WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
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Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
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Polly lives on the opposite side of Chicago than I do, in Roseland, so I say fuck it and decide not to drive all the way back to my neighborhood.
I do something I should've done a long time ago: I cut my hair.
I know how I look, walking into a pristine and polished barber shop the way I am. No matter how much I try and convince myself I don't care, I do. I really do.
"We wash hair, too, you know," the barber says. He has the same tone as Polly did when she asked if I drank - this disgusted manner of speaking the obvious. As if there are public showers on every corner, and I was so gross that I didn't snatch the opportunity to take one. (Honestly, that would be better than seeing all the fucking fast food shitholes everywhere).
It's been a while since I've looked in a mirror. I make the mistake of doing so, where the crushing realization that I still look like shit settles within me. I don't have a home, but this feeling sure does, and it's not moving out any time soon.
I've always thought karma was a bunch of bullshit, but fuck, maybe thinking I looked homeless before caused me to...actually become it. I'm willing to accept anything at this point.
I spend some of the last of my money washing my clothes and fixing my hair because I care more about aesthetics than food.
The rest of it goes to alcohol, naturally.
Instead of being suspicious of my fake ID, this bartender barely glances at it. I'm elated and chatty with the other customers at the bar. A lot of people think that having depression means you're never happy. A lot of other people are confused when a loved one commits suicide because they seemed so happy the short time leading to their death.
Of course, I'm happy. The end is here. I've got the courage to go through with it. It's all I've ever wanted.
Most of the customers here aren't alone like me. There are couples and friends and families and teams. Once I'm good and drunk, I go to the dance floor, where this shitty RAVE or New Wave music is playing. Electronic music is my least favorite kind of music, but everything around me looks like a sparkly neon cherry slushie. This could be Heaven or Hell. Probably Hell.
I don't understand why my emotions are changing so drastically. It scares me. My entire being is quivering, smile crashing into one corner of my mouth.
The sky perches onto my shoulders when I go to smoke. Smoking reduces the ability to taste and for fuck's sake, am I glad. My cravings have nagged at me less.
Through the window, I see a couple get into a fucking fight about stupid nothings and it ends when the girl smacks the guy across the face. He looks down and backs off. Domestic violence bells ring in my head at full blast. In my drunken state, I think I can make a difference.
Storming up to the bitch, I don't hesitate for shit. "You can't fuckin' do that. You know he won't defend himself. He can't hit you because you're a chick, right? Yet, you can hit him." I feel sick, but there's nothing stopping me.
