Walking down the halway with my head down is a usual occurence for me. I don’t have friends, it’s too risky. I don’t usually talk to anyone unless necessary, really. I blend into the backround, mostly. I talk to a couple people, but they’re more acquaintances.
I don’t take shit from anyone. So, while I’m a loner, everyone knows not to mess with me. I have a track record of getting into... physical disagreements with other students but have never been punished for it. Never even got called into the principal’s office because of it. I guess it was a pretty normal occurence at my school and the staff have bigger problems to take care of.
The bell rang a couple minutes ago and I had to go to the back of the gym. That’s where Danny’ll be along with some of his friends. Everyone knows them, they’re the people that you go to to get the “stuff”.
For anyone who’s a bit slow, I’m going to get some weed and pods from him. I usually go once every couple of months and buy a shit ton to get me through the days. It’s my escape. It helps me forget. Judge me if you will, I couldn’t care less. You don’t know my life.
When I finally arrive it doesn’t take long to spot him. We make small talk as he casually hands me what I need as if this isn’t illegal. There aren’t any cameras here and no one of authority comes back here so they wouldn’t see. As for students, they wouldn’t snitch. Well how are you so sure, you may ask. Because then where would they get their shit from.
It’s used by all the different personalities that attend my oh so lovely school. It serves different purposes for all of us, sure. But, nevertheless, it doesn’t matter to our dealer’s suppliers very much. Money is money. Apparently they get it from some mafia but that’s only rumors.
I stuff it into my back pack as he hands it to me and once I’m done I hand him the money I owe. Specifically, money I stole from him. I doubt he’d realise. Most of the time he can’t even count. Danny and I converse a bit and catch up. We use to be friends in middle school. We’re still cool, there was never any bad blood between us. We just fell off.
Because of this,I’m his favorite client. It also has to do with the fact I get so much, but I’d like to think it’s because I’m special. All factors included, I get the tiniest of discounts.He skims through the paper bills quickly counting if everything’s there.
He gives a small nod with a wink saying “pleasure doing buisness with you” while turning away. I quickly head out, checking my watch for the time. I live about a fifteen minute walk from school and he usually gets home by five so that gives me enough time to get there before him and get dinner started.
I quickly rush home. Walking up to the house, it’s hard to ignore the overgrown lawn and chipped paint on the house and creeky, slanted steps. It doesn’t stand out from the houses around it.
Sliding the key into the lock, I take in the sight infront of me. Broken beer bottles and small shards of glass aswell some intact are scattered around the living room. Thank god it’s beer bottles is the only thought going through my head.
I head to the kitchen first and prepare some lasagna, a recipe my mother taught my before she turned into a ghost. Putting it into the oven, I take of the mitts and place them on the counter getting ready to move on to another task.
I decide to tackle the living room first. I use one hand to pick up the bottles and bigger shards while the other is holding a trash bag to put them in. I then move on to the rest of the rooms doing the same thing until there aren’t anymore bottles, counting as I go.
I count. It’s a bit weird but it’s a useful habit. If I know how many bottles he drinks or how many swigs of hard liquor he takes I can predict how drunk he will be. Then I can anticipate what his mood will be. It also makes clean up easier because I know what I’m looking for.
I keep a few of the bigger shards of glass, not throwing them away. I usually do this everyday, placing the bigger pieces in my nightstand and replacing what isn’t sharp enough. I would never use it, out of fear, but it’s comforting to have.
Hearing the oven beap, I make my way back into the kitchen. I take the lasagna out and let it cool down a bit. I stand there for a bit, taking in the nostalgic and comforting smell. It smells like home, like memories. Quickly shaking my head, as if to get rid of my thoughts, I move on to the next task.
Walking over to the small run down fridge, I crouch down while opening it to view it’s contents. There’s some basic food, like cheese and sandwich meats, but I’m not looking at those. It’s not like I would even be allowed to touch them.
I’m not here for food, I’m here to restock the drinks. Peering into the fridge, I notice there aren’t anymore beers so I head to the garage to refill it. A cold beer is important, I learned that the hard way.
After all that is done, I head upstairs to my “room”.If you can even call it that. It’s in the attic and decorated with spider webs and a bunch of insects. There’s even the occasional rat that can be found.
I keep my clothes in a big laundry bag in the corner of the room which makes them wrinkle but I could care less. I’m only able to do wash about once a week, usually friday when he’s not home. But, I’m allowed to take a shower everyday thankfully. I need to get the blood and grime off somehow and this makes it seem less suspicious.
Anyways, I’m going up there because I need to hide the contents of my bag. If he found it he would use it himself and bad things would happen to me. Worth it, but not ideal.
I put my stash into a hole I cut open on the side of the mattress touching the wall. It’s where I hide anything of value.
The mattress I have is nothing special. It’s his old one. It reaks of sweat and booze. The smell is imbedded in the material. I also don’t have a bedspring or headboard. He says I should be grateful for my hard uncomfortable mattress alone. I guess I am.
Soon enough I hear the front door slam shut and I flinch instinctively. There’s stumbling and slurred words can be heard from where I am and I immediately freeze, anxiously rubbing my hands.
Time to serve Michael his dinner.