Better

Chapter 1

Screwed.

It's such a simple word; and a pretty negative one. But I could use it to describe multiple aspects of my life. My childhood, my profession, and most accurately; my head.

I wish I could say I was a normal eighteen year old. But if I said that, I'd be lying. There was nothing about my life that was normal. There never had been. I'd always been a little fucked up. But I'd never really cared enough to fix myself.

It was the middle of June, 2015. I was in Philadelphia; hiding myself as I walked through the crowds of people on the sidewalks. I hated having people stare at me. But I couldn't really blame them. If I saw a kid with track marks littering his arms and lifeless eyes to match them, I'd stare too.

"Hey, Keaton."

My friends greeted me when I walked up to the bar. I mean, I guess they were my friends. Maybe "co-workers" is a better word.

"You know a guy named Paul?" A guy named Wes asked me.

"I don't remember names."

"Well, he asked for you." Wes told me, pointing to a car parked on the street about twenty feet away, "He's waiting over there."

Usually, we'd make sure someone knew what to look for if we didn't come back. But that was just because most people cared about themselves at least a little bit. I was one of the few of us working without the "protection" of a pimp. All I ever really noticed was the color of the cars. This time, it was blue.

"Get me the plate, Keaton!" Wes called after me as I started towards the car.

I just shrugged, not bothering to look back. The passenger's side window rolled down as I approached. I leaned down so I could see inside. An older guy sat in the driver's seat. He looked to be about fifty, with greying hair and a falling face. He was dressed in khakis and a blue button up. I'd seen his kind a hundred times. He'd never come to terms with his sexuality. He had a wife, two kids, and probably a dog. Paying guys to fulfill his repressed sexual needs was something he was ashamed of, but he did it to stay sane.

"You're Keaton?"

"You're Paul?"

"Hm. The guy never said you were a brunette. I usually go for blondes." He said, forcing kind laughter.

"I do too."

I'd never actually had sex with someone I liked. I'd never dated anyone either. So I wasn't really sure who I'd go for. I didn't think it really mattered though. I didn't care enough about myself to have someone else care about me. I was planning on being alone until I died. And judging by the path I was currently on, that wouldn't really be too much longer anyway.

"How much?" Paul asked me.

"Two for an hour." I told him, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

"Okay. Get in."

"I go to two fifty if we go anywhere but the motel."

I watched him glance at the grimey place across the street, then look back at me.

"Get in."

I got in the car, and was sort of surprised when Paul asked me to put on my seat belt. After a few minutes of driving, he spoke.

"So, where are you from?" He asked.

"You don't gotta like you care about me."

"Just trying to be nice."

A minute of silence passed. Paul kept glancing at me. I guess he really wanted to know.

"Born in Maine, grew up in Vermont."

"What did you come out here for?"

I laughed at that, rolling my eyes and directing my gaze back out the window.

"My parents kicked me out when they found out I'm into dudes. Jackasses spent sixteen years beating the shit out of me for being alive, and threw me out for what I can't change. Ran out here 'cause I had no safe place I felt worthy enough to go."

"And, what are all those marks on your wrists?" He asked next.

I looked down at my right arm. I'd never been asked about those scars.

"Sometimes, when I get too high, I hallucinate and think there are bugs under my skin. And sometimes my nails are long enough that I can try to let them out."

Paul was silent, keeping his eyes on the road.

"But like I said," I continued, "You don't gotta act like you care."

The rest of the drive was silent. We pulled up to a row house somewhere in the city. I hadn't bothered paying attention. Paul led me upstairs and into a bedroom. When that door shut, it was like a switch was flipped.

I watched him cross the room and pick up two things from the bed, a syringe and a piece of rope. It wouldn't have been the first time someone asked me to get high before we started. So I reached for them without hesitation.

"No. I'll do it." Paul snapped, pushing me backwards.

I hit the dresser behind me, having to catch myself to balance. I was a little surprised, but not scared at that point. So I just held out my arm and let him put the poison in my veins.

It didn't take long for me to realize something was wrong. After he'd injected me, he didn't touch me. He stripped himself bare, then stood about ten feet away from me. I watched for a second while he worked himself. It wasn't that I was enjoying it. I was just confused.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked him.

"Just wait." He said with a smirk, "It'll be time soon."

My body had started tingling in a way that I wasn't used to; not with Heroin at least. It wasn't the warm, buzzing feeling. It stung.

"What's, what did you-"

I was going to ask him what the fuck he'd actually given me. But I was on the ground before I could get the words out. I didn't go unconcious for about three minutes after I fell. I couldn't move or speak. All I could do was breathe and wait.

I felt him kick me, but I don't remember pain. I wasn't sure if the drugs were numbing me, or if this was just another thing making me think I didn't deserve to feel anything. I wasn't even worthy of feeling pain to know I was being hurt. So I just watched him and the terrible look of aggression in his eyes until my vision blurred.

The next few hours are blank in my memory. I guess I was unconcious the whole time. When I woke up, I was still too out of it to know what was happening. I remember water. I remember being able to see headlights passing me. I remember a muffled voice. I remember passing out again. But otherwise there was nothing. I had no idea where I was or who was speaking to me. I was hardly able to think. But I wasn't scared. I didn't really care what was happening. Obviously it was kind of annoying. I hadn't asked for this. But at that point in my life, I didn't care whether I lived or died. I thought nothing was ever going to change.

---
Feedback is greatly appreciated. Hope you've enjoyed this first chapter!