ask me if I’m religious, and it used to bother me a hell of a lot because I didn’t believe in God. Until I realized that maybe I didn’t believe in a kind of God they did, but I do believe in A God. I believed in MY God. And my God is Big H. Dragon, Black Tar, Mexican Horse, Junk, Snow, Smack, Number 3. To put it simply: Heroin. I pulled my baggy out of the tin and untied the twisty tie. I must have been getting really excited because I started fumbling with the bag, almost dropping the whole thing. I got out my rubber band and tied it around my arm. Put my needle in my mouth, while I warmed up my baby on a spoon with my lighter. When everything was ready I put the syringe to my arm and braced myself for a rush of euphoria, numbness and ultimately, safety.
“**** me.”
It was dark by the time I woke up. Guess I took too big a dose, knocked me out cold. Wonder how long my dumb *** has been out for. I looked around and sure enough I was still behind the dumpster. All my **** was still there: bag, cash, God. Ecstatic, I packed everything back up and walked into the street. It was really busy, but what else did I expect from a Friday night in T.J.
I turned back towards the alley I had just come from- was it the same one my parents had OD’ed in? I laughed at the irony of the situation. I walked right into the heart of the street, following the masses. I wondered where everyone was heading, what they were doing, how old they were, if they ****ed on a regular basis; where the **** was my mind? It hit me that I was still doped up, and an instantaneous grin came upon my face. You know, those real cheesy ones, ear to ear. I danced down the street when I saw a boy around my age passed out on the sidewalk. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell, not with his hair covering his face. Who the **** had long dreadlocks in the middle of the summer in Mexico? It reminded me so much of Marcus. He had long luscious hair and had told me his dream of getting it dreaded. Mexico seemed like the perfect place to get it done, maybe I’d tell him about it if he decided to grow a pair of balls and come find me. What a prick. I started walking a few paces when my mind’s eye backtracked and I saw the dragon tattoo on the dude’s arm.
“Marcus. ****!”
I spun around so fast I thought I was going to face-plant right there with him. I bent down and moved the hair from his eyes, and sure enough it was him. I dragged his sorry *** to the alley, when I realized he was barely breathing. He had turned blue and his eyes looked at me with remorse, helplessness and need.
“Oh **** me and my sorry excuse for a life.”
I rummaged through my bag and found what I was looking for. A syringe filled with Adrenaline, incase I ever got a little too religious and ended up OD-ing. I took off Marcus’s beater, which was now drenched in a cold sweat, and looked for his heart. “**** it’s on the goddamn left right? Yeah I think so. Marcus for your sake let’s hope I’m right.”
By this point his eyes had rolled back in his head.
“****!”
I gripped the syringe with both my hands and dove right through his breastplate into his heart. Nothing.
“What the **** Marcus! This is the part you come back and gasp for air! Like Uma Thurman when she OD’ed in Pulp Fiction! Marcus!”
Suddenly I couldn’t hear the hustle and bustle of the busy street, the nightlife, nothing. Everything went silent. I couldn’t save him; I was too late. Now I really had no one. No parents, no Marcus. What was the sense of me living then? Who was I living for now? I was just some hopeless junkie with no future anyways. I filled up my respective needle and plunged it into my arm.
“Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger, this is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.”
As I strutted away angrily, cursing him under my breath with each step, I could hear him shouting from the car, “You’ll regret this you stupid *****! You’ll get yourself in deeper **** and I won’t be there to save you this time! I WON’T BE THERE!”
I didn’t need him to be there. I could save myself. Or at least I thought I could.
~
Marcus and I had come down to Mexico from California. I never really had a home but I’d been [temporarily] living in Orange County, before heading down here. Yeah, I’m talking about the O-****ing-C. I always hated it there; reminded me of the show. I mean, it perceived the people to be stuck-up, snobby *******s, but in reality they were so much worse. I guess that’s why I figured stealing their **** wouldn’t matter; they wouldn’t miss it. They had millions of this, and millions of that, what was the big ****ing deal if I helped myself to a little something here and there? That’s how I met Marcus actually. We’d both robbed the same house; got a little shock seeing each other in there. We actually ended up doing the dirty in that house, until the ****ing pigs showed up. We got charged with a misdemeanor for breaking and entering. My parents bailed us out and we fled down here. Find me a better hideout for criminals than Mexico: I dare you.
~
I’m a ****ed up seventeen year old with a bad habit of sticking a needle in my goddamn arm every three hours to feel the rush of something other than my **** life. I have no family: my parents were junkies that OD’ed at the back of an alley in Tijuana while on the run from the FBI, thinking they were the next goddamn Bonnie and Clyde. Ha. Imagine junkies robbing a bank, I just laugh thinking about it. Isn’t that ****ed up? Laughing at my parents’ death? In my situation I guess not, being a junkie myself. Oh, and now I didn’t even have Marcus. Marcus was once the love of my life. Love. Love is the **** that dreams are made of right? Wrong. I was so wrong. Love was my biggest nightmare. I hoped for ****’s sake that I would never be in love again. I pulled out my pack of Marlboro Reds. “****.”
It was almost empty. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. I looked around for the first time, to notice I had walked right to a gas station. I walked in and that stupid “ding-dong” sound came on.
“Hola señorita. Cómo puedo ayudar a?” Of course the clerk would be speaking Spanish, when I didn’t know a goddamn word of it.
“Uh, can I get a pack Marlboro Reds?”
He looked at me with this quizzical expression on his face -yeah big word; I know- and I could tell he had absolutely no ****ing clue what I was asking for. I could have been confessing a murder I had just committed and he would have been smiling and grinning at me.
“Dumb ****.” I said, holding up my almost empty pack. He smiled like an oaf, and turned around to get a fresh one for me. I noticed he was frantically looking for them to no avail, so he turned back around, mumbled something again in Spanish and went to the back. I figured he went to open a new carton. He was gone for maybe a minute before my brain realized the ****ty register sitting on the counter. It looked fairly easy to just break into, when I noticed the little key in the slot. I unlocked and emptied it, grabbing a few packs of Marlboro Lights off the shelf before booking it out the door. Were there security camera’s in there? Hope not. Probably weren’t, I’m in the middle of goddamn nowhere.
I had been out of the store for maybe a minute when I heard someone shouting in Spanish. I turned around and, just my ****ing luck. It was the fat Mexican clerk trying to sprint after me with a loaded revolver. I started running as fast as my heroin-loaded *** would go and ducked into a little café. I ran right past the servers, into the kitchen and out the backdoor. It was the angriest Spanish I had ever heard in my ****ing life. Puta this, puta that; yeah, yeah I know I’m a *****. I just didn’t need seven beaners spitting verbal venom at me, especially not while I was crashing. I needed my fix. I ran to the back alley behind the café and sat behind a dumpster. I pulled out a little box of what was once Altoid’s mints, and opened it to find my treasure exactly where I had left it. People often ask me if I’m religious, and it used to bother me a hell of a lot because I didn’t believe in God. Until I realized that maybe I didn’t believe in a kind of God they did, but I do believe in A God. I believed in MY God. And my God is Big H. Dragon, Black Tar, Mexican Horse, Junk, Snow, Smack, Number 3. To put it simply: Heroin. I pulled my baggy out of the tin and untied the twisty tie. I must have been getting really excited because I started fumbling with the bag, almost dropping the whole thing. I got out my rubber band and tied it around my arm. Put my needle in my mouth, while I warmed up my baby on a spoon with my lighter. When everything was ready I put the syringe to my arm and braced myself for a rush of euphoria, numbness and ultimately, safety.
“**** me.”
It was dark by the time I woke up. Guess I took too big a dose, knocked me out cold. Wonder how long my dumb *** has been out for. I looked around and sure enough I was still behind the dumpster. All my **** was still there: bag, cash, God. Ecstatic, I packed everything back up and walked into the street. It was really busy, but what else did I expect from a Friday night in T.J.
I turned back towards the alley I had just come from- was it the same one my parents had OD’ed in? I laughed at the irony of the situation. I walked right into the heart of the street, following the masses. I wondered where everyone was heading, what they were doing, how old they were, if they ****ed on a regular basis; where the **** was my mind? It hit me that I was still doped up, and an instantaneous grin came upon my face. You know, those real cheesy ones, ear to ear. I danced down the street when I saw a boy around my age passed out on the sidewalk. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell, not with his hair covering his face. Who the **** had long dreadlocks in the middle of the summer in Mexico? It reminded me so much of Marcus. He had long luscious hair and had told me his dream of getting it dreaded. Mexico seemed like the perfect place to get it done, maybe I’d tell him about it if he decided to grow a pair of balls and come find me. What a prick. I started walking a few paces when my mind’s eye backtracked and I saw the dragon tattoo on the dude’s arm.
“Marcus. ****!”
I spun around so fast I thought I was going to face-plant right there with him. I bent down and moved the hair from his eyes, and sure enough it was him. I dragged his sorry *** to the alley, when I realized he was barely breathing. He had turned blue and his eyes looked at me with remorse, helplessness and need.
“Oh **** me and my sorry excuse for a life.”
I rummaged through my bag and found what I was looking for. A syringe filled with Adrenaline, incase I ever got a little too religious and ended up OD-ing. I took off Marcus’s beater, which was now drenched in a cold sweat, and looked for his heart. “**** it’s on the goddamn left right? Yeah I think so. Marcus for your sake let’s hope I’m right.”
By this point his eyes had rolled back in his head.
“****!”
I gripped the syringe with both my hands and dove right through his breastplate into his heart. Nothing.
“What the **** Marcus! This is the part you come back and gasp for air! Like Uma Thurman when she OD’ed in Pulp Fiction! Marcus!”
Suddenly I couldn’t hear the hustle and bustle of the busy street, the nightlife, nothing. Everything went silent. I couldn’t save him; I was too late. Now I really had no one. No parents, no Marcus. What was the sense of me living then? Who was I living for now? I was just some hopeless junkie with no future anyways. I filled up my respective needle and plunged it into my arm.
“Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger, this is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.”