Authors note: Now we are totally getting to the part of the story that calls for a T rating.
Sophomore year started generally pleasant. Roger, much to many people's surprise, was actually able to pull off balancing A.P. classes, his newly formed band, and his part-time job. He even found time for a girlfriend, Jolene Andreas, a girl in his AP chemistry class. Paradise was a sweet place indeed. Paradise, however, came crashing down around Roger one night, and the nightmare began.
Roger was on his way home from a late practice, having been setting for a concert the band was giving on Saturday. He frowned when he reached his street, smelling the alcohol in the air. He sighed. 'Anyone else,' he told himself, 'anyone sane, would crash at a friend's house tonight. I guess I take after her more than I thought. I'm going in.' He pushed open the door, nearly gagging on the stench in the air. Charlene was sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by empty whiskey bottles, half-smokes joints, and a hypodermic needle-with drugs still in it. Roger just glared at her. "Getting clean, huh? You certainly aren't trying very hard." Charlene struggled to her feet. "Young man," she slurred at him. Roger started for the stairs. "I'm crashing at Mark's tonight. You are disgusting, and I don't want to be anywhere near you." He started up the staircase, but his mother's backhand caught him across the mouth. She swung again, this time landing a hard, awkward punch on his chest. Roger staggered backwards, then swung defensively, hitting Charlene on the shoulder. The fight went on for nearly on hour before Charlene passed out, dead drunk. Roger glared at his mother for a moment, the limped upstairs and collapsed on his bed.
The next morning, Roger slipped out of the house before Charlene came to, making sure to grab the Fender. He limped his way to Mark's place, ringing the bell. Mark's mother answered. "Roger! You're early. Mark's not even awake yet!" Roger didn't smile. "Sorry. Can I come in? I think I must've busted my knee when I tripped at practice last night. It's really bugging me." Mrs. Cohen helped him limp to the couch. "Let me see it," she commanded. She examined it. "It's swollen, and very bruised, but it should heal in a few days. Let me go wake Mark, and I'll give you both a ride to school. You just stay right there on the couch." About that time, Mark poked his head downstairs, yawning, but dressed. "Hey, Rog. You're early. How come?" Roger smiled a bit, winching. "No reason. Hey, um, Mrs. Cohen? Could I steal something from the kitchen. I thought it was way later than it was, so I didn't eat before leaving." Mark's mother glanced at the clock. "Tell you boys what. You've got an hour to kill, so how about I make a nice, home cooked meal. Bacon and eggs sound good?" Roger nodded. "Thanks, Mrs. Cohen." Mrs. Cohen smiled at them. "Of course."