Unfortunate Events: A Piece Of A Novella.

Hi there. This is a novella I am writing for a publisher. I know there will be grammar mistakes. There is more to add. I just want to get a reaction, hopefully good. The format isn't great either. Sorry. 

Unfortunate
Events.

I
look out my flat window, to a City blinded by drugs and homelessness.
I'm lucky enough to have warmth in these dark times, this dreary
weather is ultimately depressing, but I get by. I have to get by, to
live a life that might just blossom, that might flourish in front of
my stoned eyes. I sit back down on the ripped, ragged couch and
inhale a joint, filled with only the best grass around. I might be
cheap on food and other necessities, but marijuana, I buy like a God.

My
future is suddenly looking bleak. I'm a literature student bent on
creating something magical with my laptop and my notoriously creative
mind, but writers block has set in like wobbly jelly. I'm totally and
utterly out of spirit, I look at other books for inspiration, I walk
the streets of this infamous City, pulling at its teeth for ideas.

Glasgow
is the city that I live in. A City that has a bubbling writing scene,
a fabulous music scene, and a second to none drug circuit. If you
want anything that'll tickle your inhibitions, then Glasgow is the
place to throw down your blood money, or student loans. It's rife and
I know it first hand, I used to sell the drugs to the consumers
without batting an eyelid.

I
don't want to cry like a baby, or suckle the thumb of my emotions.
But, I haven't had it easy. I lost both my parents to alcohol, and
I'm only 23. Losing them was like losing two important organs, now I
stretch out for answers, but God never shines his light on me. I'm a
lost cause, grappling on lives stained, party dress, dancing to beat
of my own sickening heart. A heartbeat? It makes me sick. I hate it
when I lie in bed and I can hear my own heart beating. I'm wired
wrong, and I know it.

Where
I live is rough around the edges. I live in a place called Govan, a
infamous part of Glasgow. The drugs here are easily accessible, you
can go out for five minutes and come back loaded with narcotics. But,
as it sit in this flat, with the TV spooking me out, I wonder to
myself is this is it? Am I doomed for evermore? Going to die a
failure, just good enough for the trash. That's how I feel just now,
jaded and underwhelmed.

As
my Scottish hands roll another joint, I hear the door. I get very
paranoid when I hear the door go like that, loud and unapologetic. I
get up and I grab a baseball bat, well you never know who's lingering
outside your door. Could be anyone, a junkie looking for a fix, a mob
boss craving to kill. I go to the door, and I open it up gently.
There stands a trashy, but attractive girl. Her name is Rosie, and
she's highly fuelled with alcohol and the odd ecstasy tablet.

'Hi
there Dan, and who's looking sexy tonight'

'Yeah
yeah Rosie, how you doing?'

'I'm
fine my dear, just a little drunk'

'A
little?'

'Don't
you know it's the rage, everyone does it, gets drunk and takes some
nice, colourful ecstasy'

'You
better watch, they could end your pretty life'

'I'd
rather go out with a bang'

She
does look divine in that dress. Her eyes a piercing blue, her skin as
silky as white paint. She had a promising modelling career, but
wasted it being wasted. Like me, she likes the drugs. She likes to
feel weightless and out of tune. I love that feeling of just letting
go of everything, it's like letting go of a balloon filled with all
the bullshit and angst.

Rosie
sits down on the very old and dusty couch. There is probably old food
hidden under the cushions, I've not cleaned it in weeks. My palace of
the unexceptional is far from immaculate.

'When
you getting rid of this damn thing, it's so ugly'

'It's
not that bad, it's comfy enough'

'It's
disgusting, there's beer stains on it, and lipstick stains'

'And
you're the queen of clean eh?'

'Get
me a beer, be hospitable'

I
go through to the kitchen and I open the fridge. The smell of
something rotten hits my nostrils. But all I'm concerned about is my
beers. Are they okay? Chilled enough? It's pathetic I know, I care
more about beer than myself. I would happily die with a beer in my
hand, with a liver pickled in the stuff.

I
give her a beer. She opens it with those polished hands of hers. Even
in a state of drunkenness, she looks impeccable.

'So
how's things'

'Not
so good, can't find inspiration to write'

'Oh,
you're a good writer too'

'Yeah,
when I have an idea in place'

'I'm
sure you'll find inspiration somewhere. Why don't you write about
me?'

'Yeah,
that would make a best-seller, a could write about you and your
possessive habits. Your drug taking, your skimpy outfits'

'You
don't have to be sarcastic about it, only trying to help'

'Yeah
I know, sorry'

Rosie
begins to move closer to me. And I begin to feel a little on edge,
I've never been one for love and all that romanticism. But with her a
feel a connection, a bond. I've been involved in many night stands,
I’ve had my fair share of sexually transmitted diseases. But I know
she's clean, I know she's a great person under all that make-up.

She
grabs my leg. It feels like a shock wave has just burrowed through my
body. My sexual awareness is on overdrive. We begin to kiss each
other unrelentingly, passing Spit through our drunken mouths. I give
way and remind her of what's going to occur, she doesn't care, and
nor do I.

I
wake feeling groggy and anxious. My head feels heavy like there is a
weight upon it, dragging me down. As I my eyes begin to focus at the
ticking clock, I see the time and I begin to panic. I have an exam
today, an important exam that could determine my future. Rosie still
lies there like a baby as I rush around trying to get ready, trying
my hardest to look respectable after a night of drinking and drug
taking.

As
I brush my teeth, blood begins to appear. I fear I might have gum
disease, that's another thing to add to my long list of worries. I
rush and put on a pair of jeans that aren't ironed, but I haven't got
enough time, I might as well just dig a hole and bury myself under
dirt and stones. I kiss Rosie on the cheek and leave her to sleep
away the hangover, the almighty comedown.

The
cold air hits me as I leave my disorganised flat behind. I walk on,
feeling the effects, feeling the hangover batter me like a gust of
wind. My head still feels like a brick. I keep on going regardless, I
must do something with my life, I must alter my horizons, I can't
keep sitting around smoking my brains.

The
paranoia is relentless. It digs at me like a thousand needles, I
can't feel like this any more, why do I do this to myself, create a
storm in my head? As I walk I see the homeless sit there shivering. I
dig for loose change and I place it their paper cup. The unlucky guy
smiles at me. Feeling like I've made a difference, I keep going, not
dancing to my efforts, but merely walking off this damning pressure
on my brain.

I
see the Uni in the distance. I feel like a tortured soul, trying to
break the shackles. I walk up to the steps, and I take a deep breath.
It's like a ritual, I always take a deep breath. It's because I'm
always stinkingly hungover when proceeding onwards into the
University.

I
sit there at the desk, my eyes stinging, my future hanging in the
balance. The lecturer places the papers next to me. The papers of
doom.

'Okay
class, you have one hour to give me your best work'

As
the old clock ticks by, so does my drug infused heart. I look over a
Joshua Kelly, a true starlet, a prodigy. The lecturer always praises
his work, through his writing and presentation. I feel inferior, I
might just attach myself to the underarm of mediocrity and stay
there.

I
look at the questions. I'm frightened and overwhelmed, out of my
depth. They look so complex, I haven't studied for this at all.

As
the clock strikes 11. The exam is over. I feel tearful. I know I
haven't even came close to passing. I look at Joshua again as he
smiles. I wish I was like him, a boy that is married to his studies.
Not me, I'm a drunk, a drugged up fool that's clearly only good
enough for the paper shredder.

'That's
great Josh, I can see by looking at this that you've passed. Well
done'

I
swerve passed the lecturer, he looks at me with condemnation. He's
knows my back story, he's knows my life isn't legal. Since I started
the degree, he would highlight my faults before pinpointing my
strengths. He makes me feel utterly stupid, like my brain is fault
ridden, like there is no intelligence at all. I'll need to prove him
and others wrong. I can't sabotage this, I must write to keep alive,
to keep breathing, to keep my artistry growing. Gripping the
spotlight isn't what I want to do, I don't want to be famous or
pompous, I want to write my work into the stars for all the good
reasons.

I
leave the University under the black cloud. I walk through the City
and grab some coffee to try and rejuvenate. Sitting here in the
coffee house, I open up my journal. Piecing together words is a
complex feat for me at the moment, but trying isn't going to kill me.
It might even make me feel better, words usually do. Words are all
around us, like specks of dust. I must surrender myself to them, let
them crawl over me, let them into my rotting blood to infuse some
goodness.

I
write some poetry. Poetry about despair and walking aimlessly. I
can't seem to write about happiness or anything even remotely close
to it. Today should be the day that I should give my bones a shake.
Poetry is a good remedy, but I need to write something with vigour
and appeal. I will write something meaningful someday, when I'm not
drunk or drugged, when I'm not completely washed out.

I
rise from the chair. That coffee was a temporary crutch. As I walk
through the city centre. A centre with a blooming culture. Music is
played all around, buskers sing their hearts out, the place is
enthralling, Glasgow might have its rough spots, but there is true
connection of the arts.

My
lungs gasp. My legs hurt. I stand outside my flat. I'm so unfit, my
heart is recklessly near to exploding in my chest. I open up the door
and put my bag down on the unhygienic carpet and then I look over at
Rosie. She still seems to be sleeping, but there is something that
haunts me greatly, I see a needle on the coffee table. It's empty,
the serum of the devil has been emptied into her bloodstream. I
panic, I shake her to try to bring her back, I check her pulse, she's
still breathing. Why has she done this? She was jubilant last night.

I
phone an ambulance and I stay with her like a doting dog. Putting my
head in my hands, I think to myself, why did I leave her, she was so
vulnerable. A girl with near enough no family, she lives alone and
adores the party lifestyle. But I didn't think she would turn to
heroin for a novelty fix.

I
can hear the ambulance outside. The sirens. The paramedics enter the
flat and they check her over. They tell me that they must take her to
hospital. I try to hold back the salty tears, but they stream out
uncontrollably. Today has been the worst day of my harrowing life.

The
paramedics place Rosie gently into the ambulance. I get on too,
sitting there, drenched in despair, overwhelmed by the feeling of
dread. She lies there, chalk white, her lips tinted in blue. I start
to bite my lip ferociously, wondering what the outcome will be. The
ambulance starts to go, fast with unnerving velocity. I put my hand
on her head, she's cold, but still breathing. I'm restless and
nervous, weeping.

The
ambulance halts. I see the hospital, I hate hospitals. The smell, the
unknown. But for Rosie, I would go to the end of the earth. She is
lifted off and wheeled quickly into the Emergency section. The doctor
briskly comes near, his white coat his trademark of authority. He
looks at Rosie and shakes his head. He then wheels her off into the
distance. I enter the waiting room, a capsule filled with tears and
pain.

Time
goes by. The doctor calls for me. The news is bad. Rosie didn't make
it, she died of a heroin overdose. A common thing, a drug so
dangerous and seedy, a drug that alters people's lives. A menacing
demon that drags you in with the initial hit, then it becomes
deceitful, ringing you out like a wet garment.

I
cry, I breakdown, my knees hit the ground. My eyes close, I can hear
the doctor tell me that they will help me through it. After he tells
me that, he delivers more harrowing news. Rosie was pregnant, she was
expecting. That news hit me like a homing missile, obliterating any
sense of feeling. Numbness sets in.

The
doctor let's me see Rosie for the last time. She lies there on the
bed, emotionless. I kiss her on her frozen cheek and I whisper love
into her ear. I leave her to be taken by the angels.

The
next day. I sit with a bottle of rum. Drinking it raw, straight to
the point. It burns my throat as it goes down. I know I should be
honouring Rosie, not drinking myself into oblivion. But, I can't
abstain. Until I see a flyer on the floor. It states to ring a number
if you're needing help to eradicate your alcoholism. The AA is
calling...

I
pick the leaflet up and I brush off the debris. Could I do it? Could
I refrain from drinking again, I don't know if I could. It has been
apart of my life for so long. My daily ritual has involved alcohol
and drugs. My parents died of the constraints of alcohol, they
surrendered to it, they let it beat them. My misery has to be shelved
next to the Jack Daniels and the Buck Fast, it has to sink.

I
pick up my old, out of trend mobile. I dial the number and I wait
until I hear the voice of a woman. She talks me through everything.
The phone call ends and I sit back on that damn couch and I roll
myself a joint, smoking it until I feel at peace with the world. Yeah
right!

It's
the day of the first meeting. I dress smartly, in ironed clothes for
the first time in a while. I walk to the community centre. I stand
outside smoking a cigarette. A short man with a suit walks up to me
asking for a light, I gladly assist. He looks like he's going to
court.

'So
you here for the meeting'

'Yeah,
you'

'Yeah,
been sober for a month now'

'Wow,
that's great, how did you do it?'

'Determination,
and I lost a friend because of alcohol'

Thoughts
begin to unravel in my head. Rosie's face etched there too. I blame
myself I really do, I should have helped her through the turmoil.
But, she kept it all to herself, she was lonesome girl walking
disenchanted, she was broken, and I could have fixed her. It's been a
week, she died so young, only 22. And she had a baby growing inside
of her, a blossoming child that would have lit her world.

'We
best go in, it's time'

I
follow the boy into the old community centre, through the hall and
into a room. A room full of alcoholics trying their hardest to get
clean. I'm one of them, desperate and needy. I sit down on one of the
brittle chairs, chairs that look like the ones I sat on in primary
school.

We
wait and wait. Then in comes a battleaxe. Her name, Sandra Wallace.
Even though she is big and busty, she has the most subtle of voices.
She talks to us, she makes us very welcome, not damaging our pride at
all.

'Okay
ladies and gents, it's time to tell us your story'

The
first person to take the plunge is a young girl called Lucy Hart.
She's only 20. A sufferer of abuse at an early age, her story is
truly harrowing. She goes on about her abuser and how much of a
bastard he was and how much he ruined her childhood. She then tells
us about how alcohol is an affliction, a demon that keeps us happy
for a little, tiny while.

Then
steps up Jason Cooper. A 50 year old who's been drinking for over 25
years. He tells us that he used to be a lawyer and had a promising
life. His work got to stressful, his bank balance depleted and his
marriage fell to pieces. He has kids, but doesn't see them. It's all
too raw and real.

I'm
picked next to let it spill. I rise from the chair and look around at
the stares. I close my eyes and I reopen them.

'Hi
my name is Dan'

Everyone
says hello Dan in sync.

'As
you know, I am an alcoholic, and I've been one for as long as I can
remember. It has been a issue for so long. I drink first thing in the
morning and I drink throughout the day and night when I'm not a Uni.
I get this itch if I don't drink, I get sweaty, I begin to have
withdrawals. My life surrounds the bottle. I want to change that, I
want a career as a writer. I don't want to die an underachiever. You
know, I have dreams, I have wishes, ambitions. But the passageway is
full of rubble at the moment, I must clear it out, mop up the debris
and be a man of honour and credibility, thank you'

I
sit back down on the chair. I feel I vented enough, let it all out
for everything to hear. Then stands a man, Chris Appleton, 33. He
calls himself an intellectual. A man of distinction.

'Hi
there, I'm Chris and I've ruined my life due to alcohol. I left
University with distinction. I am a doctor, but I've been out of work
for quite a while now. Alcohol has gripped me, it controls me, it
embodies me. I can't seem to let the demon go, I just want to rub it
away with an eraser. I want to abandon it at the end of the road in
my mind, I want it to die a painful death, it has attacked me for too
long. Life was so good before I fell onto the pathway to hell. I'm
not healthy. I just want to live a life without the shackles around
my liver'

Chris
descends onto the seat. He puts his head into his shaking hands.
Times up for the first day of clarity. We all stand and shake each
others hands. We then leave the nest of reason into the bad world
where alcohol is easily accessible. I don't feel completely
vitalised. I still yearn for the bottle and bottle yearns for me.

I
wake on a rainy day. I can hear it batter off my grimy window. It's 7
in the morning and it's the day of Rosie's funeral. I have arranged
it all, yeah, my usually uncommitted mind has thought this through. I
just hope people will turn up to celebrate her reckless, but
beautiful life. I'm been sober for a day, I'm not tarnishing Rosie's
funeral by being under the influence.

I
rise from my bed. And I walk through to the living room. The whole
place is littered in beer cans and bottles, a collection that's burnt
a hole in my pocket and has abused my liver. But, I clean up, I could
build a wall or a castle with the amount of debris that lies around.
The squalor I call home, needs to be magically returned to its
default state.

I
start to try and look respectable. I have a clean shave for the first
time a while, I put on a ironed white shirt on my aching body. I then
put on the trademark black tie and a black overcoat. I look in the
mirror at my gaunt face and the bags under my eyes. All this drug
taking is starting to catch up fiercely. I look away and focus on the
clock, it's time to leave.

The
church is far from full. Sits some of Rosie's friends. The shine of
coloured hair and piercings adds a distinctive edge to proceedings.
They all look like punk rockers sitting in their natural black.

The
reverend says his part. He speaks about God. We all sit listening
carefully, taking in everything, trusting him with our fragile lives.
As he halts, I begin to unravel a piece of paper. I wrote a poem for
Rosie, a eulogy, a statement, a written piece that reflects my love
for her.

I
am called up. My heart races, I'm exposed and nervous, but I can bear
it, I have to. I read out loud.

'My
heart is shattered

my
feelings scattered

I
adored your blood and bones.

You
were my sky

you
were my bird

you
were a diamond in the rough.

You
used to dance

away
in a trance

to
the music of our love.

I
am a man of flaws

but
you had none.

I
am a man of disaster

I
climb up but fall

but
you were there to catch me'

I
can't help but weep, standing in front of room full of strangers. My
emotions show like a face full of spots, I hope my dedication in the
form of the written word is well received. They still all look at me
when I walk down the line and onto my seat. We all wait a few
moments, then the music plays, a sweet song. The coffin is wheeled
in, we all stand like comrades. The reverend says his piece
professionally, with profound purpose.

The
car stops. I open the door and stretch my legs out onto the gravel. I
wipe my balling eyes of the tears that are consistent. Doing this
will be a difficult, laying her to rest, letting her go. I have
memories there, profoundly nestled in my head, memories that are
upbeat and sincere. We never fought or put each other down, we never
dropped each other into trouble. I was proud to have known her, to
have given her my love and her to return it.

We
all walk over to the graveside, silent but grieving. Our tender
hearts beating to the sound of the rain that hits the ground. Sadness
is all around us, nipping at us from every angle. We stand and listen
to the man with the book. I throw in a red rose and some fresh dirt.
We leave Glasgow City Council to fill in the hole.

A
few weeks later I find myself under the watchful eye of a
psychiatrist. In a place where the mentally ill parade. I tried,
stupidly, to end my own life. I couldn't cope, my life was under
severe strain. I took so many pills, I drank so much, I'm surprised I
am still here to see the birds fly from inside this room. They
sectioned me, so I'm forced to abide my their rules until my life is
in some sort of order.

It's
not fun being perceived as being mad or mentally unstable. I'm looked
at with concerned but judgemental eyes. I sit here all day trying to
place words together, I try to write something with a touch of
panache. Elegance never seems to come my way, it's all about despair
and regret. As the final full stop is placed. I read the piece of
writing out loud, it doesn't stick to my ribs, there is no direction
or eventful meaning. I rip up the paper and throw it at the white
wall.

The
door opens and in steps the community psychiatrist. Dr Michael
Sinclair is the man that is here to aid me through these depressive
and worrying episodes. He drags over a chair and sits down facing me.
He opens up his chart and takes out a black pen, the pen of
conviction.

'So
Dan, how are you getting on?'

'It's
been a pretty shitty time'

'Yeah,
I know'

'I
never thought I'd end up like this. Sectioned and deeply depressed. I
knew I had depression, but it's just entered a new stage. I feel
lower than Atlantis, scratching at these walls, wishing they would
bleed with me'

'Very
vivid'

'I'm
a writer. So being expressive and descriptive is my type of thing. I
used to write so much, now my style is defunct. I can't concentrate
on any thing, my art is suffering due to my lack of feeling. I wish I
could climb out of this dark hole and be successful, but I fear I
can't'

'You
can, you're only 23'

'Yeah.
I might have time to change my life, but at this moment in time, my
life is in jeopardy. I'm dancing with fate'

'How
are the pills, are they helping any'

'They
help me function a little. They clear little spots of the debris on
my brain, that's really it. As things do, they must take time'

'Okay,
well I'll leave you to write some more. Try and grab back your
inspiration'

'Will
try Doctor'

I
wake to screams. I rise from my bed and I look out the little window
on my door. I see someone walking past with a sharp object, it looks
like a knife. Fear begins to bubble in my stomach. Should I leave the
room and confront the culprit? The screams begin to elevate. I open
the door slowly and look at the ground, it's covered in blood. I then
spot a man that looks familiar to one of the patients.

What
can I do? Wrestle the man to ground an pull the knife from his stern
grasp? Or will let him savage everyone around him? I'll try to be a
saviour, if I die tonight, then hell will welcome me with unopened
arms. The scars on my arms, the utter commotion in my head will have
to be forgotten for a few minutes.

I
run, keeping my guts intact to the phone at the reception desk.
Trying my best to be silent I ring 999. A woman answers, speaking
softly, I tell her the ordeal. I explain that's there's a man with a
knife walking around the hospital singing songs to himself.

As
I put the phone down, a bloodied up nurse runs towards me. She
screams.

'He's
stabbed me, help'

She
falls at my feet. Blood surging from a deep wound. I drag her to a
the medic room and close the door. I take the keys from her and lock
the door to keep the mania from a hitting a record high. She squirms
in pain. I grab a bandage and try to halt the flow of blood. I'm no
professional, I'm not medically minded, but keeping the crimson from
leaking more, I do.

The
crazed man hits the door with his fists. Trying to breach through,
his eyes bulging as he stares at us. I lie here with the nurse,
telling her to close her eyes and think of something rather than the
man that inflicted the wound.

We
begin to hear more disruption. We then hear the police barging
through the main doors, running towards the suspect. I look out of
the glass and see him being wrestled to the ground.

The
nurse lived, and a Glaswegian maniac was imprisoned. I was deemed a
hero for my actions. My name in the Evening Times, Glasgow's premier
news paper. But I only did what was right, I don't want acclaim, I
don't deserve a medal. I'm glad that could assist someone in need.
Someone who was trying to do their job.

Glasgow
has a serious knife crime problem bubbling in its dark underground.
It has been named the knife City. With all its traditions, with its
writing and music scene, Glasgow is still an untamed monster. Crime
is nestled in its underbelly.

I'm
out, free to roam. I have been deemed fit enough to enter
civilisation. After that night, that dark night, where evil was
committed. The hospital now has full time security, it has been
updated. The man that knifed the nurse is in a bigger mental
hospital, he'll be there until his last breath.

They
hand me my stuff and open the main doors for me. I walk slowly,
learning how to adapt, learning the ways of life again. I say my
goodbyes and I enter the fresh air. The sun is out, not often have I
seen it this year. When it comes out everyone seems to energize.
Their batteries charged, their depressive states non-existent. But
for me it's different, yes I feel okay, I feel a little better in
myself. But I'm still deeply rooted in the mouth of anxiety and
self-hate.

As
I walk temptation niggles at me. I see bottles of alcohol through a
shop window, if they were humans, they would gloat and boast. I'm not
fully fixed, my addiction is still there, throwing punches at my
liver. I seek solace, but there is none to be had. My ambitions of
being a writer are slimming, my hope is dwindling. The pessimism in
me rising. Today might see me relapse, see me stuttering, see me
falling backwards into a episode of sheer misery.

My
apartment was taken off me. So I'm now living in a hostel until I get
a place. The place is simple, basic in its appearance. I have a bed
and a roof over my head, so at least that's something. I open my
journal and I write down what I want to do, what I want to achieve.
But, I don't believe my heart is in it. My restless, battered heart.

I
open the door to the outside and take out a half smoked cigarette, I
light it up and smoke the life out of it. It eases the tension, it
aborts the anger that resides in my head. The sun shines on the road
as the cars go by. I look at the blue sky and wish it to eat me up.

Since
Rosie's death. I haven't had the urge to look for lust. Love doesn't
interest me. I would go on the rest of my life without a woman on my
arm. I sound like a pessimist carrying too much shit in his head. I
haven't smoked weed for weeks, I crave a little smoke to calm me. I
think it's time to go see DJ.

I
stand outside a door that has graffiti drawn all over it. I chap the
door and I wait for a response from my dealer. He answers and gives
me a huge hug, cracking my bones in the process.

'Oh
my god, Dan, how you been?'

'Yeah
I've been okay, getting by'

'So
the weed is calling you then?'

'You
could say that'

'Well
I've got some stuff that will blow your mind'

He
welcomes me in. I sit on one of his leather chairs. The whole place
stinks of weed, the table covered in cigarette papers and bongs. DJ
takes out a suitcase and lays on the table, he opens it with glee.

'Wow
eh'

'It
just looks like normal weed to me'

'Yeah
it might do, but when you smoke it, you'll feel so chilled out'

DJ
rolls me a joint with the infamous weed inside the paper. I take out
my lighter and light it up.

'It
smells different, I'll give you that'

'Take
a drag'

I
take a drag of the joint. I begin to cough but then it eases. The
infusion is masterful, I feel weightless, like I'm flying like a
raging eagle. I sit back and relax.

'Good
eh?'

'Yeah
great, I need some for my own personal use'

'It'll
cost you'

'How
much?'

'How
much do you have?'

'A
hundred'

'Sorry
no can do, need more than that'

'How
much more?'

'Another
hundred'

'I
can give you a hundred today, then another hundred next week'

'For
you, okay, but remember stick to your promise'

I
shake DJ's hand, leaving him to smoke more.

Back
at the hostel. I open the little bag of weed and I take a little
morsel out. I create a very expensive joint. Lighting it shoots
excitement through my jaded body, I feel at one with the paper stick.
The smell of weed generates around the room, masking everything
around me. I feel euphoric, I feel like my innocence is exposed, my
life exposed, my dreams exposed. Tonight is a night where I have
relapsed. A bottle of the cheapest table wine is on the agenda, it
will be consumed by my blistered mouth.

I
lie here trying to drink away the despair. There's nothing on the old
TV set, I’m even beginning to become bored. Sexual desire hasn't
been on my mind for a long time, but tonight I feel a rush, an urge.

She's
pretty. That girl that walks the streets for money. That girl that
surrenders herself to sexual menaces. But, I wouldn’t be like that,
not me, I would take care of her, let her know she isn't worthless.
I'm not a creep. I look out my window she stands there, waiting and
waiting, the clock in this squalor ticking by. I want to make a move.
To jump at the chance. I do, I damn do!

I
walk across the street towards a stick thin figure. She looks at me
with interest.

'And
you are?'

'My
name is Dan'

'Right,
and you're looking for?'

'Sex'

'Okay,
course you are, I thought you were going to take me to dinner'

'Where
can we go then?'

'Across
the road'

'To
that place, no chance, it's full of drugs and it's not very clean is
it?'

'My
rooms okay'

'Okay,
I believe you, but no harm will come my way eh?'

'Not
at all'

'Sex
and that's it, not lovey dovey shit'

'I
promise, no connection needed'

I
take her into my abode. I give her a joint and a drink, she sips it
with a certain grace. Smoking like a champion, she begins to unwrap.
She strips down to her bra and underwear. I can't believe I'm doing
this, I can't believe I've let myself become so stupid, so naive. She
starts to touch me, I look into her eyes, I can see despair, she's
such a lost girl. A disenchanted traveller who has to do sordid
things just to get by. She uses heroin too, I can see the marks on
her arms.

'Are
we going to or not?'

'We're
not, no'

'Why,
What's wrong?'

'Nothing,
I just don't want you to hurt any more'

'I'm
not hurting, I'm perfectly okay, come on'

She
tries to kiss me, I push her away gently.

'What's
your problem?'

'Nothing'

'Well
It'll cost you fifty quid for me just being here'

I
hand her the money. She gets dressed. I stop her from leaving, I want
her to tell me her story, I want her to spill her problems like her
guts.

'Sit
down'

'Why,
you don't want me, no one wants me, I'm only good for one thing'

'Just
sit, tell me your problems'

'You're
not a therapist are you?'

'No,
I'm just a lost boy and I feel you're a lost girl'

'How
do you know?'

'I
can see it in your eyes, the despair, the loss'

'I'm
just scarred that's all, just deeply scarred'

'Tell
me, let it go'

'Well
my names Sara, and I'm addicted to drugs, and I've lost everyone'

'My
names Dan as you know, I'm an alcoholic, and I've lost everyone. See
we're the same'

Sara
sits back down on the bed. She takes a swig of wine and looks at me.
She begins to tell me everything. She tells me that her Mother is
hooked to heroin and is barely alive. She seems like a little girl
trapped in an adults body. Her scars are a reflection of her brush
against pain and anguish.

'I
just want a little solace, that's all, some sort of breakthrough.
Doing what I do is disgusting, but I'm deeply rooted in it'

'I
can see a kind hearted soul. And you're so intelligent, why don't you
put your mind to good use'

'I'm
in a rut right now, I don't think I can get out of it'

'You
can'

'I'll
try then'

I
let her stay. I give her the bed. I feel for the girl I really do.
Like me, she's demented, lost, broken. She has no real home, the one
she came from was dysfunctional. She isn't rotten to the core, she's
bright, beautiful, and commendable. Yes her occupation, if you can
call it that is seedy. But I admire her will. She says she's going to
halt the seediness and do something with her young life. I will help
her.

I
wake to the sunlight coming through the holes in the curtains.
Looking around, I see that Sara has left. The young upstart has fled
the scene that is full of alcohol and the strongest weed known to
man. She has even left the £50 that I gave her and a note. It reads:

'Thank
you for your help. You've shown me that there is good people in the
world. That there is some hope. Talking to you has opened my eyes, it
has made me want to achieve, do something with my life. I will
conquer these fears and this addiction, I will mop up the fragments
of my broken existence, and I'll walk on the cleaner side of the
road'

After
reading that note. I feel a little chocked up. Now I know I've aided
someone and brought them straight out of the darkness.

A
week goes past. And I quickly realise I owe DJ money and and a legit
apology. I rush from the hostel and I run up the road like I'm
running a marathon. His door lies open, broken. I slowly walk into
the danger zone and shout after DJ, but I receive no response.

He
lies there in the living room next to the smoked out gold fish that
come to the top of the tank. I put my hands on my face, and I say no
to myself about hundred times. Saying no doesn't work, he's been hit
on the head with a blunt weapon, there's blood everywhere. Seeping
and colouring the brown carpet. I check his phone, the wire has been
cut. I pick up his mobile and I try to dial 999, but that's cut short
as a the phone is hit from my fingers.

I
turn around and look, I see this fat man in a black suit. He tells me
to sit down on the couch, I do so.

'Who
are you?'

'Look
I don't want any trouble, I'm only here to pay DJ'

'Because
of you DJ has met the end, it's all your fault'

'Who
are you?'

'You
could say I own this City'

'You
do?'

'Yes,
I made over 10 million pound last year, I love counting it piece by
piece'

'Can
you just not let me go, I won't say a thing.'

'How
can I trust you?'

'You
can'

'I
think we can dispose of you quite easily'

I
Wake up in what seems like a boot of a car. My head hurts, I have
been knocked out. Fear starts to ring in my head like a telephone, is
this it? Have I came too far? I feel every crack in the road, every
bump. Death seems like the easy option, fighting isn't my strongest
point.

I
can hear them talk slightly. I can't really make out what they're
saying. They are probably talking about how to dispose of my body.
It's weird thinking like that, when I'm still alive, when I'm still
breathing. But it's inevitable, I'm going to die. Die a terrible
death with my eyes pulled out and my lungs gasping for air. Well, I
don't know if it will be as graphic as that, but it will be a scene
of a man crying for his worthless life.

Thinking
about leaving this world prematurely, makes me feel like I've wasted
what life I have been given. Drinking to excess, smoking my brains,
colliding with people that only wanted to help. I'm confined here,
bumping around, my heart barely attached to its valves. Why did I get
myself into this situation? Greed that's what, greed got me here, my
drug addiction. My stupid drug addiction has cost me so much, it has
terminated my prospects at University, it has cut short my existence.

The
car stops. A few seconds go by, then they open the boot. I'm lying
there like a frightened rabbit. They pull me out and put me onto the
grass. I look around, I don't know where I am. There are tress and
large spikes of grass.

'So,
how was the ride?'

'Please
just let me go, I won't tell a soul'

'Now,
how do we know that?'

'I
promise'

'I've
heard it all before. Now it's time for a bit of fire'

'Please,
please no'

I
grovel as they throw gasoline over me. I'm wet and the smell is
overwhelming.

'You
see, this little match, will end it all, your life and your stupid
mouth'

I'm
on my knees. Begging and crying tears of fear. My life is flashing
before me, my mind corroded by thoughts of how I'm going to get out
of this mess?

'Your
name?'

'Dan'

'Well
Danny Boy, Glasgow is my helm, my City. If anyone crosses me, they
don't usually see tomorrow, and you're one of the unlucky ones. You
see, I kill for fun, I kill because I need to, the feeling is in my
blood. I have the authority to do so, I'm monumental, a king and
you're the pauper'

The
boss lights a match. I close my eyes. I then hear gunshots. I open
them up and I see him scurrying away into his car with his henchman.
I rise to my feet and I run through the woods, my jacket tugging
against the branches, my hope a little more lively. I eventually make
it to the road, cars fly past me. I put my hand out, trying to flag
one down.

A
car stops. I get in, there sits a weed smoking like hippie.

'Hey
man, you okay? You smell weird, you drenched in gasoline'

'You
don't want to know, just drive'

'Yeah
I do man, I'm interested'

'You
can say I had a disagreement with a person that you wouldn't like'

'Oh
right, sounds like a bad one'

'Yeah,
what's your name?'

'Robert
Mason, you?'

'Dan'

'Cool,
would you like a smoke?'

'That
would help immensely'

I
take a needed smoke from a stranger who has welcomed me with no
gripes. We seem like two friends that have known each other for
years.

My
mind has been turned upside down. I feel close to giving in, this
life isn't for me. Maybe I could come back as a wild animal, happy
with some prey and the outdoors. But, I'm human and I have been
through so much the last few months. I'm surprised my heart has
lasted so long.

Robert
has let me into his flat. It looks like my old place. Full of alcohol
and drugs, a worn couch and a TV that blares unhealthy politics. I
sit here smoking my head in, drinking with hatred for everything
bubbling inside of me. Robert has given me clothes, he's given me
food, and he's become a good friend. But, I don't think I can be
friends with anyone, they all die on me. Rosie, Dj, both dead.

Rosie
could have been my wife. But, what kind of husband would I have been?
A drunken groom, with a dead flower in the pocket of his suit. Her
golden heart against my steel one, it's just not right. But, I'm
sitting here, trying to silence the buzz of the fly that keeps on
battering against the plastic window. Robert had to get plastic
windows installed due to thugs and the youth, they smashed his
windows looking for a reaction.

Robert,
yet another person with not much family. He depends on the drugs and
the alcohol to get him by. He drinks a lot, he smokes a lot of pot,
he plays guitar and he plays drums that keep the neighbours up all
night. He passes the time being an unsuccessful musician, scratching
at political themes. He tells me that Scotland should be an
independent Country, I say to him, I don't know. He goes on anyway.

He
passes me the guitar to me. I tell him I haven't played guitar since
school. But I play on anyway. I play a little Green Day, Time Of Your
Life. An easy song to play, but it has so much flair and meaning. 'I
hope you have the time of your life' I freaking wish.

The
acoustic guitar sound is so sweet, so raw, so distinctive. I would
love to learn to play more. Play solos like a champion, like Hendrix
and May. But I haven't got that pivotal patience. I give him back his
instrument. We sit up for hours and we talk about life and its
upheavals. Then Robert eventually falls asleep sitting up.

I
wake to the snores of Robert. He has fallen into a more natural
shape. I then think about the dream I just had. A dream with no teddy
bears or merry-go-rounds, but with sinister faces and black clouds.
Clouds that rain blood, it's no dream, it was a nightmare. Beating
hearts on walls, pincers on colossal demons. I can almost hear their
sneers. Rosie stood there, in a white dress, waving at me as a stood
on the other side. It was so surreal. But I've been having dreams
like that for years. The only good part is, that Rosie stood there
smiling.

The
hangover is setting in, the paranoia, the anxiety. The restless heart
syndrome. The cupboards hold no aspirin. I'm left to tackle it
without any remedy. Robert wakes up and complains about a sore back.

'Ah
dammit, my back'

'You
sleep in such a weird way'

'It's
not funny, I think I've jerked it or something'

'I'm
not laughing'

'I
think you'll have to phone a doctor'

'Is
it that serious?'

'Yeah,
I'm not making it up'

I
phone a doctor for Robert. He's busy, so we have to go down to the
surgery. We both smoke a joint before we leave.

The
surgery is busy. I feel like a sardine. The constant coughing
aggravates me. The sick look like death warmed up. Although I
probably look the same, I haven't looked in the mirror this morning.
Robert sits hunched over like a old man, he groans and groans,
wishing the pain would subside. I pick up one of those ragged
magazines and I read on, mind boggled by the wannabes that cover the
paper.

I
finish reading the underwhelming journalism. I look up and I see
Sara, the girl I saved from the brink. I go over to her and give her
the warmest of hugs.

'Hey,
you got a job'

'Yeah,
the money isn't great, but it's still a job'

'That's
great, it's good to see you settled'

'My
mind isn't fully settled, but I had to do it, I had to abstain from
doing drugs, I had to just commit to something, you know?'

'Yeah,
wish I could do the same'

'What
have you been doing?'

'Same
old, smoking and drinking'

'Dammit,
you need to climb out of it'

'Yeah
I know'

'Who's
your friend?'

'That's
the one and only Robert'

'Cool,
he looks a little lost and in pain'

'He
jerked his back'

'Oh
I see, well I think the doctors ready to see him now'

I
go over to Robert and tell him he's up for examination. I let him go
it alone. He walks slowly into the room and closes the door. I turn
my attention back to Sara. Her bold eyes looking straight at me.

'I'm
going out for a smoke if you want to come?'

'I
thought you said you gave it all up?'

'Yeah
the hard drugs!'

'Okay
I see'

We
go through the automatic doors and we hit the air. The freshness is
brilliant. Being cooped up amongst the sick is rather hazardous.

Sara
smokes a cigarette one after the other. Engraving her lungs with
blackness. I can't say a thing, I do it too. I should be an
ambassador for cigarettes and weed. My collection of pipes is
massive, my hope of giving up, very slim.

Sara
looks well. Her skin a little more clearer, silky and well coloured.
Her once skinny frame a little more apparent, she's not fat, she just
looks more there. It's great to see her thriving, getting on with
life. I wish some of her will could rub off on me. She's recycled
herself, she's motivated and determined to shock who used to cross
the road when they saw her. I admire the strength.

She
finishes her third cigarette, as I finish my first.

'It's
not a competition'

'I'm
just a avid smoker that's all'

'You
have something in your eye'

I
walk over to Sara. She has a little sleep in her eye. I quickly
remove it but we become lost in time. It's like we're frozen, stuck
to the ground. She looks into my eyes and I look into hers. There is
a connection between us, I can sense it. We then become defrosted and
begin to talk normally.

'We
better go in now'

'Yeah'

It
was weird, uncanny. I have never been in that situation before where
my heart pounds but my body is grounded, stuck, glued. She has an
affect on me, she's wonderful. But can I enter loves arms again after
the death of Rosie? I don't know if should even contemplate falling
straight first into lust again, I don't know if my senses could
handle it.

The
automatic doors open. I'm back in a stuffy area full of the sick.
Thankfully Robert is sitting on a chair waiting for me.

'They've
gave me some pills to take for the pain, who's the girl'

'Oh
that's Sara, just a friend'

Sara
walks over to me and hands me her number.

'Call
me'

I
take the piece of paper with a sudden feeling of excitement.

I
sit here. Robert is sleeping away his comedown. I'm trying to write a
song, a song of justification and love, a score that will be
enchanting and affective. In this smoky room, with the shades pulled
shut, with one heart dying of a hangover and the other in inspiration
mode. I piece together the chords and the words, it works, it really
does work, and I can't believe I wrote it. On the old acoustic
guitar, this piece of wood with fragile strings. I have broke the
writers block.

Breaking
the blockage has unearthed a new side of me. I can only go forward,
there can't be any more obstructions? I have been through some shit
this year, I nearly died twice, I have been hospitalised under the
mental health act. I have been put in a boot of a car ready to be
burnt alive. I lost a soul mate, a friend in Rosie, I lost DJ. I
failed my university course. But my life has to become brighter, my
prospects have to gain some mileage.

I
open the window to let some fresh air circulate the den that we live
in. I look at the stars for the first time in years and I pick two.
The brightest one is Rosie's and the other one is mine. It's good to
pick stars, it's therapeutic, like writing, like sex. I return to the
guitar and I play the song I wrote. Music helps me to relax, even
when it's loud and unapologetic.

I
halt playing. I hear the door. I rise from the dusty couch and look
through the keyhole. There stands the mob boss with his unruly
henchman. I crouch down and make no sound. I crawl over to Robert's
room. Still sleeping like a baby, I shake him to wake him up.

'What?'

'They're
here'

'Who's
here?'

'That
guy that tried to kill me and the other guys'

'Shit'

Robert
jumps out of his bed, panicking and anxious. I feel the same, my life
will be on the line yet again. Will this fighting ever stop? Will my
desires ever come true? At this moment in time, surviving is
fundamental. We can hear the boss shout through the letter flap. He
bellows death at me, he shouts and screams like a petulant child.

'How
the hell are we supposed to get out of here?'

'Through
the window, look'

I
look at the bathroom window. Thankfully Robert's flat is on the
second floor. I jump on the sink and I open up the window. The fresh
air is rather soothing, but I can't think of pointless things like
that when I'm in such a situation.

The
mob boss and his associates start to bang the door, it seems they
have some sort of device to take down robust barricades. I jump down
onto the grass below, I wait for Robert to follow me. But he is
pulled back. The boss stares at me from the open window.

'I'll
get you, you little bastard, and your friend will feel pain, constant
pain'

I
look up at him. His sinister, wicked face, sends chills down my back.
I scatter off, feeling negativity and despair. I feel guilty leaving
Robert, I just hope they spare him. I find myself on the streets.
Walking and broken hearted, I thought everything was piecing
together.

I
walk through rough areas. I see little gangs, youngsters, drunk and
drugged. They look at me through their narcotic laced eyes. They
stand around as they have nothing else to do, they drink the cheapest
cider, wrecking their insides. Who gives me the right to judge? I
done the same, even worse.

I try my best not to cause any aggravation. I burst through a group of

the young. I seem to kick start some sort of rage from the gang leader. 

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