American Idiot

Chapter 1: The Son Of Rage And Love

The moon shone over the cracked streets and broken homes of Jingletown, USA. The dogs howled in an unnatural, one might say 'out of key' way at it's presence, a sound which would transform confident young tourists into blithering idiots and cause them to turn back around and get the hell away from the place.
Down a particularly dirty street, just past the broken lampost with its light hanging down, making it look almost ashamed to be situated in the location, and down a small, constantly dark alleyway, was a house. The door had been roughly placed in such a rough and uneven fashion that it was almost at a 45 degree angle on the front of a crumbling wall, blending in with its shadowy surroundings exceptionally well. If a person was to step inside this place, having already seen the outside, they would not be suprised at what they found. Not only was it tiny, even miniscule, it was as dirty as the streets outside its lobsided door. Situated on a stained rug in the middle of the floor was a man so scruffy looking that he could have been a homeless alcoholic. As it happens, he was indeed an alcoholic, which was why he was slumped passed on out on his floor. Everything about him was large, from his huge waist to his bushy black eyebrows, sitting above eyes that had clearly been subject to the after-affects of drugs. Suffice to say, he was a mess.
But if a person had entered this house, and saw this man, their curiousity would compell them to venture up the nearby staircase as well, where once at the top, they would turn to see two rooms. Inside one of these rooms, sat a teenage boy of about 17, crying. It was obvious from the way he cried, in a nonchalant, indifferent way,
that he was used to this. His eyes were also red, and the cause could be seen on his bedside table, tiny grains of a white powder, cocaine. Of course, it was highly doubtful this was his own cocaine, as he couldn't afford it and there was no way his father would give him any. Not out of care and consideration, only because that was his father's andhe was a selfish, hateful man, who would give nothing to anybody except himself. In this case however, that was a good thing, but it hadn't stopped the boy from aquiring some and sitting there, on his rotten, creaking bed, sniffing, crying and twitching.
There where also several cans of cheap soda littered about his bare floor and a tipped bottle of medication, which could be identified as Ritalin. This boys name was Johnny, but he liked to call himself the 'Jesus of Suburbia'. His reasons for this were simple, he was the only person living here who wanted to make a difference in this place, but he was hindered by the very thing he wanted to change...his life. He was sick of it all, and he was close to the edge. Downstairs again, the door creaked open and a short, plump woman who looked far older than she actually was staggered inside, carrying bags of nothing. This was Johnny's mother, and unlike his father, she loved him. His father stirred and picked himself up off the floor, grumbling and retching, then looked at the woman.
''Well? Where the hell's my booze? I asked for it bout' an hour ago or summat! DAMN IT WOMAN WHERE IS IT?'' He yelled, making the poor lady it was directed at jump a mile.
''I... i got mugged on the back... they tore my dress, look...'' She stammered, showing the man her dirty dress, which ahd indeed been torn quite badly.
''I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT! I WOULDN'T CARE IF YOU GOT YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD CAVED IN, YOU BRING MY BOOZE WHEN I FUCKIN' ASK!'' Johnny's father screamed, stepping towards her.
''NO! Please, Phil, DON'T! I'm sorry! I managed to keep one bottle safe! PLEASE! Look!'' His wife stammered, holding out a bottle of exceptionally strong liquor, shaking madly.
Phil looked at the bottle, then ripped it from her hands. ''Right, that's good'' He muttered, then placed the bottle down. The terrifed mother in the doorway then relaxed slightly. Suddenly, Phil turned around and smashed her straight in her face, knocking her out cold instantly.
''DON'T EVER COME BACK WITHOUT THE REST AGAIN!'' He boomed, shaking with alcohol-fuelled rage. He then went back to the rug, and sat down, drinking deeply. His wife lay still.
Johnny watched the scene from the stairway, unnoticed. He shook with both fear and rage, but knew better than to speak out. There was no way he could take this for much longer. Being stuck here, in this hell-hole was driving him to the point of suicide, and he knew it. He had to get away, and soon.
And this home, this enviroment, this whole dirty, crumbling place, is where our story begins.