It was raining very hard and Christian didn't wanna get his pills wet so he looked for shelter.
He went into an alley and saw something familiar. In black spray paint "Gloria" was written. The rest of the message was fading. Christian looked at it and started to feel horrible. "Never forget," he mumbled to himself.
He shook the jar of pills he was carrying. Nothing left.
Dammit, he thought. He had to break into a pharmacy. He took a brick and looked for one close.
He found some random pharmacy and broke in. When he got the pills he wondered why he was doing this. I got some kinda disease, he decided, my whole life is a disease. It's terrible and painful and it doesn't get better. Why is there this pain and void without these goddamn pills?
He hated himself for letting this happen. Why didn't I take my gun before I left? At least then I could blast my brains out!, he thought. He wanted to forget everything.
Pills, wonderful pills!, Christian thought sarcastically and swallowed a mere amount of two. He was trying to be smart and save them, the cops were faster now and better with a gun. He really hated this side of himself; his junkie side. He always wanted to run away from it but, Lord knows no matter how hard he tried to get away, he couldn't.
He had to get back to the alley before the cops came. When you live a life on the street you need to be on your toes. You never know what could be waiting to kill you out there. And oh, the meds out there that could kill you! Stepping out of sanctuary is a matter of life and death. You could kill yourself without knowing it.
Anti-depressants, alcohol, cocaine, they all cured the same thing; a broken heart. A broken heart and insecurity. Christian knew this as well as he knew what he endured. He didn't know why, but all of the sudden he started feeling cocky.
And then it was gone. Instead of the good, gloat-able feeling he had, he felt even more insecurity and masochist. He remembered Gloria and hoped she was doing better than he was. He felt terrible that he screwed up her life as much as he did.
I'm sorry, Gloria your life would be much better if I didn't have one, he thought, but I'm gonna make it better.
Christian didn't know what to do. He didn't know where to go. He wanted to die. And then his mind went dead and he followed his feet. He found himself on the boulevard. It hadn't been cleaned up and scars from the riot were still there.
He lay down on the street and closed his eyes hoping he wouldn't need to open them again. Christian was woken up with a bitch slap to the face and "Wake up, dumb-ass" in a familiar voice. Jesus of Suburbia came to save him.
"Where am I?" Christian asked. He couldn't remember much more than names of friends and the person who died.
"Welcome to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams!" Jesus mockingly introduced the hell-hole. "I hated this place. Junkies would overdose and crawl here to die. People with real shitty lives brought a gun with one bullet and blasted their brains out here. Suicide pacts were started and fulfilled here. It's been that way for five years and people finally started to clean up the blood, heroin needles and such. I still look for people who are trying to die here. I guess that's why the riot had to start here." he paused before continuing. "This is where I found Jimmy's suicide note and a huge puddle of blood but some bastard took his gun! All I had left of probably my only friend and it was fucking stolen!"
Jimmy. The name sounded familiar. JIMMY! How could I forget? That poor bastard asked me to tell Jesus about him, Christian's memory came in like a flood.
"Jesus?" Christian started, not sure if chickening out was such a bad idea.
"What is it?"
"Jimmy didn't kill himself," he had to get the words out quickly. "He faked his death and became the leader of this group of people called the Underground and called himself James. He just died today," he took a drawing out of his pocket, he drew the carnage in hopes that it would be useful.
Jesus of Suburbia looked closely. The drawing wasn't that good but the dying guy as obviously Jimmy.