Writing lab

Final account

(My own thoughts on this in bold)
Chapter one "Dropout"

Bradly was, by all accounts, ill. Not ill in the way it could kill him, no- let me try that again. Illness was something Bradley dealt with every day. He- no, that still doesn't work! Fine, one last try. Bradley had the short end of the stick when- God damn this! screw trying to write this from an outside perspective!(okay, this wasn't my worst start)

This is my confession.
(Ew)
As you can guess, I am Bradley. This isn't a story with a happy ending, nor will it ever be published. The likely people to find this are the police. And as I would like everything to be laid out nice and clean, to avoid a fuss.

I had a plan, drop out of school, check into a motel, take a fatal dose of drugs, and if that didn't kill me, pop a bullet in my head.
(I know nothing about drugs)

My plan was put into action over a year ago, sometime in February.

Law school was great, at least in the first few years. However, the fifth year must have gotten to me. So, I dropped out, packed my bags and prepared to leave. As I packed my bags into my van, Melody began to lecture me.

"You could have graduated early Bradly," her voice scolded, "a real lawyer, nice house, good paycheck, hell maybe even get married! You could have finally afforded meds for Christ's sake."

"And miss our little chats, Melody?" I scoffed, "not a chance."

I could hear her huff of disappointment as I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths and counting down from ten, imagining the slender form of Melody melting into a fog. As I reached zero, I could no longer hear Melody. Opening my eyes, I gave a sigh of relief and finished loading my boxes into the back of my rust worn van.

Now, I didn't go to a motel right away. I had been in contact with a former roommate's drug dealer and had set up a time to meet and purchase a small dose of hell dust, heroin. Honestly, I planned on that being the end of it all, shoot a dose of heroin, and a well-placed bullet in my head.

That, did not happen.

Now, getting the heroin was much easier than I expected. John, was, as expected, a wiry guy. His skin clung to his bones like wet paper-mâché on an armature wire, his skin was the sickly yellow hue of old law papers, decomposing in some forgotten corner of the archive. Dark brown hair clung to his face in oily mats. It was repulsive.

    "You Bradley?" John's voice must have been something powerful...maybe three or four years ago, but now, I heard a paper thin wisp, blown away by the breeze.

    I nodded, shaking hands clenched in my coat pockets. I was not going to speak to this husk of a human. He responded to my silence with a quirked eyebrow and some muttered words that I couldn't distinguish.

    Money was exchanged, I knew he charged far above the normal price, but I didn't care, I wouldn't need money where I was going. Heroin, contained in a plastic bag, was given to me with a syringe with no cap. How unsightly.

I left the parking lot we met at without a word and climbed back into the van, sitting as I watched Skeleton John shuffle off into some darkened alley. My plan louder than any other voice in my head.

"Drop out of college, buy an illegal substance, check into the cheapest motel you can find, lock the door and close the shades, take the aforementioned drugs, put a bullet in your head," I muttered, "Simple." This was far from simple. Why the hell did I pick such an elaborate way to go out?