I awoke on my mattress wearing the same clothes as last night. I sat up and looked around in my room, trying to gather my bearings. There were bottles and cans scattered on my mattress and throughout my apartment. It’s an apartment far from my kind, right in the middle of the shadiest part of town, but it’s all mine and it’s where I can do whatever I want without anyone judging me and what I do. I stood up and stumbled over to the kitchen where the painkillers resided in the same place as I always leave them. I poured five in my hand and knocked them all back at once. I stumbled over to the fridge only to find it empty except for half a gallon of milk. I took the gallon out and swirled in around, noticing how many clumps were in it exactly. I opened it and took a sniff and immediately felt sick and quickly poured it down the drain.
This was the life. I mean what teenager didn’t want to live on his own in his own apartment. Granted I have to give up some of my free time to work, but it’s an okay job and I get to use my camera and take photos so I don’t complain too much. Speaking of my job…I glance at the clock, “Shit,” I needed to be at the newspaper company in an hour with developed photos. I rushed around my apartment, grabbing the cleanest smelling clothes I could find on the floor and threw them on. I ran into my “work room” as I call it (really it’s just the place where I hang all of the photos I take in my own time) and grabbed my camera and the film from the car accident, book sale, and the other trivial shit I had to report to for my job. As I rushed back out I stopped in front of one photo: the last one I took of my mother before she died. It was spring and she was sitting in the sunroom my old house had and the light was making her blonde hair almost blend in with the sunlight. She was laughing as well, probably because of how I felt the photo needed to be taken, which only made the photo even better. I thumbed the photo gently for a moment, “You were the only one who really cared,” I murmured to myself.
As soon as I left the apartment I reached for my box of cigarettes and quickly lit one and put it in my mouth and took a deep breath. It was a terrible habit, my mother always told me, but when she died I felt it suiting that I started. Plus it was a good alternative to when I was in public and couldn’t smoke weed. I took a step off the curb only to almost be hit by a speeding motorcycle. I watched the distancing bike in annoyance before beginning on my way. My last thought of the experience was how whoever was on the cycle was probably going to lose the green jacket that was flapping on the back.