chapter one
My apartment was, by no means, "cozy." Just small. For the rent I was paying, it wasn't bad, but still – I could cross the room with seven or eight steps. All there was room for (or that I could afford) were a couple of chairs around a cheap wooden table that currently served as my office desk, a decent-sized TV with my beloved Nintendo 64 (oldschool is hardcore) attached, and a futon with a pleasing-to-the-eye sky blue spread on which I: a) spent hard gaming hours, b) masturbated, c) slept, or d) all of the above.
The lack of furniture or items to garnish the bare walls (it didn't even have wallpaper, for god's sake) created a bit of a cold feel; nonetheless, this was what I called home. The hardwood floors creaked slightly under my feet as I approached the bathroom, eyes sliding around the room as if I was afraid someone was going to pop out at me from the semi-darkness and sink a dagger into my chest.
Hey, I had good enough reason to be afraid. This was New York City.
I walked in, left the door open. Stared at myself dully in the mirror. Hell, how could I still look that good after making my way through the goddamn subway? With the pushy people in those crowds, you could go in fresh out of the salon and come out looking fresh out of the alleyway. My hair might have been a little ruffled, but otherwise I looked fine. Silently I popped the gauges out of my ears and laid them on the counter, ready for another day of guiding lost souls to their stupid emo bands. "Fall Out Boy? That'd be in the 'F' section of rock/pop, ma'am. Over there, after the 'E' section." It's not rocket science, people.
Yeah, I worked in a CD store. FYE. Hey, it was the only place I could dress the way I liked and get away with listening to perfectly good (albeit a little overdramatic) music. I wasn't particularly fond of the whole wrist-slitting, blood tear-crying emo scene, but it was the best I could do. I dressed a lot like 'em, actually, what with my black ensemble of a tight-fitting tee, belt with its buckle off to the side, slightly skinny jeans, and various arm/wrist bands – didn't mean I acted like the fuckers. If you ever see Uchiha Sasuke walking down the sidewalk with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a hoodie shadowing his face, and his eyes glued to the ground, you better run like hell 'cuz the Apocalypse is upon us.
Nevertheless, I put up with the overdramatic bastards every day for the minimum wage that got me this dingy apartment. I would've gotten something better-paying, of course, if I could; but what well-paying job would take an eighteen-year-old kid with a nothing but a high school diploma?
I suppose I should have applied for college a while ago. My teachers used to say I had "potential" to get in somewhere awesome what with my good grades and all, but I had been offered no scholarships and tuition was just too much. Besides, how could I afford a dorm/put up with a likely assholish roommate/be able to still keep my apartment even though I wasn't living in it – all while paying for the stuff I did now, like food and toiletries and other necessary household items? I sighed. Looks like college was out of the question.
Wellll, I always did have that bank account my parents used to have that I just recently gained access to thanks to my coming of age... But I'd been saving that for emergencies, like if I got evicted or had to up and leave in a matter of minutes (hey, it wasn't my fault my entire life was centered on an ambition that would likely get me the death sentence).
...I guess you could call this an emergency: I was barely making enough money to pay for a cramped little apartment, my breakfast and dinner both consisted of some kind of fruit (or cold pizza if I was lucky), and my lunch was nonexistent; still, I didn't even know how much I'd have left to pay for my apartment and all that. Would I even have time to work on the weekends? Then I'd make even less... Damn. I didn't even know how much was in that bank account – could it support me for two years without me having to bleed it dry?
Well, I suppose, things have to get worse before they get better. And
if I continued this lifestyle, I'd spiral down until I ended up on the streets.
So, college it was.
Now the question was: which one?
I had a few options. I couldn't afford to travel, so it'd have to
be around here. There was always the state university, but private colleges are sometimes better...and it'd be harder to get in since everyone applies to the state.
I guess I should first decide what I wanted to major in. I honestly hadn't given that much thought to where I saw myself for the rest of my life: I'd always had a talent for writing, but freelance writers don't make much and I couldn't rely on one book... Video game tester? Nah, I can't stand those new consoles... Actor? Then everyone would know I was gay.
Maybe I should just go with what I was best at. Besides, I'm already used to hanging from one measly paycheck to the next...being a freelance writer or a creative poet might not be so bad. It might be a little dangerous to have people know your name when your very reason for living is to murder, but I could get an alias. Not like anyone would recognize my style if I started publishing again in England or somewhere, anyway. It would help if I majored in English, right? It'd look good on my resume...yeah. I'd go for English.
Once my various wristbands and spiked bracelets lie on the counter and my hair was fixed, I made my way back to the living room and settled myself at my desk. I pulled my laptop closer and pressed fingers to the keys, deep in thought. I wouldn't work tomorrow, so I could afford to stay up tonight and do some research. Within twelve hours' time, I would know where I was going to spend my next two years as a teen. I glanced at the digital clock resting on top of the TV: five minutes to midnight.
Hello, the first day of the rest of my life.
