A/N: I wrote Cherry Soda Boy is officially 15 years old (from when I started it). A lot has happen in 15 years and my writing style has (hopefully) improved. Now at 32, I decided to revisit the first story I ever finished. And boy howdy, was that a problematic piece of work. I had always intended on re-writing this story as an original (and change A LOT), but with the remake out- that I finished- I decided to give my favorite pairing one more go around. For new comers who did not read the original, this is an AU. It takes place in my hometown of Staten Island, New York. Some of the language used is troubling, and can be potentially triggering. I will try to be good on trigger warnings, but if anyone finds I miss something, do not hesitate to let me know. This is a glimpse into the troubling drug culture that really boomed in 2004, when I was a junior in High School. This also places a magnifying glass on the ignorance and hypocrisy associated with people from Staten Island.

TLDR; I'm gonna shit all over my hometown and use Cloud and Reno to help me.

Cherry Soda Boy

Chapter One: God of Scapegoats

My generation was forged from the ashes of the New York Skyline. Fractured. Broken, We came of age in an era of abundance and innovation, and barely after the panic of Y2K had subsided, the world was three thousand lives lighter-and the safety and security we as Americans had long taken for granted was violently stripped away, leaving its youth the most vulnerable. The future that had once been certain was now a dimly lit dream.

I could die at any moment.

My fate was not in my control.

A mad man with a fetish for flames could set this rock on fire, and all that religion, and politics, and money would do nothing to keep us from returning to ash.

Maybe that's why we turned towards anarchy-a complete disregard for our own mortality.

We were a generation that lacked morals and conviction. Raised by pixelated parents, whose blue rays of hope numbed us. While the wraiths that created us scurried through, weary eyed, and half drunk off the weight of the world, and barely attempting to curve our growing apathy.

But they had their blame game.

So we had no responsibilities.

My friend would argue that I am too much of a pessimist and I would argue that word is too light to describe me.

Fatalistic.

I never apologized for it either.

My parents couldn't possibly understand this language I spewed, and I never tried to translate my motives.

"You can't help someone who won't help themselves."

If I had a nickle…

You can't help someone who acts without reason. Or maybe you can. My therapist thought she could with blue pills.

"You're anxious."

Uh. Fucking Duh?

The whole damn world was teetering on global destruction. The movies were real. And everybody is scrambling to make sure they aren't one of the red shirts. Chaos. Burning our flag next to the bodies, calling for our annihilation- because they "hate our freedom"? "Extremist.
"In the name of their god." I have to be afraid of air travel, and my own city, and anyone who looks different.

But that's not why I did it.

It was the perfect scapegoat through. My Azazel.

And now I have no responsibility.

My life, the only thing I could control.

Not my neighbors. My parents. My peers. Or the actions of my government. I couldn't even control my emotions. Couldn't drown them in cheap poison. Push them on to the back burner and turn up the heat. Melt them like they were something tangible.

It didn't go according to plan, but nothing ever does. Like a collapsing building, I made too much noise when I hit the ground. And I didn't have the balls to cut deep enough.

But I traded enough blood for exemption. So in a way I got what I wanted in the end. Pumped with enough chemicals, I no longer cared about the world spontaneously exploding. Or what my neighbors thought of me. I didn't care about the girl who overdosed on my sixteenth birthday. Even less about myself or the consequences of my reckless actions. And I had two pretty scars on my wrists that I could hide behind.

And as I approached my junior year with these half-baked accusations, I'm forced to wonder if there is even a point.

Why am I alive?