Hi! Here's my second fanfic ever, AI themed of course. It's about how St Jimmy became St Jimmy and how eerily similar his story is to Johnny's. Disclaimer: If you think I own any of this, you're clearly even newer to fanfiction than I am.
Sitting alone in my room with the curtains drawn, I eyed my reflection in the mirror on the back of my door, taking in every inch of my jagged figure, living in this city for the dead, left behind while my parents jetted off to do whatever the fuck they wanted. I personally couldn't care any less. I had always been something of a loner, preferring general desolation over the company of people and their never-ending strings of problem upon problem. Between my overall cadaverous appearance and blatant disregard for people and their feelings and shit, I was never the most popular kid in a room, though I never had a burning desire to be, either. I had always laughed to myself at people who gave a shit- it was funny to see their constant struggle to be the best as though the world were some drunk-off-its-ass reality show. I, personally, gave a shit not to give a shit. I was well aware that my appearance was far from perfect, but I could have cared a whole hell of a lot less. I had honestly never believed I had any redeeming characteristics at all, save for the fact that in the rare event that I chose to talk to people, they would listen. Far as I had seen, this had never held any true value as I'm allusive as fuck and find my thoughts to be much more comforting than any words. Lost in thought, I let my brain check out and drifted off, not even bothering to turn off the Sex Pistols CD in my stereo.
God knows how much later, I rolled over and woke up, trying desperately to pull myself back down into the realm of sleep. I shoved my head under my pillow and forced my eyes shut, willing my brain to shut the fuck up so I could doze back off. I glanced over at my alarm clock, squinting to make out the tiny red numbers with which it taunted me. The cracked display read 2:46, the colon blinking in broken, syncopated time with my erratic heartbeat. God Save The Queen faded into radio feedback in the background as I hauled my ass out of bed and shuffled over to the window, lighting a cigarette and taking periodical drags, blowing smoke out of one of the old window's many cracks and into the darkness. Sibylline shadows sulked around the street outside, taunting me for cooped up inside my hermetic room. They beckoned me outside to a world outside this dystopian suburbia, begging me to leave what little I had behind.
I was about to crawl back in bed when I was struck with the painful realization that my home was my enemy. Daring myself to break the silence, I muttered various obscenities under my breath but didn't move. I sat down in the middle of my clothes-covered floor, unwilling to move or think or speak to no one in particular. I sat, watching as the digital figures on my clock slowly became greater and greater, taunting me with the passing of my life. I finally stood up and grabbed my gym bag off my dresser, not saying a word but silently cursing the world. I tossed various items of clothing into the open mouth of the ratty bag, not really caring what I brought but knowing somewhere in the back of my mind I might need it later. I threw on a pair of nearly destroyed inky jeans, pulled a midnight tank top over my pallid back, and grabbed my single black hoodie. I began to tiptoe to my parent's bedroom before realizing that they weren't there- I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to. Allowing my breathing to go back to normal, I snuck into my mother's bureau and grabbed one of her various eyeliner pencils. How a girl could need so many of the same thing I would never understand. Squinting into the ornate mirror atop the antique chest of drawers, I lined my narrow eyes with heavy black rings, proclaiming that I wasn't messing around. I ran my hand through my messy hair, creating multiple tiny spikes all over my head. I was in desperate need of a shower, but I was in even more desperate need of a ticket out of here.
Grabbing a wad of $20 dollar bills from my mom's "emergency only" stash in the bottom drawer of her bureau as well as the keys to my beat-up '87 Yugo, I headed out the door without even bothering to leave a note to my parents telling them where I was going. I knew as a fact they wouldn't care- they had pretty much neglected me since I was twelve and old enough to stay home alone, hopping last-minute flights to exotic and luxurious locations they could dubiously afford. They usually came back totally shit-faced, spending the days following their trips hungover before repeating the process, boarding the next available flight to Southern Bumblefuck. I sometimes wondered if they forgot they had a kid- I was often forced to steal from my mom's emergency cash stash in her bureau in order to buy food. I had also made it a regular habit to steal a hot dog here or there from my local 7-11- I had memorized every employee's graveyard shift and identified which ones tended to fall asleep or at the very least, not care. I was often ridiculed for being as emaciated as I was, but in all honesty I lacked the time or money for food in general. I had made a habit of heating up a bowl of ramen every two days or so, picking at it when my hunger distracted me from my usual agenda, and leave it to continue working on until I ran out. Food was never really my thing. My parents never bothered to cook for me. Whereas most kids would take advantage of this opportunity to hone their culinary skills, I chose to adapt by subsisting solely off of what I could mack from 7-11. I'm really not one to scapegoat, but my parents really are at blame for my insubordinance.
I shivered, having no body mass to speak of and requiring the little protection from my warn-out hoodie to keep me warm. I uncrossed my gaunt arms and shoved my key into the ignition, turning it and gunning the engine. Pulling out of our narrow driveway, I sat in silence and headed for nowhere in particular. I was several miles away from Murder City but could make it before morning if I really tried. I zoned out, staring blankly at the long expanse of road in front of me, anticipating any minor miracles that might cause dawn to come a little quicker.
When the sun rose from behind the horizon that morning, I could see the jagged outlines of Murder City's many grimy towers. I pulled my Yugo to the side of the road and got out, standing dead in the middle of the path less travelled. I threw my arms to the sky and proclaimed the loss of my old identity. I was no longer silent, decrepit James. I was now the powerful, eratic, devoid-of-emotion St Jimmy.