The wind blew restlessly through the trees on a regular September day. The leaves flying through the air like birds, disorganizing my dark-brunette hair. Dust gusting through the wind, sneaking it's way behind my black framed glasses into my grey-green eyes as I sat on a old bench in my little secluded spot in Central Park.
No one comes to this part of the park, unless you were them thugs that cause trouble , or buying and dealing drugs if you associated with that sort of thing. Now I ain't doing drugs, and I certainly ain't selling them. However, some may consider me a thug. Maybe it was the fact I had some of the worst grades in my high school, or it could've been I held down my liquor better than the average German.
Than again, I may be exaggerating since I'm only seventeen.
I sat at that same park bench just about everyday. Some days I'll sit there till dusk, others till midnight, and all I do is drink a bottle of Jack Daniels, almost everyday. I always have one with me. At school, at home, even at a place as public as Central Park. It don't bother me any when people stare. I'm not hiding anything. There's no point. I don't have friends, hell I don't need them, nor do I want them. I've never had a friend, and I never had someone want to be my friend. I'd spent recess in elementary school swinging on the swing set, and no one pushed me. I had to push myself, and that slowly became my everyday life to push myself to try and live, but then I discovered alcohol for the first time in 7th grade.
My mom's always at work, or having meaningless sex with anyone with two legs, and appeal. She's been that way since my dad left her when I was three, and she always ignores me because I have similarities in my physical appearance that remind her of my father. So I was always alone in public, and at home. I was in the kitchen looking for something to munch on, and I found it. A small bottle of Jack Daniels in the back of the top cabinet above the counters. Since I'm a very curious child, I grabbed a bottle, and I took a sip. I spat it out real quick, it was so gross at the time. Than over time, I kept taking sips, and slowly and slowly became a habit, than an addiction. But its not a bad one at all. I mean we're all going to die anyways, so if I want to end my life well than that's my damn choice.
Besides no ones ever there for me anyways. No parents, no family, no friends, no one AT ALL.
Just me, myself, a bottle of whiskey.
YOU ARE READING
Juliet & Jones
Teen FictionHer best friend is dead. His best friend is a whiskey bottle. She's the school punk who's misunderstood. He's the school nerd who's barely known. She scares everyone. He's scared of everyone. Yet somehow they found each other.
