i.
“I pledge to never abuse the uses of alcohol and drugs inappropriately when I come of age,” The school children had all sang, because sure, then things weren’t so hard. Louis laughed at it now, he really did, because here he was, seventeen and he got drunk off his ass every Saturday.
He liked to think that things could be different, but they weren’t. He liked to think that maybe he could seek to, perhaps a father or a mother when things were tough, but they were the ones that betrayed him and that was that. So then there was alcohol, and weed, and shit like that and you can’t tell a kid not to stay off the drinks and drugs if it’s the only thing that will satisfy his hungry needs, his empty soul.
At the moment he had a dwindling cigarette that dangled from his toxic lips; he’d consumed so much that night that you could probably get drunk off kissing him. Not that anyone would kiss him, anyway, but that was beside the point. It was forty degrees outside and his toxic lips were turning numb, fingers fiddling inside his pocket with the half empty lighter. He wondered if he flicked the dial he would flame up and be gone in seconds, maybe minutes, a pile of ash on the side of the road. He considered it, actually, but decided there were better ways to close business.
He stumbled out of his car—it had run out of gas a few minutes ago and sputtered pitifully to a stop on the side of the road. The truck was his mate’s and he’d make sure that his balls were cooked medium rare if he didn’t bring it back with a full tank, but that wasn’t a problem. He was filthy rich, anyway, and every time he stuffed his hands in his ass pockets he’d feel the comforting feel of paper. He was no narcissist, but he made sure people knew that he was fortunate, because they needed to fucking know.
Aside from that, Louis was pretty miserable. Rich and miserable.
He made his way to the trunk(it wasn’t easy when you were drunk and he found that the yellow lines on the asphalt mislead him rather than guide him like they were supposed to. He’d walked several oblong circles because he’d learned from Dorothy to, when in doubt follow the yellow brick road and maybe it would lead you to the trunk of your car), pulled it open and fished around for the gallon container to fill it up with gas.
His lungs were filled with smoke now and he stood up, slamming the trunk shut and allowed pillars of smoke to unfurl from his parted lips. With an obnoxious burp, he turned, and started to search for the nearest gas station.
There was a lot on his mind right now, yet there wasn’t. He tended to be an inbetweener when he was drunk, muddled thoughts and silent devotionals behind the bathroom door. He constantly thanked his father for the steady flow of liquor and vodka. Even if it wasn’t really meant for him.
