They always said I was a troubled kid- in and out of raven hall, bad grades and other criminal tags pinned on me. I was always labled a failure, but never once had I been told I was good at something. The only class that I ever gave any part of my attention to was creative writing. I'd brew stories in my mind, thoughts sturing in my head, my hand writing a mile a minute across my now word-filled paper.
My family was poor, so I wrote about being rich.
I had no friends, therefore I imagined some. Though, the very piece of important information that was never given to me got me into deep trouble. So I suppose if someone is listening, i'll speak.
It was a dark, dreary afternoon on the New York streets. Prostitutes, drug dealers, bums and drunken folk lined the lamp-lit area. I had been sent to buy more alcohol and cigarettes for my mother, seeing as it was her only escape since my dad left. I've always envied him for having such freedoms.
I got an extra pack of cigs for myself. ever since my mum let me smoke once, I've been hooked.
I knew it was a bad idea to make a run this late at night, but i didn't press the argument any further. So I made sure to be aware of every thing around me.
I had the bag safe in the basket of my bike as I rode through the alley. I didn't expect to pass anyone as I snuck through the chain of backyard fences, anyone sober for that matter. But I got this shakey feeling, like i was being watched.
I shifted my gaze from the road to the balconies that lined my path above my head. But nothing was there. I shrugged it off as i continued on my way home. I turned the last corner and layed my old, worn bike on the grass and bounded up the stairs to our apartment. I walked through the dark hallway, passing other paint-chipped doors. But one caught my eye. The gold numbers had fallen off, but i could tell what they once said. Number 207, it was three doors down from mine and had been vacant for years. Tonight was different, there were a few boxes by the door and loud sounds coming from inside. again, I payed it no attention and carried on with my mission.
The next morning, I walked past the door on my way to the hell that normal people call school. The door was open, and being the devious child I was, I allowed curiosity blossom. I stepped inside and was enveloped by the strong scent of spray paint. I look at the walls, covered in graffiti, vulgar language and pictures occupied the once elegant wall space.
"Hey, uhm who let you in?" I turn around to see a tall gangster like woman. just a bit older than myself.
"The door was open," I say. we talk for awhile and she consoles me into skipping class to smoke with her. So I do. I know, a girl my age shouldn't be smoking cigarettes, let alone marijuana. but its not like my mum cared either way.
I think I may have went over board with the stuff, maybe there was another hallucinogenic drug mixed with it. but all I really do remember was seeing stuff. Not the normal high you'd feel, but really seeing stuff. like Alice in wonderland on hard drugs.
I couldn't even try to explain to you what I saw, and heard that day. I couldn't tell you reality from fantasy. And no, it wasn't the happy rainbow filled unicorns and mushrooms that normal people think aspire from these substances. But dark, demon like figures. It's like I went to hell.
Yet, once the high ended, they followed. I'm afraid to say that they were real, but all I know is that I'm sitting in an ally. I'm not sure what time it is, or where exactly I'm at. but I think I won't make it home.