Addicted
Written by : Jackson Hunt
It was five years ago when I first saw him; he was sitting on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon. He was just laying there in the sunlight like he hadn't a care in the world. Dressed in a black sweater and skin tight jeans with rips in the knees. He was the image of imperfection; yet.. he was more than perfection. His black hair fell just over his eyes; He was tall but skinny, in fact it looked like he hadn't eaten for days. Unfortunately, to my good will I took him in, unknown to me at the time that the kid was screwed up. He was nearing 15 and had already been living on the streets for about a year before I had taken him in. He wasn't very polite either, however he was quiet most of the time. That boy turned into a healthy, young man with a habit that could kill a man within seconds if the wrong dosage was given.
He was into drugs at only fourteen.....
I however was a twenty-two year old university student majoring in Film and animation. I thought taking him in would get him away from the stuff before he screwed up his life even more than he already did; either that or overdosed and killed himself. I felt bad for the kid, he'd had a bad childhood and even though he was still a child he was much more mature than any " Normal " fourteen year old that I had ever met. Somewhere along the way, I had fallen for the kid. Him and the way he would tweak and yank at my heart strings with his stories about his life at home, of course I would never call what he described to me as a home and even though it had a roof, food and clothing, without love it would never truly become home.
He was a very happy young man but as I sit next to his grave, I have to wonder; why would he take his life, over something as stupid as a boy? Why did someone so precious just throw him away like he was a piece of garbage? However, as I sit by this young man's grave, I cannot help but think that it wasn't that horrid man's fault but the fault laid in the hands of the hero, that couldn't save him.....
I leaned over and kissed the sacred rock making a solemn promise to keep his memory alive with the ever soft beating of my wretched and achey heart. I smile as I walk away, not a word as the trees sway in the breeze of the cool autumn days
YOU ARE READING
Addicted
Teen Fiction" It was five years ago when I first saw him; he was sitting on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon. The perfect image of imperfection." My name is Stephen King; and I'm addicted.
