I found this on my computer, I'd write short stories a lot. This one is a bit depressing lol but I love the way i wrote it. I have more but they are not finished ones. I feel inspired to write today for some reason. :)
A short story written by Frankie
It started at a college party. It began with heavy duty alcohol. Yes, the kind people talk about getting wasted with every Friday evening. I started with Vodka, Smirnoff and Captain Morgans. It started with shots, with guzzling down a whole bottle and having people in the background yelling chug chug chug! It started at small house parties then at clubs, then at even larger college house parties. It started mixing every drink possible with coke, then with marijuana.
It started getting high. The room was lively, open and free. People were more down to earth more talkative, more awake then normal. In fact normal life was weird to you. It slapped you in the face every morning with a bad report card.
Wake up, Cassidy.
It started with rolling a joint and smoking up with your “so called” best friend. It started heavily, inhaling deeply. It started to go black. It was to breathe a syllable at a time. The time was now.
Coughing. It started off with coughing. Then grasping. Grasping onto anything you could mutter from your lips or grip with the ounce of consciousness you had left. I started with lying to your parents, and collapsing into your bed to be left in your room clouded up with smoke, in a deep thought. Then the deep thoughts vanish. Then you vanish. You float on the ceiling upside down. The colors would wash themselves together along with the big mess of you.
You’re a mess.
A big fucking mess.
It was to hide your stash under your pillow at night. To constantly look out the window and be aware of gunshots. You got practically any sleep during the week. You were failing your classes. Your hair is a mess and now you turn to me.
You started off with talking. Talking in slow, staggered sentences like you’ve been up for days. Your eyes search my face, looking for an answer. They are pale blue open with a tint of wretchedness.
Cassidy, are you okay?
Get up you fucking moron.
Look god in the fucking face.
Your lips part as if to speak but you don’t move. You just talk silently in soft whispers to yourself. And I sit here and wonder what you are saying to the world. Do you love yourself at all? If you do, you must tell me why you’re like this. Why you’re looking at me so puzzled, and why you are chewing on your bottom lip.
I want to help you. Now.
Don’t walk away please.
I grab your hand. It’s soft in mine but calloused from all of the previous attempts of escaping the law. Now as I stand here with you I want to know what it is like to be you. To be messed up and lying to everyone you know on the face of the earth just so you can save your own skin.
I can save you, you know. If only you let me help you.
I’m fine, I can han-han-handle myself. I’m-
I lied. I’m messed up so much you don’t understand. I’ve lived on the street for the past five months. Do you know what that is like? To wander around aimlessly, looking for food, for something to do, for shelter? My fucking parents hate me.
They hate me because of my addiction.
And that addiction is you.
You think you are normal but you made me this way.
You fucked things up and now I’m like this,
Just for you.
Are you fucking happy now?
I guess I was wrong. Your breathe is heavy now with raspy air flowing out of your beautiful tainted lungs; and now you heave, and you cough tremendously. Your cough reminds me of a smoker’s wheezing cough. I put my hand around your small waist and hold you close.
“It’s okay…everything will be okay” I tell you and I hold you in my arms and kiss away your tears. This time I promise you it will be okay.