I wake up the next morning to the sun glaring through my curtains and the sound of Bruce mumbling and banging around in the kitchen. I groan, moving to cover my face with a pillow. The sudden and intense pain that shoots through my head and chest remind me of last night, and I moan again. For one brief,  shinning second, I'd forgotten that Bruce is spun again. Shit.

I move slowly, dragging my aching self from bed and struggling into some jeans and a hoodie, wincing more than once as forgotten wounds flare back into my awareness. Shoving my lighter and smokes into my pocket, I stomp into some shoes and creep into the hall, listening hard for Bruce.

"Fucking god-damnit, where the fucking SHIT is that rum?!" Bruce is cursing to himself and slamming through cabinets, and I take the chance. Hurrying for Bruce's room, I push open the door and wade through the sea of unwashed clothes and liquor bottles to the window. Forcing it open, I crawl out, shutting it tightly behind me.

I set out toward the park, not knowing and not caring what time it was. There was no fucking WAY I was going to school; it was all I could do to keep upright. No, I'd better find somewhere to lie low for a while. The park was usually safe for a night or two, so long as you didn't hang around a lot during the day. Most of the night security would let you slide if you weren't causing trouble, but there were a couple of the day guys who'd already threatened to have me arrested.

I cut through a couple alleys, debating on where to go if I got kicked out of the park. River was too cold this time of year... Hopping a fence and cutting through someone's backyard, I figured that if Jason's mom wasn't home, I could crash there.

Jason was the one friend I had. He was a few years older than I was, and he was super into psychedelics. He was the only person I knew that had a more fucked up life than I did. His junkie mom had no idea who his dad was, and at times, had no idea who Jason was, either. I'd met him when I was twelve, and he'd introduced me to pot. He gave me a place indoors when his mom was gone and Bruce was spun, and kept me well supplied with smoke.

I reached his house a few minutes later and let myself into the backyard, glancing around the clutter for Jason. Not seeing him on any of the piles of trash or lounging in any of the old cars, I navigate my way through the maze of junk and pull open the back door, which isn't locked.

I find Jason lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, all his shades drawn and some hard-core screamo playing softly in the background. It takes a bit, but I finally get his attention.

After a few tries of, "Hey, fuck-head", I gingerly settle myself on the floor by his bed, near his head. Taking out two cigarettes, I hold one over my head while lighting up my own, and eventually, I feel Jason slowly roll over and take it. I hear the click of his lighter a few moments later, and then he slides his foot off the bed, nudging my shoulder with his heel.

I look to where he's pointing with his slipper, and grin. Jason's got a four-foot bong that he's had for years; it's one of the few things his mom won't sell for crank. I get up and bring it back to the bed as Jason sits up to make room for me to sit. He pulls over a cigar box and packs the bowl, rummaging around his nightstand for a lighter.

"I got one," I say, digging into my pocket and pulling out my bic. He glances over at me, but his pupils are so dilated I'm not really sure he sees me. He grins and motions with his head. "Hit it then, brother."

We share a couple bowls before my back and face don't burn quite so bad. Jason is back to laying on the bed, singing quietly along with the opera that's now coming from the stereo. I chuckle to myself and gather my nerves.

"'Ey, I need a favor, man," I tell him, and Jason looks over at me, his face unguarded, and I can't ask. "I need a... front." That's not a favor... "Like, a big one, though..."

Jason props himself up on his elbows, letting his head loll back. "How much is a 'big one', little man? You lookin' for an half or somethin'?"He grins at me widely, "Cause that ain't nothin', kiddo. I got you, just take a phone cal-lllll..." Jason drags out the L while leaning over and grabbing the phone from the floor between his bed and the wall, and I roll my eyes. He's so fucking high.

"Jus' a eighth. An' I'll pay ya' back," I add, though Jason is already dialing, "Jus' dunno when." Jason breaks into shrill laughter, cutting himself off when the person on the other end answers. A few quick words, and Jason hangs up and informs me that my 'package is being delivered'.

When I don't come back with a witty retort, Jason rolls closer and props himself on his elbows once more, this time on his stomach with his slippered feet in the air. Placing his chin in his hands, he studies me, then declares me 'sad'.

"An' what the fuck happened to your face, guy? You didn't talk back again, did you?" Jason's frowns mockingly and pouts out his lips, "You know good doggies don't talk back!"

I'm not sure if it's the baby talk or what, but this actually makes me laugh. I laugh so hard that I'm gasping for air, clutching my side where Bruce hit me. It's somehow a sweet pain, though, and when I'm finally calmed down, there's an empty ache in my ribs.

"Fuck him." Jason tells me, leaping to his feet. He grabs a canvas from the closet and motions me to follow him. He leads the way to the garage, where paint cans are strewn everywhere. Setting the canvas on an easel, he grabs a brush and nods at me to settle myself anywhere. As he starts to paint, I settle on the ratty couch he's dragged in here and lean my head back. Closing my eyes, I listen to Jason's babbling comparison of life and art, letting myself drift in and out of consciousness.

Once the weed has arrived and Jason has smoked himself to sleep, I take off, heading toward the park. I hadn't mentioned anything about my staying there to him: Jason was almost as high as his mom would be whenever she got home. I didn't really want to be there when he came down: A sober Jason was more suicidal and unpredictable than anybody had a right to be, and as hopeless as I felt, I didn't want to be around him when he got that way.

I'd never considered hurting myself though I had watched Jason self-destruct for years: everything from burning to cutting; from wild adrenaline-chasing to taking more drugs than anyone I knew. Jason didn't really care what it was; he'd try it: drink it, eat it, shoot it, inhale it, drop it... Anything at all to live in a different reality. Didn't matter if it was better or worse than this one, it just had to be different.

The next day I got chased out of the park around sunrise by some young guy who must have been new, so I went ahead and trudged to school since I didn't have anywhere else to be. That was how Melissa found me: hunkered down on the side of the gym, hood pulled to my nose and arms wrapped around my knees.