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Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts, or the characters. Just my computer.
Chapter 1
Note: (I figured I should add it in here, because most people probably don't read the part at the top.) This story is based off Axel's point of view, and it begins to unravel some of the mystery surrounding him and his past, and the reason for his move.
Xxx
I cut myself shaving the other day. Just a nick. For the whole day I was agitated. Jumpy. I couldn't sit still, I couldn't concentrate. I felt sick. I felt angry. Roxas kept looking at me. I could see he was disturbed. It took us a whole day to figure it out. Aftershave. There was alcohol in aftershave. I was craving. And I've been clean of street drugs for about 2 years.
I couldn't do this. I couldn't write this stupid thing. I'd stared at the same sheet of paper for the past half an hour. As blank as my mind. As white as a line of cocaine.
My mother had insisted I see a psychologist, who in turn insisted that I keep a journal. 'To keep me on track,' she'd said.
I'd told her I didn't have anything to write about, so she suggested I write about my childhood. Tch. I was so high most of the time; I didn't remember half of it.
But I should start at the beginning.
Trouble is, I've had so many beginnings, it had become hard to pinpoint to the one that led me here.
This is how it went, full circle.
Hi my name is Axel.
I'm a drug addict.
Been there. Seen the T-shirt. Done the rehab tour.
We all know where this is going; admit it, its one big yawn.
Let's examine: stable two-parent, two-sibling home, private schools, everything that opens and shuts, timeshares overseas, satellite TV.
Surprised? Sure, you may not trip over the rich kids in the gutters first time around, but they're certainly found underfoot in the rehab centres that stretch their parents' medical aid to the limit.
What can I say; I got involved with the wrong crowd? Hell, I was the wrong crowd.
I guess it all came down to the fact that Mommy and Daddy-dearest never paid much attention to poor little Axel. So he found a way to entertain himself. Attention-seeking bastard. Good excuse, though.
The funny thing is, the first time you try (be it cigarettes, alcohol, weed) nothing happens. Maybe I'm not doing it right. Maybe I'm inhaling wrong. It's quite boring, really. Disappointing, even. It's all so gentle and mild, compared to what the ex-druggies from the Drug Awareness Campaign tell you, when they parade around your school. The exaggeration is ridiculous. They're just trying to scare you. The hand-on-the-hot-stove routine.
Rather believe what the Rasta's say. It's natural. It's a herb. God made it. It's peaceful. How bad is that for a philosophy? Besides, you know you can do this and not get addicted.
Don't you?
Of course you do. Just like you know you can stop.
Any time you want.
Xxx
Story of my life. Not quite sure how it ends, though I'm pretty sure it's not with 'happily ever after.' And let me tell you, it's not cool. It's not cool to be Axel.
Xxx
And so it came to be that I moved to Twilight Town. My uncle kicked the bucket, and my mother sweet-talked him into leaving me the house. My theory was that they wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible, without a guilty conscience. It suited me just fine. I'd finish school, and become one of those depressive, statement-artists you find in the streets of Monte-Marte. Naminé said I was crazy, so I told her to piss off and go play dollies. Poor kid, so naïve. I never walked her to school, or helped her with homework. I never taught her to throw a ball, or to swim, or any of that 'official big-brother' crap. I taught her something far more important. I taught her how to lie, how to manipulate. I was the master, and she was my protégé. Too bad, she never did catch on. I'd just have to find another victim. I mean volunteer. Really.
She'd made a friend. Foxy Roxy, Larxene called him. Larxene. That girl was something else.
Back on topic-Foxy Roxy. Roxas. Cute kid. More mature than the snot-nosed ankle-biters he hung around. Demyx had taken a definite liking to him, mostly because of his taste in music. Demyx loved his music, like I loved my fire and drugs. He had told me once that his sitar was made out of the finest polished Mahogany. I'd told him that wood burned nicely.
He'd sat with us at lunch, the other day. Roxas, I mean. It was pleasant enough. As I said, he's a nice kid. Good kid. I think he noticed me cringe when Marluxia took out his weed supply. I was so close to murdering him, and making it look like an accident. He knew I was trying to get clean. My heart said no, my head said let's go, my buddies were watching me…
The further you get into drugging, the more blurred the lines of reason and self-deception become.
I'd convinced myself that it was only for show. I didn't really want it. I could have declined it, just like Roxas did, if I'd wanted to.
The only advice you'll ever take is from yourself, and let me tell you, it's not an intellectual conversation. Your mind, however, will turn it into a debate, with voices trying to drown you out in your own head. Which one do you listen to? The one that says Don't do this? Or the one that says You can handle it?
I've had that debate with myself many times.
I inhaled deeply. The smoke seemed to calm me, along with the voices.
The professor suspected something, but as I said, I was the Master of Deceit.
Sitting too close to the TV, sir.
Too much chlorine, sir.
Got an infection, sir, pink eye. Don't come too close, sir, my mom said it's contagious.
Sir? No, I'm fine, sir. Really.
Xxx
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