Trigger Warning:

This chapter contains themes of child neglect, abuse, sexual violence(only mentioned briefly), drug use, and suicidal ideation. Reader discretion is advised. If you find these topics distressing, please proceed with caution or consider skipping this section. Your well-being matters.

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Seven Years Ago

Living is tedious.

I hate my life—my existence.

Even though my mum never says it out loud, I know she wishes I was never born.

I'm the one no one wants, the dirt by the side of the road.

I'm used to it—this endless, mind-numbing cycle of disappointment called life.

The only time I feel anything close to alive is when I chase that high—that fleeting moment of release.

Drugs give me that.

Pathetic.

I'm an addict, just like my mother.

I was never a saint—far from it.

I sold my body for drugs.

I don't need pity.

I never cared much about it, anyway. In a twisted way, I appreciated that there were people out there who weren't repulsed by me. People who wanted me enough to pay ridiculous amounts of money.

Sure, they were perverted assholes who got off on young, innocent-looking boys.

But to them, I was worth something.

I used velvet for the first time when I was fourteen. It was my mum's.

My mum—a Taiwanese immigrant—came to America chasing the so-called American Dream.

What a load of bullshit.

She was brought here and with no other options left resorted to work in a brothel.

One of the men that visited the brothel got her pregnant, which is how I came to be.

Mum made sure I knew I could not be a burden to her the moment I was old enough to understand those words.

I was raised in a brothel.

I saw the disgusting nature of men and women alike.

On my fourteenth birthday, a customer who was into some weird BDSM shit visited my mums room and promised to pay a heavy sum only if my mum would let him do whatever he wanted.

My mum almost lost her life that day and when I tried to break into the room to save her, I was beaten and raped by the brothel masters for insubordination.

Some birthday I had. I spent it cleaning my mum and dressing her wounds, ignoring mine completely. I saw the pill discarded on the dirty floor and took it.

For the first time in my life, I didn't feel anything.

No pain. No sadness. No anger.

Just... nothing.

I loved it.

The demons in my head were quiet, their voices drowned in the numbing haze of velvet.

That day, I learned two things.

First, to feel somewhat okay, I needed those pills.

Second, to get them, I needed money-money I could easily make by throwing away whatever pride I didn't deserve to have and selling myself, just like my mother, to the patrons at the brothel.

Mum didn't care, so long as I gave her a cut.

I wondered when this cycle of disappointments would end.

The thought of ending it myself plagued me every day.

Would Mum cry?

Would she even care?

I doubted it.

I took a blade and made a small nick on my wrist, watching in fascination as the blood trickled down.

Maybe that was too grim.

Now, I stood on the edge of the school's rooftop, my hands gripping the cold metal railing as I climbed over it, stretching one leg into the open air.

The school had a flat rooftop, surrounded by waist-high metal bars, with a few old benches and a small water tank in the corner. It was the kind of place where students snuck away to smoke, fight, or escape reality for a while.

I had taken three velvets, so I was hazed beyond control. My head was spinning.

Would it be easier to just let go?

One second of peace before everything went dark.

The adrenaline would hit first, a rush of weightlessness, the wind slapping my face
-then nothing.

I leaned forward.

And just as I was about to let myself go, a voice cut through the haze.

"Are you going to do it?"

I whipped around.

A boy stood a few feet away, watching me with unreadable eyes. He looked around my age.

Expressionless. Detached.

I tightened my grip on the railing. "Don't try to stop me."

His gaze didn't waver. "Why would I?"

I blinked. "What?"

"If you're going to do it, you should do it now. I can push you if you're too afraid to jump."

I stared at him. "Is this some kind of joke?
Reverse therapy?"

Before I could process it, he took a step forward-and pushed me.

For a split second, my mind went blank.

My body lurched backward, air whooshing past me, the ground blurring below.

Instinct kicked in, and I reached out blindly, fingers gripping. I clung to whatever I could, my heart slamming against my ribs as my body dangled over the edge.

"What the fuck?! You psycho-are you trying to kill me?!"

He tilted his head, looking genuinely confused. "I thought you wanted to die. Was this all for show, then?"

"What kind of freak are you?!" I gritted my teeth. My fingers burned from gripping too tightly. "Pull me up. Now."

He watched me struggle for a few agonizing seconds before finally reaching out. With surprising strength, he hauled me back over the ledge.

The moment my feet touched solid ground, l lost it.

I shoved him, my body trembling.

"You psycho! You idiot! You-annoying bastard! You-You-" My voice cracked as angry tears burned my eyes. I ran out of words, frustration and adrenaline mixing into a choking mess in my throat.

"Are you done?" he asked, still watching me with those cold, emotionless eyes.

He looked bored. Confused, even. Like he was trying to figure me out.

"No, I'm not done, you psycho!" I snapped between ragged breaths.

He sighed. "I don't mind name-calling, but could you stop calling me a psycho?"

That was the first time I saw a flicker of emotion in his face-though I couldn't decipher what it was.

Who was he?

"Who are you?" I asked, sniffling, wishing I had a tissue.

Instead of answering, he asked, "Why come here if you don't want to die?"

Anger flared in my chest. I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

His hand was cold against my skin, sending a shiver through me.

"I'm really trying to understand," he said, his voice softer now. "Was this some sort of cry for attention?"

I sucked in a sharp breath.

"I don't know."

Why did I come up here every day, standing on this ledge, knowing l'd never go through with it?

Under his scrutinizing gaze, I felt exposed. Naked.

Was he right?

Was this just a cry for attention?

Did I come here hoping-desperately, stupidly-that someone would take my hand and save me?

And even though this psycho pushed me... why did I feel like he saved me?

In his presence, under his gaze, I didn't feel like garbage.

He was looking at me, but there was no contempt. No disgust. No hidden motives.

Nothing.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
"If you guys don't even understand yourselves, how could I ever hope to understand?"

Before I could ask what the hell he meant, the rooftop door swung open.

I turned-and locked eyes with Jamie.

His expression shifted to shock, his gaze darting between me and the stranger still gripping my wrist.

Great.

This looked bad.

"Mark?" Jamie's voice was cautious, uncertain.

The stranger-Mark, apparently-turned to him. "Is Charlie ready?"

Jamie nodded slowly, still watching me like I might shatter.

I rolled my eyes.

Don't worry, you psycho. I didn't spill any of your disgusting secrets.

"You okay?" Jamie asked, gesturing between us.

Mark shrugged. "Yeah. Let's get out of here."

With that, he walked to the door, Jamie following hesitantly.

But before leaving, Mark stopped.

He let out another sigh, then reached into his pocket.

A second later, a small box of pocket wipes flew toward me. I caught it, stunned.

He didn't say anything.

Didn't offer an explanation.

He just walked away.

I watched them go, then looked down at the wipes in my hand.

Mark.

That was his name.

Authors note:
We got a first inkling into Josh's head. What do we think? Too dark? 👀
Word count: 1433 words