Page 1 of Black
CHAPTER 1
Black
When I was seven, someone broke into our house. Thinking back, it must have been some really desperate thieves, because it was a shitty neighborhood and none of us had anything worth stealing, even on a good day.
Nevertheless, that break-in stayed with me for a long time and made me afraid of going to bed at night.
I used to hug my Hello Kitty teddy bear and tell her we would be all right. It would have been nice if my mom had offered me a goodnight kiss or a lullaby to make me feel better, but hey, I didn’t have that kind of mom.
My mom, Tina, was seventeen when she had me.
My dad is the asshole who took her virginity behind the bleachers after a high school dance, and handed her a hundred dollars to “take care of the problem” when she told him she was pregnant.
Needless to say, I grew up with my mom, and of all the childhood memories – that for the most part aren’t very good – the one about thieves breaking into our home has played a major part in my career as a criminal.
This might surprise you, but criminals have morals and values too. Some criminals even say they have honor. I don’t know about the last part, but I, at least, have a set of rules.
I don’t commit any violent crimes, and I don’t steal from private homes – because it’s a violation of people’s privacy and can be traumatizing to kids.
Neither do I steal from small mom-and-pop shops with hard-working people who are just trying to make a living.
I also don’t hustle or steal from the following categories: old people, sick people, mentally or physically handicapped people, and of course children.
So who do I steal from? Mostly companies with big fat insurance policies who will get compensated for the shoplifting I do.
Now before you have a moral hissy fit about me, don’t! You’re wasting your energy and my time. I might as well tell you straight up, I’m a lost cause.
People see me walking on the street and look the other way. I dress as I feel, and that’s why my friends call me Black. My hair is black, my nail polish is black, my clothes are black, and most of the time I’m wearing heavy, dark make-up too.
Most likely you’ve seen people like me. And most likely you’ve looked away too.
I get it. And I don’t care.
Caring is a luxury I can’t afford. My life isn’t about caring. It’s about surviving, and it’s been that way ever since I ran away from home seven years ago.
Today is my twenty-first birthday, which means I can officially drink alcohol. The thought alone is laughable. The first time I drank I was ten. The second time I was eleven and got drunk with my mom. That night I puked so hard I thought I was going to die, and as a result I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol ever since.
If watching my mom’s alcoholism taught me anything it was that happiness isn’t found in bottles.
For me, happiness comes in the shape of little white pills with the letters OP on top. In my opinion it should say UP, which would be a good allusion to the high I get from taking them. My friend Daniel gave me my first rush for my nineteenth birthday, and I can honestly say that I’d never experienced anything like it. Never felt so good inside.
My head is usually full of bad memories and fear of the future, but that night – oh man, it was freaking surreal to feel completely free of worries, pressure, and pain. I was on a euphoric high, and it only took that one time to make me want more. I guess you could say that the first pill got me hooked and now, two years later, I’m in a lot of shit because of it.
The first problem is that those Oxy pills are damn expensive. Depending on the supply on the street, it’s between fifty and a hundred dollars for just one pill, and when you’re a street artist like me, you don’t make a lot of cash.
That’s why I have to shoplift, which leads me to my second problem. My looks.
Mostly I do my “shopping” after the stores are closed, because I’m easy to spot with my black Goth looks; shop detectives get automatically suspicious when they see me. I’m good at what I do, and only take what I need to survive.
Unfortunately, today I got impatient and went to Bartell Drugs to help myself to a few Oxy pills.
I would have never done it, if my after-dark field trip to Costco last night hadn’t failed. There was no way I could have known that the night guard at Costco got a new badass Rottweiler. He used to have an old German shepherd that slept most of the time and was practically half deaf, but this new dog – shit, I’m a fast runner, but that black devil chased me down like a rabbit on the run, and I only barely escaped.
Sneaking out a few bottles of pills isn’t rocket science, so I’m a bit ashamed that I got caught red-handed today.
It’s a damn shame too, because I had already stuffed my backpack with several bottles of Oxy pills. I could have made a fortune on the streets with that many and kept a good portion for myself.
I’m sure I would have made it out, if not for my stupid walk through the store to get a bottle of whiskey.
