A/N: Okay, so I've had this story on the website for some time now waiting to publish it, but never got the chance to. My reason for writing such a dark story is because I, presonally, am beyond sick of all the fluffy DXC stories. Now, don't get me wrong, I love DXC fics, and I am in the making of writing a semi-fluffy story as well, so I guess I can't say I'm 'sick of them,' but I do think I need to shake things up a bit by writing a really...dark and negative DXC storyas well.

This story is more for the people who want to see a darker, more violent, and negative side of Duncan, instead of the kind hearted 'bad boy' the show and some stories shows him, so it would be nice not to get too many flames because if you don't like the idea please don't bother reading. If there is anything I need to improve on to make this story even better, please feel free to share! If you don't like, don't read!

Rated M for scenes including drugs, sexual themes/scenes, and language. I own NOTHING, but the idea of the story.

R&R Enjoy!

~ApPeAl2rEaSoN

Chapter 1:

All my life I've been asking the same question: 'what's reallyis the point of living?' 'Cause when you think about it the world is full of a lot of shitty people that do even shittier things, or at least that's what I've seemed to notice. Other people don't give a fuck about the 'real world' as long as it doesn't affect them; just a bunch of conformists bastards if you ask me, but you didn't now did you. You're probably wondering: 'The fuck's up this kid's ass making him think the world's nothing but a living hell?' Well, if you grew up the way I did and lived through all the shit I had to, then maybe you'd see the world a little differently too. A world full of: people using you, lying to you, and just playing old not giving a fuck about you or your existence.

I was the type of kid that lived for causing chaos and suffering to other people. I was the kid that would rather light leaves and shoelaces on fire at recess then join with the group and play ring-around-the-fucking-rosie. I'm the kid who would make your parents beat the livin' shit if you went within ten feet of me at school, but like I cared. Friends were for people who couldn't fend for themselves, who needed someone help them make every pathetic decision of their life. That's what my dad used to tell me, not like I gave a fuck 'bout what he had to say, but that I learned I had to.

To me life wasn't worth living, but there was always one person to help me get through each day. She was the reason I would wake up some mornings and decide to put the joint down for the day; okay more like act like I put the joint down for the day. She was the most beautiful girl you would ever lay your eyes on. She had sexiest mocha hair, and not just 'mocha,' but the color that when the light reflects off of it you could see just the smallest bit of natural blondehighlights. She had big beautiful onyx eyes, which I know don't sound so great, but they showed so much emotion, so much personality. Her skin was flawless. It was a much darker shadethenmine, but I'm just about as pale as a baby's ass, so that doesn't say much. It was the kind of skin that a dude would kill to feel up all day, trust me the thought has passed my mind before, but not like it would or could ever happen 'cause she was the farthest thing away from a girlfriend to me. She was Courtney, my Princess, my best friend, and I know that you're probably thinkin' I'm sick for fantasising about 'getting with' my best friend, but she was everything I wasn't, which just made me want her more.

"Duncan?" I groaned 'cause I wasn't the biggest fan of being waken up for no reason especially when I was getting sleep. I had just recently been diagnosed with a chronic insomnia that apparently I've had all my lide, but it didn't become much of a problem until just recently, so sleep and me weren't the best of friends. I grunted and shifted my position hoping, praying I would be able to fall back asleep again.

"Duncan, wake up," She began raising her voice at me. Not in a pissed off way, but in a I've-got-better-things-to-do way.

"Fuck off," I threatened groggily pulling a pillow over my head which was soon thrown off. I could tell she was starting to become impatient when I felt her start shaking my body. Jesus Christ what does it take to get some fucking sleep in your own room?

" Duncan, you need to get up. It's almost seven." In the morning? Great, another sleepless night considering I got home around five this morning from the usual nights worth of party, drinking, and causing trouble. "Come on, you've got a meeting in like, fifteen minutes." she stopped shaking me for a minute. "Jesus, I knew I should have waken you up earlier..." she huffed.

A meeting? Whoop de fuckin' do. That was what they called my therapy appointment, which thrust me wasn't what you'd expect. I wasn't no nice, expensive, big ass office with stain glass windows and huge ass leather couches that you could just sit in all day and talk about your pussy ass feelings. It was more like…a solitary confinement center. It was a large, empty room with absolutely no windows and four doors that were always locked, and during every meeting I always would sit and think of what might hide behind those doors while I was sitting across the room from some chick who made way too much money for the shitty job she was doing with me.

You were there because you're life was so out of control that your family couldn't keep track of you, so every week, or in my case every three days you would end up there so your family knew all about what you did behind their backs. The professional told me I needed to be examined twice a week 'cause I was so bad assed and fucked up, and it's not something to be proud of either. The only people who went were the most fucked up of the fucked up: ex-cons, rapists, rapees, bulimics, druggies, alcoholics, suicide victims, emos, the list goes on and on. And it wasn't no trip to the damn park either, you wouldn't be allowed to leave until they got something outta you that they could rat to your folks about. Hell, if you weren't smart like me you could be there all day, eventually you learn to just make up shit to please them.

"Did you hear me? We have to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes! Get your punk ass up!" She started to scream while shaking me now with all her might. She must have moved to the other side of the bed cause when I opened an eye there she stood glaring down at me.

'She' was Leigh Ann, my mother's whore of a little sister who's had custody over me for the past few months now. She was in her early thirties, but looked like she could pass for my girlfriend 'cause she was wayyytoo fuckin' immature for her age, and trust me that means a lot coming from me, and by immature I don't mean all she liked to do was look up penis or vagina in the dictionary she kept in our, er, her kitchen, but she did like to get with them. She had admitted to me when I first moved in that she was openly bi, which I guess isn't so bad (in my opinion it's kinda hot) unless you have to deal with her bring home some dudeor chick daily and banging them. That's half the reason I'm never home. She dressed like a sixteen year old too, she would tight ass tops and cootch hugger shorts she seriously needed to get with reality. She stood about five foot two, a little over half a foot shorter than me; she had dirty blonde hair, and bright blue eyes just like my mom's (must be where I picked them up from) that were staring daggers at me.

"Get up," she demanded ripping the sheets clean off me revealing my badly beaten torso, which sent a sudden chill down my spine. "I'm not telling you again!" She spat refusing to have her eyes meet my bare chest.

"Fine," I groaned "I'm up okay, now please, feel free to get the sand outta you're vag," I bitched while hopping outta bed, grabbing my phone off my night stand, and slamming the bathroom door behind me.

I sat on the bathroom floor propped against the door, waiting until I heard her footsteps lead out my bedroom, so as I waited I glanced at my phone seeing I had a new voicemail.

"Great." I spat flipping my phone open only knowing it could be anyone calling for any reason. I let the voicemail pick up and held the cold plastic object against the side of my face.

"You have one new message." It said in a machine operated voice until a very familiar and pissed voice followed. "Duncan, it's Courtney, and I'm telling you this as a warning. You better stop drunk or stoned or whatever you currently are calling me, and I'm not happy what-so-ever at the vial and explicit voicemails you are leaving me at...3:48 in the morning because believe it or not some people are actually able to sleep at night, and don't want to be disturbed. i.e. me! Keep it up and I will take drastic action. You have been warned." She spat before hanging up. Inrraged, I quickly shut the shitty peice of plasic in one the other gripping my unruly hair, let out a loud scream filled with mixed emotions, and chucked it into the shower not caring if I broke it or not.

I immeditaly got on my knees, crawling over to the sink, opening the cabinet door, andfeeling aroundfor a tiny plastic bag that I pulled out from the back of the cabinet that I hid in a band-aid box, and smiled looking my hidden stash full of Meth. What, I haven't been hooked up since I got home around I was defiantly due for another hit.

I tossed the bag on top of the counter, slowly anduneasily lifted myself off the ground, grabbing the razor that lay on the counter in my hand. I opened the tiny bag, dumping the Speed on to the counter top, and started crushing it up with the tip of the blade. Anxious to get it in my system I sliced the blade into my skin letting out a loud yelp. I quickly examined my finger and began sucking it to keep my blood out of the way of my hit, continuing to crush the Meth. I neatly cut a line of it, tossed the razor in the sink, placed my face up against the counter top, smashing my forehead against it, and inhale in all the speed at once.

An instant feeling of alertness shot through my body as if seconds ago I was never tired. My hands began to tremble, and I began to feel lightheaded. To me being stoned was the best feeling in the world. I quickly gripped on to the edge of the counter to prevent falling on my ass, and looked at my reflection in the mirror that hung above the sink. Now looking back on it I guess saying that I looked like shit was an understatement.

My already pale skin was an unusual, unhealthy lookin' shade of white except for the multiple shades of bruises that covered my torso, my eyes were dilated and had what seemed like dozens of bags under them, once a 'beautiful' shade of blue were so badly bloodshot that they were a shade of red that even I haven't seen before, my hair, my famous trademark, laid limp, the green dye beginning to fade out now only at the tip of my hair, which was also in bad need of a haircut, and I needed to shave badly having a dark, scruffy five o' clock shadow making me look at least five years older.

I stood there wondering if this was how I looked on a daily basis. I mean I never really was the guy to brag about his appearance, but I wasn't a bad lookin' kid especially my body. I might have grown up being 'the runt of the litter,' but I always made up for it by being one of the most fit too.

Not only was my personal appearance awful to look at, but my physical appearance was pretty pathetic too. Muscles I had spent years trying to build just seemed to disappear in the matter of a few months. Now I finally understood why Princess refused to be seen with me in public anymore, but not like I cared I didn't have to look at myself every minute of the day, and that's when I noticed that not only was criticizing my appearance in the mirror faggish, but it was also really weird, so I snapped out of my stoned daze and stumbled to the bathroom door, remembering about my phone and nearly diving for it now located at the bottom of the shower, picked it up, and walked back to the door, phone in hand nearly tripping on my own feet before fumbling at the knob taking what seemed like hours to get open.

The Meth quickly wore off to a point where I felt like shittier than I did moments ago. I stumbled to my closet, which was a wreck covered with holes, and filthy, wrinkled clothes. I stood there clueless for a minute before I threw on a pair of ripped, baggy jeans, my usual red chucks, and usual black skull shirt when I finally noticed the gashes on my wrists had almost completely healed from my last drunken tantrum. Since I was already stoned I figured it would be the best time to try to pull off a stunt like cuttin' without wanting to cause scene, but of course I was wrong. I brought the blade of the pocketknife up to my wrists, pressed it down the bare skin with blade, and watched the skin break and fill with red, slowly it leaked down my arm, droplets falling to the floor. That was when I realized it hurt like hell, gripping on to my wrists, my knees drop to the ground, a blood-curdling scream escaping my mouth.

"Ahh! Mother fucker!" I cussed. As if the pain wasn't enough to bare the stoned stupor cause instant nausea to strike me as soon as I saw the blood gushing through my fingers. I rushed to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind me this time, leaning over the toilet puking out everything if anything I had eating in the past few days. When I finished I leaned up against the toilet, my blood all over the seat, the floor, and myself. I eventually found a way to pull myself together feeling like shit, head pounding, wrists burning, stomach churning. I staggered out of the bathroom wanting to throw up again, but was able to throw on a black hoodie, which was able to cover the massacre of blood splattered across my shirt, and made my way upstairs.

My aunt, who was stuffing her pig ass face with food greeted me, like usual. God only knows how she can eat like that and still manage to fit in her tiny clothes.

"There you are. What took you so long? I thought only girls took that long get ready," she joked. Too bad I didn't find it the least bit funny since I was stoned and sick to my stomach. Her smile soon turned to a frown.

"You okay? You look like crap," she asked.

"Yeah, just peachy," I said taking a seat the kitchen table (not bothering to eat), and smashing my forehead against the hard surface, which caused an even bigger migraine.

She was silent a minute like she didn't wanna speak another word to me, I wouldn't blame her.

"You're stoned aren't you?" She asked her tone serious now.

"Nope," I lied, but she knew because within seconds she was reaching across the kitchen table, grabbing my by the hair, and looked me right in the eyes inches away from my face. I immediately closed my eyes and turned my head away from her. "Yo, what's your damage?" I spat.

"I knew it." She hissed rolling her eyes, and letting go of the grip on my head making my head slam on the table again. "God dammit Duncan," she spat slamming her fists onto the table going from annoyed to enraged. "There is one rule, one rule! Nodrugs in my house!" She pointed her bony finger at me.

"Yah," I paused. "Well, you're doin' a great job at it too." I hiccuped getting up from the table.

"Yeah, well by the end of the day I'll have done an outstanding job considering I'm going through every square inch of this house cleaning out everything! She spat.

"Ha, good luck." I laughed stopping in my tracks. "Believe it or not sweetheart you're not gonna find nothing." I slurred inches away from her face.

"Yeah? You really think ther band-aid box is such a great hiding place?" She grinned like she's beaten me. "I hope you enjoyed that last hit of yours 'cause you're done." She spat in my face. I shot her a death glare, and maybe it was the drugs in my system, but I snapped, lunging at her. She quickly ducked and I ended up smashing my face into the island in the middle of the kitchen.

"You fuckin' bitch," I braked shoving her against the wall holding my now busted open lip and bloody nose with one hand, and bringing my other into a fist, swinging it at her inches away from giving her what she deserved, but something stopped me from proceeding. I looked at her terrified body cringing on the floor against the wall. I saw how powerless she was, how harmless she looked, how much she resembled my mother. I brought my hand down to my side and I'm not sure if it was from the drugs or the fact that I actually felt bad, but I could have sworn I felt hot tears run down my face.

After all I put her through she still managed to get up off the ground and try to comfort me, and bring me into a hug, but I easily shoved her out of my way, and brushed past her. She stood alone in the kitchen now concerned, calling after me. I threw open the garage door nearly ripping the it off the hinges hoping it would get me farther away from her quicker, locked the door behind me so she couldn't come to comfort me again, ran over to the car, jumping over the hood, opening the passenger door, and locking myself inside, my head resting against the airbag with my face cupped in my hands, allowing a loud sob to escape my throat.

A/N: Well, there you go just a taste of what's to come. Should I continue, or stop now I have the chance?

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