kenny staines [d9 : fin]
Aug 9, 2017 17:46:30 GMT -5
Post by rook on Aug 9, 2017 17:46:30 GMT -5
KENNY STAINES
deep breaths. clenched fists. here comes another juggernaut
When I was growing up, Bobby was my best friend. He liked breaking the rules every bit as much as I did, and he was good at it too. Never got caught, always knew the best market stands to steal from and the best places to run and hide afterwards. He was clever like that, the kind of kid who could turn a bad situation on its head and make it funny - Make you think that it was all okay, when really you were being a fucking idiot.
He was brazen, brash, quick-witted and confident in pretty much every way you could imagine. Not like me, who nervously followed his lead, airing on the side of caution whenever possible. Always telling him to think twice, or to watch for Peacekeepers, or to maybe pay for something this time.
"You're a worrier, Kenny. You're too hesitant in life. No one will like you if you keep being so soft."
He'd taunt me with a devil-may-care smile and a firm shove. He'd always paint me as a bore, a dork who was too apprehensive. But I enjoyed it. It gave me purpose, made me feel alive underneath all the anxiety and panic. Oh, and the adrenaline that rushed through my core when we were in the clear - I lived for that. I wasn't boring.
"But you like me, don't you Bobby?"
"Of course I do, little brother, but we're family."
The next time I saw Bobby, he was lying face-up down an alleyway, his mouth stained yellow and a needle hanging from a vein in his arm. His eyes were inflated, puffy and grotesque, and his skin was pale, like he had been drained of life. He just led there, not moving, and for a few minutes I waited for him to wake up, not accepting what was so clearly fact. My brother couldn't be dead, he was the invincible Bobby Staines, hero of Medrow Corner, who beat up the bullies, stole from the markets, and pissed in the Peacekeepers helmets.
I can't believe I'll never see him again.
I was eleven, it was rough, and the years that followed were cold and difficult. There were no shenanigans, no crimes or thrills to make me feel alive. Everything was just a wash of grey, and facts, and responsibilities. I grew up. I grew up from all the petty shit that my older brother got me into, shook it off like a childish habit. I got a job, not a good one but a job nonetheless. I had to start carrying my weight, help my parents, the usual stuff.
Home became just a place where I lived when I wasn't working, or walking the streets, or going to the hills to lie down on the grass and stare at the dying stars. It felt like life was passing me by, day to day just going past like cargo trains, one after the other, routine, boring, full of shit.
I got lonely, and that ate away at me for a while. Didn't have a lot of friends, they were more like people who I just knew - they didn't have a lot of interest in me. I was offered a few jobs for local dealers, but turned it down. I wasn't into that, not drugs - not after Bobby. I'd just be killing someone else's brother, or sister, or son, or whatever.
As time went on, I felt emptier, and void of purpose or direction. I couldn't see the woods from the trees anymore, it was all just the same everywhere I looked. Brick, trees, grass, sky, faces. Routine ground away at me, bit by bit, until I didn't know what do with myself.
They said I was still grieving, years on from his death, but this wasn't grief, it was a realisation - A realisation that Bobby had it all figured out - he knew how shit life in Nine was, and that there was no point in all of it. He was a thrill seeker, and that's how he got through it, he got his kicks from breaking the law, and that's not me, but I get it. I do.
It's just that it wasn't enough for him, he had to go and look for another high, something more substantial, something more chemical.
And I've seen too many scenes of overdosing teenagers in the mud since that day, like it's not even abnormal, like it's accepted. This District is a fucking conveyor belt of misery and hate and it's just all there, all the shit and all the fucking pain and someone just needs to wipe it all up, someone needs to fucking clean the scum from Nine, all of it.
And it's gonna be me that does it, and I don't care how long it takes, or what I have to do - I'm gonna end it. And who's going to fucking stop me?
I'll stop when I'm dead.
He was brazen, brash, quick-witted and confident in pretty much every way you could imagine. Not like me, who nervously followed his lead, airing on the side of caution whenever possible. Always telling him to think twice, or to watch for Peacekeepers, or to maybe pay for something this time.
"You're a worrier, Kenny. You're too hesitant in life. No one will like you if you keep being so soft."
He'd taunt me with a devil-may-care smile and a firm shove. He'd always paint me as a bore, a dork who was too apprehensive. But I enjoyed it. It gave me purpose, made me feel alive underneath all the anxiety and panic. Oh, and the adrenaline that rushed through my core when we were in the clear - I lived for that. I wasn't boring.
"But you like me, don't you Bobby?"
"Of course I do, little brother, but we're family."
The next time I saw Bobby, he was lying face-up down an alleyway, his mouth stained yellow and a needle hanging from a vein in his arm. His eyes were inflated, puffy and grotesque, and his skin was pale, like he had been drained of life. He just led there, not moving, and for a few minutes I waited for him to wake up, not accepting what was so clearly fact. My brother couldn't be dead, he was the invincible Bobby Staines, hero of Medrow Corner, who beat up the bullies, stole from the markets, and pissed in the Peacekeepers helmets.
I can't believe I'll never see him again.
I was eleven, it was rough, and the years that followed were cold and difficult. There were no shenanigans, no crimes or thrills to make me feel alive. Everything was just a wash of grey, and facts, and responsibilities. I grew up. I grew up from all the petty shit that my older brother got me into, shook it off like a childish habit. I got a job, not a good one but a job nonetheless. I had to start carrying my weight, help my parents, the usual stuff.
Home became just a place where I lived when I wasn't working, or walking the streets, or going to the hills to lie down on the grass and stare at the dying stars. It felt like life was passing me by, day to day just going past like cargo trains, one after the other, routine, boring, full of shit.
I got lonely, and that ate away at me for a while. Didn't have a lot of friends, they were more like people who I just knew - they didn't have a lot of interest in me. I was offered a few jobs for local dealers, but turned it down. I wasn't into that, not drugs - not after Bobby. I'd just be killing someone else's brother, or sister, or son, or whatever.
As time went on, I felt emptier, and void of purpose or direction. I couldn't see the woods from the trees anymore, it was all just the same everywhere I looked. Brick, trees, grass, sky, faces. Routine ground away at me, bit by bit, until I didn't know what do with myself.
They said I was still grieving, years on from his death, but this wasn't grief, it was a realisation - A realisation that Bobby had it all figured out - he knew how shit life in Nine was, and that there was no point in all of it. He was a thrill seeker, and that's how he got through it, he got his kicks from breaking the law, and that's not me, but I get it. I do.
It's just that it wasn't enough for him, he had to go and look for another high, something more substantial, something more chemical.
And I've seen too many scenes of overdosing teenagers in the mud since that day, like it's not even abnormal, like it's accepted. This District is a fucking conveyor belt of misery and hate and it's just all there, all the shit and all the fucking pain and someone just needs to wipe it all up, someone needs to fucking clean the scum from Nine, all of it.
And it's gonna be me that does it, and I don't care how long it takes, or what I have to do - I'm gonna end it. And who's going to fucking stop me?
I'll stop when I'm dead.
