When I first met Sad Boy, he was fulla life. Six feet one, captain of t' footy team, and he had a physique tat was t' envy of ev'ry lad...
... Now he's jus' a train-wreck waitin' t' explode.
In a way, I sorta regret meetin' him at tat party of Doug's. He had so much to live fer. Ambitious. Ready t' take on whatever life threw at him. He had it all sussed out.
... Now he barely knows where he's at.
Shiverin' on t' sofa an' starin' into space, he hasn't got a clue who he is. Jus' another junkie cravin' t' good stuff and crawlin' fer his next hit.
A pale hand reaches across t' sunken sofa. Shakin', ready to drop whatever falls into it. Turnin' 'round, he asks: "Donny, can ye shoot me up?"
He sees t' package in my pocket. He knows it's fer him buh I try to tell him otherwise.
He sees through the bullshite. Now I got nah choice. "Come on." He tries to pull t' wallet from under t' cushion. It takes him three goes to get it out. "I'll pay fifty..."
"I dun want yer money." He sighs and gives me a glare that'd cut through diamonds, slammin' t' cash on my lap. Shakin' my head, t' heroin goes on t' table. So does t' syringe. T' spoon he stirred his coffee wi'. T' lighter. Cotton ball. And t' rope. "Fine."
A wee smile peaks across his face. My heart beats faster, lak a freight train poundin' through a tunnel. I'm reluctant to do tis. I dun wanna lose him. He's a good lad underneath it all.
He signals fer me to tighten t' rope 'round his arm. He doesn't care if it hurts. He jus' wants to get t' blood in those veins pumpin'.
T' rope looks lak it's ready t' cut through his arm. T' burn looks painful. Bulgin' blue veins appear across t' surface of his skin.
A few minutes pass and t' last of t' powder begins to melt on t' spoon. A few chunks of crap remain there, but nah fer long. I'm chuckin' those out.
Fillin' t' syringe wi' t' junk from t' spoon is t' hard part. Ye dun wanna give him enough to kill him but enough nah t' get high.
He signals fer me to inject t' fresh batch tat I jus' cooked up.
Takin' a deep breath, I hope fer t' best.
T' needle goes in to his arm. Then out again. He throws it at t' bin and sinks back into t' sofa again.
Pleasure washes over him. He comes alive once again. Lak a zombie becomin' a functional human. He smiles at me, thankin' me fer assistin' him...
... I want him to be happy, I really do.
Jus' nah lak tis.
YOU ARE READING
JANK
General Fiction"I wanna be trash." One misfit. One goal. The pursuit of happiness. Follow him on a journey through the madcap neighbourhood to see if he makes it out the other side. Cover credit: Ladyofthepond (She kindly drew that)
