𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐔𝐬

16. Let's Talk About Meth, Baby.

S I X T E E N
Let's Talk About Meth, Baby.

From day dot my life has been doomed.

I was born addicted to meth. Which means my mum didn't stop shooting up, I don't even know how I made it Earth-side. I was a sick baby, going through withdrawal sucks, and I didn't particularly like having my fix taken away.

I don't know about what happens to babies that are addicted to meth, or how it affects them later in life. I can imagine it's not a positive, I doubt we end up as geniuses.

Sometimes, when my mum had an occasional lucid day, she'd talk to me about what she regrets, and she'd apologise for how she treated me. I was a kid, so I accepted without really knowing how fucked up it all was. She told me about how sick I was, I was in and out of hospital for various things.

What I didn't know, was how sick she was. Because that's what addiction is, an illness, one that affects everyone around you. There weren't many people around my Mum, so it mainly affected me. I bore the brunt of the disease.

I'd clean up her vomit, make sure she didn't freeze to death, and make sure we had water. I'd do so much I shouldn't have had to. The main thing I used to do, especially toward the end, was sitting with her when she passed out after a binge, I'd sit and wait. Usually, she needed help after.

That's how I was when Tommy and Joel walked in. Sitting by my mother's body, for the second day.

They knew she was dead. I did not.

My life got better after that. It was still pretty doomed. But I got a few good years in there.

Am I glad my mum died? Glad is strong, but I'm not sad. I wasn't ever truly sad, I didn't cry, I just got my things, took Tommy's hand and left.

Sam was doomed in a different way, he lucked out in the family department, he's got a living brother who'd do anything for him. But he was a sick kid, and those often turn into sick adults. And he's deaf. That's pretty self-explanatory.

But he was so fucking cute.

His face doesn't have that sweet expression anymore, the painted Superman stripe has faded into his skin which has Infected veins spreading through.

He stands up so quickly, that I step back, my arms coming up to protect myself as he tries to grab at me. His mouth is wide open, snarling and screeching.

He's going to kill me.

I can't help but scream, surprise and terror mixed into one big emotion.

My back hits the door, the shitty plywood breaks, my back hits the ground. Just as quickly as I hit the carpet Sam is on top of me, I fight with him, desperately trying to keep distance between his mouth and my skin.

His hands grab at me, and I push at him, screaming. Begging.

I can't even picture anything else that's happening, all I can think about is trying to stop myself from getting bitten.

There's a gunshot, but I still just struggle grabbing at his jacket, and his hair to keep his face away from me. But I can't keep him away forever, either someone kills him soon or I'm dead.

"Joel!" I scream, kicking and trying to pull the little boy off me.

Then he's off me. I sit up the second he's off, ready to run, but there's nothing to run from.

Twelve hours ago there was a little boy who was living and breathing and had hope. Now he's dead, turned into a monster and shot in the head. His blood leaking on the shitty carpet.