A Collection of Killings

March 26th 1964

It's raining. I'm sitting under a shabby steel roof with a steamy cup of black coffee that the nice gentleman at the coffee shop gave me. I had no interest in accepting his handouts, but I guess the alternative, getting sick or some other crap, could be worse.

He has wisp of grey hair covering his bald head, but more prominent around his ears and sideburns. He's most likely a grandpa in his life outside of work.

He won't stop talking. I probably look like an A-hole sitting here, hunched over, writing in this piece of crap notebook, but I don't care. He's done his good deed for the day. Gonna close up shot probably about noon, go home to his family, and sleep in a warm house out of the rain without having to worry about where he's gonna hey his food from or where he's gonna sleep the next night. Fantastic, good for him.

Me on the other hand I guess I'll be back selling Rock around noon and then getting high a little bit after that, or at least once I've got enough money to do so.

I won't allow myself to do it before noon, no matter how much the addiction eats at my soul, begging and pleading to satisfy it. I've got to have at least a little self control. Without it I'd be another staggering addict in the street or in a crack house. Frowned upon by society, mothers shielding their kids away from me. Disgusting. A waste of a precious life basically. Nope. I can't end up like that. Not like my brother.

The old man just tapped on the bar in front of me attempting to get my attention. I want to tell him to screw off , but he did give me free coffee, so I guess I should make an attempt to listen to him. The conversation went somthing like this....

Old man: look kid I'm gonna be straight forward with you, why are you out on the street by yourself at this hour? Where are your parents.
Me: look man, I'm just out for a morning walk, my parents are home.
Old man: really? Where do your parents work?
I hate this question. Mind your own dam buisness old man.
Me: at the grocery store on 5th
Old man: you lying to me son?
Me: no. Why would I lie?
Old man: because I know a runaway when I see one.
Me: screw you. I ain't no runaway
I was pissed at this point, and had already jumped off the barstool and was ready to run.
Old man: look kid, I can see burn marks on the side of your mouth. The tint of your skin is yellow and pale. I know a crack head when I see one. I should know. I was addicted for years to rock. That stuff will F- you up big time. I can help you.
Me: you must be seeing things old man, I ain't no druggy, thanks for the coffee though, i really appreciate it, but piss off!

I gave him the finger and ran away with the disposable cup of joe in my hand. Then I ran back here to my little tent in the park, behind the heavy growth of trees where the cops can't see me. It's not too bad, not exactly warm, but dry enough. And best of all, no parents to fuck up my life even more than it already is.

I think I'm gonna head over to Jared's early today. After all the early bird catches the worm. And the faster I get enough money the faster I can get my high. But not before twelve of course. Never before twelve.

(Sorry about the cursing, I just really get into charecter and I felt like a miserable depressed teen wouldn't say things like "oh shucks" or " dangnabit" if it offended you try to ignore it. If your reading this thanks a lot for taking time out of your day to read this garbage. :D )