Only The Reckless

Teaser

Gideon hated it here. He hated the kids who never kept their mouth shut. He hated that these kids had to grow up in this fucked up system. And he hated what he has to see of this system. How you're thrown from house to system to house. How these people were only here for the money and how if something goes wrong, they throw you back to the government.

He's seen too much in his eight years in the system and he wanted out, but that won't stop him from testing his limits. Hell, nothing really can.

Rolling his eyes, he puts the joint out against the brick wall just outside his window. Tossing it down, not bothering to watch it fall two stories to the grass below to join other butts littering the yard.

He wants more, he wants to lose himself in the intoxication. He wants to feel the vodka through his veins and the smoke restricting his lungs. He wants to feel himself slipping out of his head and his body. He wants so much from so little, it's starting to break him.

Break, strange how a word can describe something that sharp. Like a break in a relationship, or break in a bone. A break in your morals or your feeling yourself break away into nothing. Or how an object called a joint can break everything down.

Frustrated with how dark he let his mind get, Gideon jumps down from his perch on his dresser in the window. The room is small and outdated. The walls are a worn beige barely peeking from Gideon's vandalism of pencil marks and posters. There are two sets of wooden bunk beds pushed to opposite walls each with faded blue and white bedding. A dresser placed at the foot of each bunk set, with two dressers pushed against the wall under the long, prison-like window.

From Gideon's knowledge, every room is the same only differing through what kids did to vandalize their space. Some rooms reek of alcohol or weed, others of perfume and body spray.

Others are left untouched. Which is odd to him, he's spent over seven years in this hell, he can't imagine someone leaving soon enough to not lose their sanity and grow sick of the rooms.

He can't imagine a life outside of here. He can't see himself without tracks, or bloodshot eyes. He can't admit if he even wants to see himself leave this place and get kicked to the streets in seven months. Hell, he can't even admit he has lost his last thread of himself and his dignity in the clear bottles. 

And tracks.

And needles.

And papers.

And those small, white tablets.

And orange bottles.

And blue cans.

And bones.

And blackouts.

And Zip Lock bags blacked out with Sharpie markings.