Flickered lights and sunlight shining through blinds. I stumble towards the bathroom. Recalling the previous month, I remember that I ran away—terrified.
My mom was not what I once thought she was. After dad passed away in the accident, I began to push everyone away, as if it was their fault. A year after the incident, mom began dating a hostile meathead. One day, I ran out of patience and I had to leave. I began to live on packages of 89-cent ramen and my stash of substances to make money in my motel room. I would sometimes think to myself I could just disappear.Like a bomb, I could just destroy everything around me.
I remember the day I walked towards the front of the miserable building known as school. I busted through the double doors, all eyes on me. I blankly stared at every face, old and new. Brushing past those who I once knew. Quickly, I paced to the bathroom and rushed towards the mirror. I put my hands on the cracked porcelain sink, transfering all my weight to my upper body while looking down. As I looked up in the foggy mirror, I saw a bearded man in the reflection. Rick.Frightened, I slowly backed away but I ended up hitting my back on the hard sink.
“Well if it isn’t Trenton Dean. So?” he said in a venomous voice, sending chills through my spine.
“C’mon man, I don’t have any more cash,” I pleaded.
Rick stepped closer towards me, breathing in my face.
“I’m not playing games, man.”
He grabbed my neck and pushed me back into the wall.
“I need my cut by tomorrow morning or else,” he threatened.
Panic runs through my body as I wonder how I am going to get the cash.
I step up the stairs, walking towards my motel room. I take out my rusty room key, inserting it in the keyhole. I have to run away.Wouldn’t be the first time.
I throw my bag on the ground, sinking into my bed, the packs of junk and coke flashing at me. Rapidly, I get up and storm outside with the bags. Tapping to open my phone, I go into my messages and find Chad. Shuffling my fingers, I begin to type, “Do you still want the smack?”
In a few seconds, a response pops up in the display, “Yes, how much now?”
Raising my brow, I type out, “$20 per gram.”
As pricey as can be: I’m in need. Sunset-colored leaves and plastic bags flowing, I walk, feeling free for the first time.
Now, as I look back on the past five years, I regret my decision to leave my mom in despair and worry. I should have been there. I should have grabbed her hand and told her it was going to be okay.
Lying here, I stare at the cracked ceiling still, feeling different than before. Trash surrounds the bed. I quit school to sell stashes of cocaine, heroin and weed as a supporting job since I figured that’s what I’m best at. I have some myself every now and then.But after chasing that high, I ended up here, in a dirty motel room. I look down at my arm, a needle pumping black tar heroin into my veins.
Moving the toggle forward with my fingers, I increase the dosage.