Broken
Peter had just left his NA meeting. Ever since he was 13, he had started doing drugs. It started when his Uncle Ben died. He was given anti-depressants. That was the beginning of his drug problem.
He was now 16, a drug addict of 3 years.
A couple months back, 4 months to be precise, his Aunt had found him lying on his bedroom floor. He had just overdosed.
He didn't spend much time in the hospital. Surprisingly, once they save you from an overdose, you can leave the ER after an hour. But his Aunt forced him to stay at the hospital for 3 days. Which he was happy about. It meant he didn't have to go to school, and could just chill.
He remembered the car ride back to their apartment after being released. It was fun. Something he rarely had when he wasn't doing drugs. The music from the car radio was blasting through the car. Peter was singing his lungs out to the lyrics, dancing at the same time. May joined in on the singing too. His smile was radiant and full of joy. It was so infectious, causing May to smile widely too. Both of them completely forgetting the reason they were here in the first place.
Sadly, the memory had to end at some point. It ended as soon as they entered the apartment building. The happy and bright mood they once had vanished; the memories from the last time they were both here flooded through them. They ascended the stairs in a tense and uncomfortable silence.
Once they entered the apartment, Peter made his way to his bedroom. Before he could enter, his Aunt had called for him to sit with her, saying "they needed to talk." Begrudgingly, he walked in and sat on an empty chair.
"Look Peter, you need help."
Before she could even start what she intended to tell Peter, he jumped out of his seat, laughing humorously. "I don't need help, May. I'm fine."
May scoffed, already annoyed by Peter's stubborn attitude. "You are not fine," she stressed the last word. "Having an overdose is not fine. Ah, ah, ah," she waved her finger at her nephew, discouraging him from interrupting her again. "I'm talking, you can listen. I love you Peter, I really do. You're all I have left, sweetie. And that is why you will be going to NA meetings, every week."
They had argued for hours, Peter stubbornly refusing the fact he needed help. Ultimately, May had won. That's why he was here now. He flicked his hood up, getting ready to walk home. The cold autumn air washed over him, calming his erratic nerves.
"Clean for nearly 4 months, that's impressive," a relatively tall man said, leaning against a brick pole, sipping the warm, black coffee from his mug.
"Uh, thanks? I guess," Peter replied nervously. He was always nervous around people he didn't really know. In reality, he wasn't even clean. He had never stopped doing drugs. Even when he promised May that he'd stop. Well, in his defence, he never said he'd stop doing drugs, he just said that he'd go to the stupid meetings.
"Sam," the man, now known as Sam said. He had a warm, friendly smile, that helped relax Peter. Even if it was just slightly.
"Peter," the boy replied. "But I guess you already knew that. Ya'know, with you being at the meetings as well."
The man laughed at Peter's mini ramble. "Yes, I did already know that. Just like I know you're full of shit," Sam was now smirking at Peter's shocked face.
"What? What're you talking about?" The boy tried to act confused, pretending not to know what Sam was referring to. There's no way he could know.
"Being clean. I know you're not. How? I just do," the man let out a tired sigh. "Look, I'm not here to judge you, I used to be like you. But if you ever want to stop killing yourself, give me a call and we can get some waffles or some shit," Sam handed Peter a card with his number off, then walked back inside.
Peter looked down at the card he was given. It wasn't anything fancy at all, just a scribbled number. He threw the card away, having no plans on ever calling Sam. He made sure to memorise the number though, just in case he changed his mind.
The teen then started walking back to his apartment. He enjoyed these walks. It was just him alone with his music.
Just over 20 minutes later, he walked through the door into the apartment. May was already there in the kitchen, trying to cook.
"How was the meeting?" May asked sweetly.
"Same as last week, and the week before, and the week before that, May," he sighed. "It was fine."
May knew he hated the meetings, but she knew it was for the best. "They helping?"
"Yeah, they are," Peter lied.
After their short conversation, Peter escaped to his room. He turned the volume of his music up higher, completely drowning out any noise that could be heard. Slowly, he reached over to his bedside table to grab the book laying on top: Bruce Banner's autobiography.
Rays of sunlight creeped it's way through Peter's blinds, illuminating the half of his face that wasn't covered by his book. It highlighted the bags underneath his eyes, the mop of brown curls that settled above his eyebrows, the small freckles surrounding his noise that were unnoticeable in normal light.
The door to his room creaked open and May silently walked into the room. She stopped at the edge of the bed, watching him sleep. He looked so peaceful. May hated that she had to wake him up when he was so relaxed. She combed his hear to the side, gently shaking Peter to wake him up. He groaned in response but opened his eyes nevertheless.
"You gotta go to school, sweetie," she kissed his forehead then walked out leaving his door slightly open.
After a minute, he finally got out of bed, heading straight for the bathroom. He turned the shower on and undressed himself while he waited for the water to heat up. Once he was happy with the temperature of the water, he got in and started to clean himself.
25 minutes later, Peter was washed and dressed, wearing a baggy grey and blue hoodie, which belonged to his uncle, faded black skinny jeans, a pair of black high-tops, and a beanie.
He left his room, ready -at least physically speaking- for the first day of the new high-school year.
As he was leaving, he passed May, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, then started making his way to school. He had left earlier than normal, choosing to walk instead of getting the school bus. The reason for this was that he was too nervous to face any of his classmates. For all he knew, they thought he had died -which wasn't completely untrue. He died once before when his uncle was killed- and was too nervous to face them. Thinking over it, it was kind of stupid as he would have to face them anyways when he got to school, but at least this way the warm autumn breeze helped relax his anxiety slightly.
Eventually he made it to school, coming to a stop in front of the stairs. He was rooted in fear, his legs felt like jelly and were refusing to move despite his mind yelling at them to do so. He never cared what people thought about him, but he hated knowing that all eyes would be on him. That they would all be talking about him in hushed whispers, thinking he wouldn't hear them.
Eventually, he started to walk up the stairs, taking in deep, measured breathes, trying to avoid an anxiety attack. He pulled his hood up, hoping that it would turn him invisible, that it would suddenly make him unrecognisable.
He was wrong.
Making his way to his locker, he kept his head down to try and stay under the radar. Unfortunately, some people still saw him. It went from a pair of girls talking about him, to the whole corridor in seconds.
"I though he died."
"Didn't he kill himself or something."
"That's the guy who overdosed "
Those were just some of the many things he heard. He kept walking though, pretending to ignore everybody around him, and going straight to his first class.
It was now lunch, and Peter was exhausted. Noticing that the lunch room was crowded, he opted to eat underneath the bleachers. It was always a quiet place and he knew nobody would bother him there.
He sat down, placing his bag by his side. He leaned his head back, resting it against the cold, hard stone wall that held the bleachers up. A tired sigh escaped his lips. The day was a lot harder to deal with than he expected.
A figure loomed over Peter, casting it's shadow down onto him. Peter opened his eyes, expecting someone to be there to bug him about his overdose. However, when he did open his eyes, they were met with an unrecognisable face. She was clearly new. He couldn't stop staring at her. She was breath-taking. Her curly brown hair cascades down her caramel skin, framing her beautiful face. Her brown eyes shone in the mid-day sun, and where as bright as stars. Small freckles could be spotted on her cheeks, which Peter found very cute.
"Hey, I'm Michelle," the girl said, flashing Peter a warm smile.
"Peter," he replied, giving Michelle a warm, real smile. The first real smile he had while conscious in years. "Uh, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I'm new and was just wondering if I could sit with you. You seem like the most... Non asshole person here," Michelle bluntly said, causing Peter to chuckle.
"Yeah, sure," he moved over, giving her room to sit down under the bleachers with him.
They talked all lunch and when the bell went, they exchanged numbers. During lunch, Peter looked at Michelle's schedule and found out they had a few classes together: drama, maths and gym. Michelle followed Peter as they made their way too the theatre, talking about whatever came to mind.
Walking into the theatre, they sat at the back of the class, listening to the teacher drone on about their course. Before they started the course though, she wanted everybody to talk about something they did over the summer. Instantly, a pit of dread formed in the bottom of his stomach. He didn't want to do this. He couldn't. There was no way he could talk about overdosing, spending time in hospital, going to NA meetings or the fact he was still using.
Michelle had nudged him, bringing him out if his spiral of thoughts. He looked up and realised the teacher had called for him to be first. Fucking Parker luck, he thought as he slowly made his way to the stage.
"Do I really have to do this?" He asked, clearly stressed.
"Yes."
He huffed and made it onto the stage. The main lights had been turned out, and the big overhead one lit up Peter, blinding him in the process. This was like a nightmare come to life. He started fiddling with the loose strand inside the pocket of his hoodie. His anxiety was going haywire. Everything was too bright, the murmurs in the crowd was too loud, the fabric on his skin was too rough. Vomit threatened to spew from him, but he forced it down.
"D-d-do, do I really ha-have t-to do this. I, I, I don't r-really remember my, my summer," he stammered out. His right leg bounced up and down at a feverish pace.
"You don't remember anything? You didn't spend any time with family, doing something-"
Her words began to fade as memories of his summer flashed in his mind. Getting high and drunk at parties. Blacking out. The overdose. The hospital. The arguments and shouting matches with May. His breathing had fastened, barely getting enough oxygen in.
In a split second, Peter jumped off the stage and burst through the double doors, sprinting to the nearest bathroom. He threw open the door, going into the last cubicle, locking the door. His bag landed with a thud on the toilet seat. The zipper was ripped open and he desperately fished for the bottle of pills he had at the bottom of the bag. After successfully finding them, he took at the pill of vicodin, placing on top of the metal box containing toilet paper.
A rumpled 5 dollar bill was put over the pill as he crushed it with his phone. Once it was turned into a fine powder, he removed the note and took a card, using it to form the powder into small thin lines. Satisfied with the length, he used one finger to block one of his nostrils, then bent down, sniffing the line up in one effortless motion. He repeated this action 3 more times, then blew the rest of the powder onto the floor.
He walked out of the bathroom in a daze, the effects of the drugs already showing to Peter. This was a feeling he was used to, something that made him feel complete. Feel fixed. Confidently, he strolled out of school, having no plans on facing anybody else after the disaster in drama class. So he walked, breathing in the smell of fresh air as he aimlessly wandered through the streets of Queens.
Life had slowly been getting better for Peter. Not much, but he liked it. Him and Michelle became closer. They would go to parties together, have fun. Overall, he loved being around her. He wanted to get better for her as well. After a month and a half, they kissed. And that started to become a regular thing. They'd sleep over at each others houses, wrapped up together. They'd kiss and talk about the future.
One night, after Michelle had left, needing to get home before her parents got home, he called Sam. The words he had said to him that night ringing in his head as he waited for the phone to answer.
"Hey, Sam, so... about those pancakes you offered. I, I'm, I'm ready to take you up on them," Peter said, nervously playing with the sleeve of his hoodie.
"Ok, kid. Meet me at the diner, around the block from the meetings."
A small sigh was released from Peter. He got up and put some shoes on, heading to the diner Sam told him to meet him at. Arriving at the place, he could see Sam already there, waiting in a booth. He crossed the street and walked in, the ringing of the bell announcing his arrival.
They ordered their meals in silence, none of them saying a word yet. The wait for their food wasn't long, as they were basically the only ones there. Both thanked the waitress, and started to eat. Half way through their meal, Sam finally spoke.
"Who saved you?" Sam said, from out of the blue.
"Wh-what?"
"Who saved you?" Sam repeated the question, then elaborated. "From your overdose. Someone had to have found you. So, who was it?"
Peter hesitated for a while. He called for a reason, so he knew he had to be honest. Sam would tell he was bullshiting if he didn't anyway, he remembered from their first talk. "My Aunt," he finally said. "She's, uh, well, she's all I got left."
"You all she has left as well?" Peter nodded at the question. "Mmm. You gotta wonder what that does to her, you know? What she must have felt. What she still feels. You ever think about that?" Sam chuckles to himself. "Of course not. If you did, you probably wouldn't be in the meetings in the first place."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you've only got each other. And she sees you overdosing. She must have been terrified. Still is, probably. You know, she doesn't want to lose you, cos she loves you." Sam stopped to take a sip of his coffee. "Why'd you call anyway?" He switched topics.
"Like you said to me that day, want to stop killing myself. I want to get clean."
"Yeah, but why? Why do you want to get clean now? What changed in the past month and a half?"
"I met someone. Michelle," Sam nodded and let Peter carry on talking. "She's amazing. She's really beautiful, and smart, and strong. She wants to change the world. Become a lawyer or something. Try to end police corruption, or some shit like that. She doesn't know exactly, but she wants to make a big change in the world. Said she'd figure out the exact change when she's in college. And, and, I just want to get clean for her. Cause I love her," Peter stopped rambling instantly. Sam raised a curious eyebrow at him, wondering why he suddenly stopped. "That's, that's the first time I've said that. I love her."
"So you're in a relationship?"
"Yeah, yeah. I think. I mean, we kiss and talk about our future together. We sleep together a lot."
"Yeah, well I've slept in the same bed as my sister before, doesn't mean we're in a relationship now, does it? Have you talked about being in a relationship?"
"What? No, no. Why would we? That's... That's weird. Who does that?"
"That's what people do in relationships. They talk about it."
They stopped talking for a few minutes, continuing to eat their meal. After a while, Sam started conversation again. "So you wanna get clean for her?"
"Yeah," Peter said without missing a beat.
"Uh-huh. Okay. But what about when, in a month, 3 months, a years time, when she goes to college and decides she just wants to be friends? What, you gonna go back to using again?"
"If. You mean if she chooses."
"Nah, I mean when. Look, you said it yourself. She wants to make a big fucking change in the world. Become a lawyer or whatever bullshit to do it. And you said she's smart, very smart by the sounds if it's impressed you. Cause I know you're smart from when you talk in the meetings. So, she's probably gonna go to Harvard, Princeton or Yale, one of the top, top colleges. So what about you?" He doesn't let Peter answer, asking it rhetorically. "You're smart. Smart with machines, science, math. So you're options are MIT, Stanford, ESU. But you love your Aunt. You may argue, shout, scream at each other. But you love her to bit. And she's all you got left. So, you'll choose ESU to stay close to her." Peter nods to show that he is still listening to Sam. "So, long distance is already hard. But then when she comes back for the holidays, she'll spend most of the time with her family. Only real time you guys will spend together will be during the summer. As long as one of you doesn't get a summer job or something. So a couple weeks to a month, for 4 years. You think that you both could deal with it?"
"Yeah. Sure, it'll be difficult, but we'll manage," Peter said, fully convinced.
"Okay, okay. And then when things start getting tougher for both of you, and the facetime calls you guys were doing every other day turns into once a week, then 3 times a month. Then you are lucky to even get a call every month. Then she figures that she has to focus on school and doesn't have time for the relationship, so she breaks up. What are you gonna do then? You gonna relapse? Cause your reason to stay clean is now gone."
Tears started to fill Peter's eyes. He didn't want that to happen. "I, I, I don't know," he runs a hand through his messy curls.
"What I'm saying is, nothing in high school lasts. You're reason for getting clean isn't a good one, and it won't last. In order to stay clean, you gotta want to be clean for yourself. Not for somebody else. Because, at the end of the day, the only person who will stay with you, is yourself." He lets that sink into Peter.
Peter lets out a shaky breathe and rubs his sleeve across his eyes, getting rid of the tears that threatened to fall. "If I could be a different person, I definitely would be."
"But you can't. You wanna know the problem of being an addict?"
"Let me guess. It's not what it does to you, it's what it does to the people you care," Peter flashed a small, sad smile.
"Well yes, but that's not what I was going to say. The problem, is that being an addict is a disease. Like cancer. But people don't see it that way. They see you as selfish, uncaring, as someone who doesn't give a fuck about anybody else. So they think, "why the fuck should I help you?", "Why should I give a fuck about you, when you don't even give a fuck about yourself?" But it's not your fault. When you were born, you came out with some wires unattached. And when you got high for the first time, it attached those wires. It-"
"It fixed me," Peter finishes.
"Exactly. So you keep going back to drugs, again and again. Luckily, you have people like me. People who have had the disease, and have beaten it."
"I'm a terrible person," Peter whispered after a long silence.
"What?"
"I'm a terrible person," he repeated louder, tears brimming in his eyes.
"Why?"
"I've treated May like shit. I yelled at her all the time. Argued with her cause I wasn't getting my way. Um... Even told her-" he had too compose himself. He was so close to breaking down. "Told her that I, I wished it was her who was killed. Instead of my uncle. You know how fucked that is?"
"Drugs change people," Sam replied, not even batting an eye.
"I wasn't high," Peter couldn't hold them back anymore. Tears streamed down his face. "I wasn't high. And I told her that I wished she was killed. Fucking hell. That's literally fucked. I'm literally a horrible person," he chocked out.
"Drugs change people."
"Did you not just hear what I did?" Peter asked, completely shocked that Sam was defending him.
"Yes. You could sit there, your stubborn little ass, look me dead in the eyes and tell me that you killed the president. And I will still sit here, continue to look you in the eyes, and say with my chest, that it's not your fault," he waited before carrying on. "And I know what your probably thinking, "Why? How are you so dumb that you'd defend me? What the fuck is wrong with him," Peter let out a watery laugh. "And the reason is because drugs change people. Fundamentally. It fucks you up, changes who you are as a person. And you know what else I think? I think that you're punishing yourself. You think you're such a horrible person. That you're irredeemable. That's the problem with the world. Once people stop believing in themselves, stop believing that they have hope left, and start believing that they're irredeemable, that's when they stop. They stop trying to be better. They think that since they have no hope left, that they'll carry on doing the shit they're doing, not caring. And people wonder why the world seems to be getting worse," Sam scoffs. "It's our own fucking fault for not believing in redemption."
After Sam stopped talking, they finished their meals in a comfortable silence.
"The truth is..." Peter started as he stared out of the window, watching the rain trickle down. "The truth is that I don't want to be on this world anymore. I want to kill myself," he stops to let that sink in with Sam. "Like, I understand how lucky I am to be alive. I get that. But the world we live in, it's so shit. Everybody is so quick to hate and judge each other. And they get offended at the littlest things," a tired breathe escaped his lips. "Nobody wants the truth. Cause the truth is real. And people don't want real. Real isn't always what people want to hear, but it's what they need to hear. And people don't like that, cos what they need to hear is often painful. Like you said, "nothing in high-school lasts". That, that's fucking painful to hear. Like I don't want to hear that, cause in my heart, I want it to work with Michelle. To last. But I know, in my mind, that it's what I need,"
"Exactly. I like talking to you Peter. Cause we talk about real shit, like addiction and the truth. I got a question."
"Yeah?"
"You said that you want to kill yourself. So, what is it that you want you Aunt to remember you as?"
Tears started to fall from Peters eyes like a waterfall. "I, I, I don't know," his voice broke and the tears kept going. After a while pondering on the question, he replied. "As someone who tried really fucking hard to be someone I'm not. Someone who is a good person."
Sam smiled at Peter, the friendliest and warmest smile he had been given in a long, long time. "I believe in you," he said quietly as he held Peter's hand comfortingly.
"Why?" Came the broken question from the scared boy.
"I don't know, I just do. I just... Do," Peter gave him a thankful smile. "I believe the Knicks will do better each season as well. So I'm not always right," he joked, earning a laugh from Peter.
They headed out of the diner together, Sam offering to give Peter a ride back. The downpour if rain instantly assaulted them as soon as they stepped outside. Both of them sprinted to the car and dove in. Sam started the car and began driving out of the mini car park.
"Hey uh, is it alright of we just drive for a while. I find driving to be... Therapeutic, I guess," Peter shrugged.
"Sure thing."
Peter stared out the window, his eyes trailing the paths made by the rain drops. His thoughts kept going over what they just talked about, Michelle, May, and his future. Curiosity began to build up in him, and he eventually asked Sam, "so what's your story?"
"Huh?" He side eyes Peter, focusing on the road.
"Your story. What made you first try drugs, and what made you want to get clean."
"Well, I started doing drugs when i was 17. It was just me and my younger sister for a while. Dad left when we were kids and Mum was sick, so I had to take care of both of them. School, jobs and taking care of 2 people was just building up stress. I wanted something to help calm me down basically. And that's when I became an addict. After a year and a half, my uncle took us in after divorcing my aunt, who hated us. Got Mum the help she needed. I didn't stop though. Couldn't. I had got the disease."
"And what did make you want to stop?"
"My sister. Even after our uncle took us in, he was still busy with his business he had, so I was still looking after her. One day, she comes home from high-school, sees me passed out on the floor with lines of powder on the table. And she screams. I'll never forget that noise. Even though I was unconscious, I still heard it. She started shaking me, begging me to wake up and not be dead. Eventually I did. The face I woke up to was horrifying to me. Her face was covered in tears, the fear in her eyes was as clear as day, and she was choking on sobs. She gave me a bone crushing hug. I never wanted to scare her like that. So that's when I started to get clean. I was 20 then. 2 years later I joined the Air Force for 4 years. My last mission, my Partner, Riely, got his dumbass blown out the sky. I left the Air Force and started using again."
"Really? For how long?"
"A little over a year. My sister found out. Screamed, shouted, broke shit. Went back to rehab. Been clean ever since. 9 years now."
"Good for you. Things good with your sister now?"
"Oh yeah, we talk loads over the phone. We try to meet up once a month. And you? What's your story?"
Peter sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at the bright lights passing by. "It started when my Uncle died," he started quietly. "It was my fault. He was only out cause of me. Looking for me."
"You can't blame yourself for everything. It certainly doesn't help either."
"I know, but it's easier to blame myself. After he died, I was prescribed with anti-depressants. It's been a spiral ever since then."
"What happened to your parents?"
"Uh, they died when I was little. Like 5 or 6. Plane crash. No survivors. That's when I moved in with May and Ben. They were the best. Uncle Ben was always someone I could trust. Always. I used to get bullied at school. I never told them about it. Didn't want to burden them. Or whatever the fuck little me thought," he laughed to himself. "I'd come home with black eyes and other injuries. I'd make up some bs like I ran into some lockers. But Ben knew I was lying. He had a 6th sense or something. A bullshit detector. He'd talk to me alone after we had dinner. Asking if he had to go talk to anybody's parents and that. Told him he didn't have to, and he respected it. Also told me that I shouldn't let them get away with it. You know, telling me to fight back. Told him violence doesn't fix violence. He smiled at me. So proud. He took me to my first basketball game. Helped me with my science fair projects. This one time, I decided to go balls to the wall. Make something fucking amazing. A guaranteed first place. Spent weeks making it. Laughing, joking. All that,"a faint smile graced Peter's lips as he recalled the memory. "I don't even fully remember what it was or what it did. I just remember when it came to my time to demonstrate, it didn't work. I was so embarrassed. Ben, he hugged me. Said it was just Parker luck. I looked up at him. My big, brown doe-eyes all confused. Said that we had so much bad luck that he started calling it the Parker luck."
"He sounds like he was awesome."
"He was. He... Really was." They relaxed into a comfortable silence, with Sam taking Peter back after he finished his talk.
Peter opened the car door. Before closing it, he poked his head inside to thank Sam. "Anytime kid," he said, and drove off.