Loser. Weirdo. Faggot., chapter 2
Bill dragged his feet across the ground. He was tired of everything. And Everything was getting him down. A soft sob came passed his lips. He couldn't feel anymore shitty than he already did. "Where the hell am I 'sposed to go now, dumbass?" He questioned himself. He sat down at the edge of a street corner.
He sat there for a long while, just as he had done at the lockers. He was seeing himself die before his eyes. He brushed his hands to the back of his neck. He got up. He sat back down. He paced the boulevard he had been walking on. A few people passed him, but he hardly realized it. He needed to get away. There was only one way to go.
* * *
Christie Road. Another infamous drug spot. A few miles away from suburbs, kids often escape down here on the weekends, mainly to smoke dope. But not Bill. Today was a weekday, not a weekend.
His sullen eyes searched around in his pockets, trying to scrounge enough of his stash. "Dammit," he whimpered. All he had was left with Mike, back at Pinole. No way in hell was he going back to school. It was like a fucking dictatorship. He refused to be put inside the little box he was being forced in.
So he decided to just stay there for a while, looking down at the train tracks, and the random graffiti scribble on the walls across the road.
God, his shoulder hurt. He felt it sting under his t-shirt, and burn from underneath. Why in the world was school even worth it anymore? Whenever he did go, or wasn't hanging out at the hill, he would get the living daylights pounded out of him. It was the sort of abuse that couldn't be stopped. And had already taken its effect.
He turned around, looking forward to going home to shoot up the rest of his meth supply. But he was stopped. Not by miraculous force, but by a simple pair of hands.
"You shouldn't smoke. It's bad for you." A boy around his age was holding on to his shoulders.
Bill backed off. "Who in the hell said I smoked?" This kid was probably on of those crazed addict stalkers. Bill knew suspicious figures always hung around Christie Road by day. Why had he come?
"You smoke. I smoke. We all smoke. It's the thing to do, man." He flashed a goofy grin, lighting something rolled into papers. He took a big drag of it. "Want some?" he asked, coughing. Bill eyed him up and down. He was short. Shorter than himself, even. Bright smile. Attractive face. And a mop of blonde hair falling into a pair of bluish grey eyes.
Bill's eyes lit up. "What's in it?"
"Ya know, a little of this, a little of that," he winked. All feelings begged him not to take whatever he was smoking, but he feebly did anyway. This kid didn't seem to be dangerous, at least.
He felt a rush inject into him. He suddenly felt good. Really good. Better than he normally did when tripping, anyway.
The boy smiled with satisfaction. "Let me know if you need anymore. I'm loaded."
He turned to walk away, but this time Bill caught him. "Hey! Wait. Uh...what's your name, anyways?"
"Everyone calls me Tre. And you shouldn't smoke. It's bad for you." And with that, he was gone.
He sat there for a long while, just as he had done at the lockers. He was seeing himself die before his eyes. He brushed his hands to the back of his neck. He got up. He sat back down. He paced the boulevard he had been walking on. A few people passed him, but he hardly realized it. He needed to get away. There was only one way to go.
* * *
Christie Road. Another infamous drug spot. A few miles away from suburbs, kids often escape down here on the weekends, mainly to smoke dope. But not Bill. Today was a weekday, not a weekend.
His sullen eyes searched around in his pockets, trying to scrounge enough of his stash. "Dammit," he whimpered. All he had was left with Mike, back at Pinole. No way in hell was he going back to school. It was like a fucking dictatorship. He refused to be put inside the little box he was being forced in.
So he decided to just stay there for a while, looking down at the train tracks, and the random graffiti scribble on the walls across the road.
God, his shoulder hurt. He felt it sting under his t-shirt, and burn from underneath. Why in the world was school even worth it anymore? Whenever he did go, or wasn't hanging out at the hill, he would get the living daylights pounded out of him. It was the sort of abuse that couldn't be stopped. And had already taken its effect.
He turned around, looking forward to going home to shoot up the rest of his meth supply. But he was stopped. Not by miraculous force, but by a simple pair of hands.
"You shouldn't smoke. It's bad for you." A boy around his age was holding on to his shoulders.
Bill backed off. "Who in the hell said I smoked?" This kid was probably on of those crazed addict stalkers. Bill knew suspicious figures always hung around Christie Road by day. Why had he come?
"You smoke. I smoke. We all smoke. It's the thing to do, man." He flashed a goofy grin, lighting something rolled into papers. He took a big drag of it. "Want some?" he asked, coughing. Bill eyed him up and down. He was short. Shorter than himself, even. Bright smile. Attractive face. And a mop of blonde hair falling into a pair of bluish grey eyes.
Bill's eyes lit up. "What's in it?"
"Ya know, a little of this, a little of that," he winked. All feelings begged him not to take whatever he was smoking, but he feebly did anyway. This kid didn't seem to be dangerous, at least.
He felt a rush inject into him. He suddenly felt good. Really good. Better than he normally did when tripping, anyway.
The boy smiled with satisfaction. "Let me know if you need anymore. I'm loaded."
He turned to walk away, but this time Bill caught him. "Hey! Wait. Uh...what's your name, anyways?"
"Everyone calls me Tre. And you shouldn't smoke. It's bad for you." And with that, he was gone.
