Author's Note: this is horrible because I wrote it in ten minutes on my phone, but I felt compelled to put it up anyway. For what reason? I have no clue. This takes place right before Mr. Brightside. A lot of people say that Katie saved Drew from the eventual crash and burn. It gave me this idea. I'll not wel thought out and it's completely detached and plotless. It's morbid and as no emotion whatsoever. Sorry, I just felt like I should post this. It may come down though.
Feedback would be awesome, though.
Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi.
Drew dragged down the hall, a dead man walking. His red polo and khakis hung around his body loosely. Not one person glanced his way. No one cared what Drew Torres was doing to himself anymore.
The fighting started when he first met Owen and Julian. Mixed Martial Arts gave him a rush he didn't think was possible. It made him feel powerful. It made him feel good. He thought he could tackle any challenge thrown his way. He felt victorious.
When Simpson shut them down, Drew was sent into a frenzy. Fighting was the only thing keeping his world from falling apart. Winning and losing were the only things he could control. Emotions, nightmares, his enemies, his love for the girl he ran from. None of that could be controlled. But all of it could be forgotten with a punch.
Drew found a new place to train, a dark, dank MMA arena in the slums of Toronto.
Every night he spent there, fighting for his life, but really for his sanity. Once he stepped into the cage, he was facing his demons. Fighting the darkness he buried deep inside him. Drew lost a bigger chunk of himself every time he took a hit or landed a punch. Drew Torres was slowly slipping away, leaving the broken, bloodied shell of a scared boy.
Drew's first injury was a broken finger, nothing major. Then came the black eyes, broken ribs, bruised torso, concussion. Every morning Drew would wake, coated in a sheath of sweat from the dark thoughts that plagued his sleep, and covered in injuries from the night before. The worse the dreams got, the worse the injuries became.
As time passed, Drew stopped fighting with his head. He began to fight with his fear. Ill thought out punches and poorly executed kicks erupted from his body spasmodically. He was slipping away. Fighting was the only thing he had to hold on to and even that he was losing. He clutched it with broken, bloody hands.
People stopped talking to Drew, stopped caring why he came to school every day looking like he went through hell. Which he did, every night. Friends stopped calling, teachers stopped trying. No one wanted to help the broken boy who had lost his mind. He was crazy. Out of his mind. Insane. Who would want to be around him?
Adam tried. In the beginning, he begged Drew to stop what he was doing. Drew never answered or even looked him in the eyes. Adam wasn't talking to his older brother; He was talking to a skeleton. He eventually stopped talking altogether. What he did do was wait. He waited every night for Drew to come home. He waited for the sounds of his midnight screams to stop tearing out of his throat. He waited for his brother to finally get out of this trance he was in.
One night, it came, the eventual crash and burn. The end of the downward spiral that no one had ever bothered to stop. Drew Torres hit rock bottom. A fit of nervous paranoia had consumed him. He left the MMA gym late, in a hurry. Instead of going home, he found himself wandering the darkest alleys of Toronto, begging to find him. Vince. The man who made his life this living hell. He wandered in the empty streets for hours, never going home. He left Adam in his room, waiting for a brother who never came home.
Two days later, the police showed up at the Torres residence. They had found their missing son. He was lying in an alley, a gunshot wound through his chest. He was dead.
The broken, bloodied body of Drew Torres was now ice cold. Limp. Dead.