I want to die someday
I want to live long
I get what I ask for
I get what I want

—The Neighbourhood : Lurk

Life is nice.

I’d hate to say so—but it is. Life is nice. It’s something that you’re blessed with—without being asked. Of course, for some of you out there it’s an absolute curse; I get it. I don’t blame you. I understand. But without life itself, the people you love wouldn’t exist.

So let’s rephrase it so I can amplify what I’m trying to say here:
My life is junk.

Ahaha! Junk is just another slang for heroin. Get the pun?
[laughter reduces]
I’m just a junkie, and I am not proud to say it.

I have eyes—sharp eyes—eyes sharper than any of you all. I can see things that don’t exist, or that I haven’t seen before—no, I am not supernatural, nor am I a wizard (well I wish I was; then I’d magic everything to be better). I know things that you don’t. I’m powerful—and I’m just a boy.

But you know what keeps me down for using that power for the greater good? Yeeeaaah. Junk, junk, junk. I can only see the beauty in life when I push down that plunger on my wrist—then suddenly cherry flowers bloom and everything is colourful and beautiful. Then if it gets too beautiful, you’ve overdosed. Congratulations! Bye-bye cruel world!

That’s the third time I’ve cheated death.

Oh no—hang on. You, as a reader, only know two occasions of where I’ve almost died. Me, hanging on a rope in front of that bastard’s house, and my recent OD. So let me break the fourth wall here and tell you which other time I avoided death—haha, that’s right. I’m telling you things I’m not supposed to—that’s called cheating, and it’s against the rules. Well honey—so is taking drugs, stealing, lying and infidelity. And I—as the protagonist of this story, and partly because I am supposedly the favourite character is [I’m sorry that I am, you must regret it], I’m going to tell you how he saved me from death.

Him.
My golden boy.

I was going to jump that day—honestly, I was. Of course it never occurred to me that it was such a stupid decision—the drug was getting in my head, and I had a few more than just several shots. I felt such a failure that day, you know—I was failing Tao, I was failing myself. I wanted to get clean—clean from the junk, see. But I’ve been doing it for so long and I depended on it like I depended on life. A few days from there, I decided—that was it, I wanted to get clean. No more smack, no more junk. Start a new life. But I could only survive three days trying to keep my sanity in and I decided—that was it, no more. I broke my own promise. I did a binge, took my joint and walked out on that bridge.

I was going to jump. I was honestly so depressed—I’m just a junkie, I’m just a junkie, I’m just a junkie. The only honest money I had ever earned were from Tao and the worst last-resort job I do down the parlour—be a good prossie, let a lad or a few touch you a bit more here and there, mewl good for them and get a good sum in one hour than any of you can earn in a month. Sometimes if I purr a little harder they give me a bit more—double the money. I was a nice little boy in thigh-high socks, of course I was appealing. But the job was humiliating—for me. I don’t know about the others. But I die every time they leave me in that stained bedsheets with the money—honest money, sure, but I feel so much more dingy than stealing out of people’s pockets.

Sometimes they give me money and junk. Hey—it’s a safe job, right? The older girls down the parlour were really nice—if the jock wants a little more than dirty or if he’s really gross, they chuck them out. And it’s a nice job too—perfectly safe, real damn nice, and big honest money! All you needed to do was just spread your thighs a bit and give them a cute wink, and they’d be fawning for you like a puppy.

But is your dignity worth the money?

Sure, you earn easy money by just literally getting done up. But I was dying inside—physically, and mentally. I cried more than I smiled, and I pushed that plunger in more than I didn’t.

I look up to Tao, I do. Even though he had an advantage of being filthy spoiled since he was a pup, he never crossed more than a length of his leg across the line. Sometimes he shares a joint with me if he wants—but it’s not like he depends on it. He’s lucky. He works hard for his money, and he’s worth every single penny he earns. Respectable. Life’s good for him, I suppose—I mean, he’s engaged now! Kris is a bit of a bastard sometimes—but the soppy kind of bastard, mind, one that kisses you too much or embarrasses you in public by crying grossly of how much he misses you, and that’s a good kind of bastard—otherwise I’d already kicked his flat arse off Taozi’s marble staircase all the way to Pacific. I was damn jealous—I am. But never once crossed my mind that I’d steal his bank card—even though he told me the pin. I love him like the brother I never had.

Maybe it was just the luck I lacked.

I started out normal. Just a kind little boy with chubby cheeks and smiling eyes down the road, plays a bit of mud here and there and climbs mango trees when it’s summer, and is frequently seen with a nancy swot of a boy (Tao). Nice ma and pa—damn, I loved them so much—but I only came to realise how much I loved them when they’ve gone beyond the grave.

Pa died—it wasn’t his fault. Retched and coughed even though he never touched even the tip of a cigarette.  Ma moved on—I didn’t want her to, obviously, but she did—married some man who steals money from her purse. I warned her about this, of course, but humans are just fools and children’s opinions are regarded as ‘irrelevant’. I had no input in this relationship. The bloody bastard didn’t even take part in paying the bills, either—it would be understandable if he actually tries hard to get a job, but he doesn’t even try at all—the ratio of him trying and not trying was one to a billion. And when ma finally came to her time, all the money we were left with drowned along with the cans of beer he always clicks.

Tao knew what position I was in, but he didn’t want to be dragged into the problem—I understood. Though I denied time and time again, he slips in an envelope of a few bills to keep myself up with food and school equipment—I obviously didn’t dare to tell pa, he’d grab it from me as soon as he finds out.

But Tao obviously can’t sneak me money every damn time he wants—he has his own life. His parents would be suspicious. All this time I’ve been only taking care of myself, and the bills went unpaid. Then we had to move out to a council house and live off a measly amount of money every month—which pa also downs with his drinks.

When he’s sober, he beats me up. Never in the face, though—the teachers at school would be suspicious. A boot down the stomach until I cough and countless skins and bruises over my body. He manipulates me too, the git—I was too small to understand, but the bastard leeches what little food I have off of me.

Then one day he kicked me so hard that I broke one of my ribs—obviously I hobbled to school howling in pain, crying. I never told anyone before—about the abuse. But I was honestly so tired of it that I decided that enough was enough—I blurted it all out to the counsellor. I showed her my ugly body. It didn’t take long until my pa was called in to school the very same day.

Pa was obviously so furious, but he didn’t deny his actions—at least the bastard was honest even if he’s damn heartless. You can’t blame bruises and scratches from falling down the stairs and he had no choice.

Pa was given another chance, and if he bruises me once more I’d be taken into a home. Though he obviously happy to give me up—and since it’s our last day of being a family together, he decided to take this very precious time to really kill me.

Hung me up the treehouse.

If the next-door neighbour hadn’t been looking out of her house that time, I would’ve died. Though the damage was still done. I never saw my pa ever again, and I was left with a painful reminder of my happy life that decided to turn so sourly—the rope scars around my neck that I wore like a collar until the day I die.

I was hospitalised for a while until I healed—but hospitals can’t heal tears or wounds that open up elsewhere from your physical body.

I was then passed on to the foster home—but I suppose I’ve changed so much in the span of the abusive years. They’ve put me in homes with nice caretakers, they’ve put me in homes with mean bastards, they’ve put me in countless sets of parents. But once you’ve endured years of being kicked in the torso, I guess you’re not so soft anymore.

Mixed in with the wrong crowd. The jocks down my last foster home sometimes go out to hunt for some junk, and those guys were so nice. I mean—really nice. They took me in like their little brother and it was literally the only span of time I was happy. But obviously they’re… they’re bad influence—I didn’t know, of course, but I tried so hard to fit in and if I blew my chance, nobody would like me anymore—and they were the only guys that accepted me even though I’d always come down home with bleeding knuckles and bad grades.

“What’s that, un?” I asked one day—home from school, down the alleyway with the gang as they always were. They were passing round this foil—I knew that it was smoking, but… the only smoking I knew of were from cigarettes, not foils.

“Heroin, yeah!” one of them says, and he puts this lighter und