He awoke to find he'd dreamed again. His hand was resting on his gun, his other hand sore with clenching. He rubbed his hands down his face, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. His head ached, from the whiskey or the late night, either would do. He swung his legs off the bed, and stood uneasily. A cool breeze tugged at his ankles and whipped his hair back.
He never used to be like this, a drinker, a dreamer. From a young age, people told him he would be someone, a star. He grew taller, stronger, smarter. It was then the trouble began. Men saw a pretty face and a working brain and sensed a threat. By sixteen, he'd been mugged twice, and robbed more times than he could count. His locker lay empty, gathering dust- it was useless against them anyway. He grew wary, reproachful, his eyes never quite with you, always looking a step ahead.
Gradually, people decided he wasn't worth the hassle, and walked away, until one day he woke up alone. The sad thing was, he'd been alone since he was fourteen and they stole his pride. Now he walks the streets drinking whiskey and deciding he wants the world to take off and leave him to it.