Degenerates

1

Sage loved the rain.

In the city, she saw people huddling beneath umbrellas and ducking under extended roofs to keep dry. As everybody around her scrambled to get where they were going, she casually let her hood down.

A few blocks over, she would meet her friends. They weren't so much friends as fellow junkies, but the term friend never seemed to raise too many questions.

She didn't trust a single one of them.

It wasn't personal. A thing like Sage's trust wasn't something handed out like chocolates and cheap wine. It was something that had to be earned and continuously proven. A band of addicts didn't really fit into the criteria.

But, she would be wrong to say that she didn't belong with them. She herself was an addict in the most trivial way possible. She'd never bring herself to the point of prostitution and such, though she can't say she's never been a thief.

Down a poorly lit alley, up a few flights of stairs, and across the hall, she came to Ali's door. It was open.

As dangerous as it may be, Sage wasn't at all surprised by Ali's foolishness. She was constantly forgetting things like the keys to her car, her cell phone, and to close, let alone lock her front door.

She let herself in to find a few people posted on the sofa. She hadn't really known them, but she'd met them a few times in the brief moments before total intoxication. They were more so Ali's friends than Sage's.

She sat on the empty arm chair in the corner, somewhat secluded from the rest of the group. She had came for one thing only, and that wasn't to make friends that she didn't want nor need.

Ali was perched on her current boyfriend's lap, a delirious mess of giggles. Sage supposed they had started without her, and reached for her own fix.

She laid back as the drug slid into her veins. Her eyes began to flutter shut, but before she could slip away, she was caught by the stare of a very intriguing boy.

He had seen her before, but never like this. Never had he watched the young girl as she shot herself up. Normally, seeing this kind of abuse hadn't really bothered him. I mean, he did it too.

But she was different. There was beauty in the way she hesitated before inserting the needle. It gave him hope. At least someone there still had a conscious.

He wondered what she was doing there, shooting heroine in a cheap apartment with a bunch of low lives like himself.

Once the rain slowed down, Tate made his way back to his own shitty apartment. The door was left open and the locks were broke. He assumed it was an attempt at robbery, but he hadn't anything to take.

He took a step inside to find that his dwelling was still intact. By intact, he meant his mattress was still on the floor, a ball of sheets thrown to the side.

Other than his clothes, that is all he really owned. It's all he needed. Years  ago, Tate had learned to live based on necessity rather than pleasure.

On the counter next to the kitchen sink he could see a sheet of paper, soaked with the rain water leaking through his ceiling. It was an eviction notice. Three weeks he had to be out for good. That is unless he could somehow come up with the rest of the rent money, which is an idea as good as nothing.

Tate had been homeless before. Although it wasn't at all an ideal situation, it wasn't as bad as everybody had made it out to be. Never had he slept on the streets. There always seemed to be an empty apartment at his fingertips.

His lock picking skills were exceptional.

Nevertheless, Tate was ready to do anything possible to prevent loosing his  apartment. So later that night, once the sun went down, the lights went out, and the only cars left on the roads were those of the drunks closing the bars, he went on a hunt for the easy targets.

By that he meant the homes with poorly built locks, or even better, no locks at all, which were surprisingly easy to find.

He had often robbed the innocent. They were always the least suspicious and his days of remorse were long forgotten. He would steal the things that looked to hold the most value and trade them into the pawn shop for a quick buck.

He's also resorted to drug dealing, which seemed to prove as a good source of income. He never sold his own fixation, afraid that he might use it all on himself. Instead he sold the more trivial drugs; pot, acid, xanx, etc.

But recently, business hadn't been doing so well. After all, he wasn't exactly the most reliable dealer.

As he scanned the shelves of a seemingly wealthy homeowner, he couldn't help but wonder what a person like this would be doing living in this part of town. Judging by the expensive relics littering the room, this person had a few stacks to waste.

Family photos were framed and laid face down on the bookshelves. A closet by the door hid children's games and women's clothing. A dress lie carelessly over the back of the couch, a pair of lace panties on the floor in front of a closed door.

There's no doubt that Tate has committed many sins throughout his life, but never has he been unfaithful. He pictured this mans wife, at home with the kids tucked away in their beds, while their father was on top of another woman. He scoffed in disgust as if he had any room for character judgement.

Underneath one of the frames, he found a mans engagement ring of gold clad with diamond chips, and dropped it into a bag along with other belongings and slipped away into the night.