Work in Progress...

I wrote this story not too long ago, idk how it's going to end up, but I guess I just want a little constructive feedback on how it is so far. Yeah so... here goes.

Ch. 1

I’ll have you know that it was not my exact intention to write a sad, depressing, guilt-filled novel. But the simple fact remains: I did, in fact, write a sad, depressing, guilt-filled novel; therefore, I apologize whole-heartedly, which probably won’t happen very often.
You probably want to know my name. You probably want to know where I’m from. You probably want to know how I got myself into such a mess. I am here to tell you that I will merely explain the latter.
In considering my desperate situation, one would come across far too many gaps and loopholes within the evidence. You see, I was very careful in covering up my tracks. I only killed when it was absolutely necessary, which was often. I found that the ways in which one could sadistically kill a fellow human being were painfully limited. I wanted more pain, more blood, more death. My boss just wanted money. Cold, hard cash, as they say in the movies. He was obsessed with it, and that unfortunate fascination led to some very, very, shall we say, unfortunate consequences. You probably think I killed him, and I won’t lie and say that I didn’t. Do you think I’m that stupid? Do you think I didn’t want the fame and glory? Can you even fathom how deleteriously fixated I was with his demise? Yes, I said fixated. Long ago, I thought to myself, how would I kill him? Yes, my friends, this was the big question. The one where you would win millions of dollars and a red convertible. Only my reward would be much greater than that, oh yes. My prize would be much better than a red convertible. That prize was small compared to what I would get. Miniscule even, minute. Where? How? Why? How difficult would it be? I thought with desperation, because the suspense was killing me. But I wouldn’t be dead at the end of the night, now would I? He would be dead.

He always got everything. The sex, the cars, the booze, the money, the drugs. Everything was his, but soon, very soon, everything would be mine. I would be the boss, the head, the leader. Who would direct everything, every last nickel, dime, and quarter? Me. Who would make friends with the gangsters at the top of the ****ing line? Me. I would do it all.
At first I thought it was the heroin. For a short time it had quenched my thirst, but somehow I always wanted more. Every single time I came down off the drug I had a wanting, needing feeling. I knew I was capable of anything with the opiates in my system. I liked living on the edge, feeling that icy liquid pulsing through my veins. It never got old, oh no. When you were on the verge of plummeting into a pit of black, you knew it was just the beginning. That initial rush was always enough to do it for me. I was free, I was weightless, I could do anything. All of my senses awakened at the very smell of the glittering powder melting in the tarnished spoon. My lucky spoon. But the final injection was the best part. I had always had a certain infatuation with needles, and the heroin only amplified the feeling, and it was a stronger, better high. Or so I thought.
Then there was cocaine. I had only heard about this magical drug, being the sheltered mobster I was. The big boys talked about it constantly. I kept pushing the envelope with heroin, but it was getting me nowhere. Cocaine. I had to try it. And they say, once you try it, you’re hooked. I tried. And I was hooked, of course. I wasn’t about to smoke crack, oh no. I had to have the most expensive drug on the market. I got a different kind of high with cocaine. Heroin sharpened my senses a little bit and got the gears working; cocaine, on the other hand, made me feel like I knew just about everything. And oh, did I like that feeling. I liked it a lot. So, I carried a little mirror in my pocket, a switchblade, and always, a vial full of white powder, just in case. The first couple of months were heaven. I felt on top of the world. I could never, ever come down. Never. And if I did, I went right back up. And there was never a shortage of anything, for that matter. As long as people were willing to buy cocaine, other people, who seemed like gods in my eyes, were willing to make it.

I didn’t know how they actually made it, and I didn’t know what the hell was in it. And I can’t say I cared in the very least. What I did know was that it was some damn good shit. I was invincible. Nothing in the world could knock me down. When he tried to bring me down off the roller coaster, I started planning my escape, and his final resting place, or places, as I like to say. So few of us actually go to the morgue with all our precious body parts still intact.

Ch. 2

“Get in the ****ing truck,” he said.
Those words changed my life forever. No, not the words themselves, the tone of the words. They came from a man who was as ugly as he was insane. Mr. Dubya, as we called him, or Mr. Washington to his fellow upperclassmen, was my boss. Was. My boss. He is dead now, as you know, and with all luck shall remain that way in the years to come. He was the most cynical, block-headed, worthless piece of shit I had ever met. But in all actuality, he was my boss. The boss, to be exact. And when those five words came out of his sneering mouth, something came alive inside of me.
“Get in the ****ing truck,” he said, and spat on the ground near my skull, “get in the truck before I cut off something.”
And this was code for: “I’ll cut off something you’ll dearly miss for eternity and the rest of your miserable life.” And he would. He had before, oh yes. I always wondered why most of my ‘colleagues’ had fingers missing. Or pieces of their long noses. Or arms, for that matter. I, on the other hand, wanted to wake up tomorrow morning with ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and my limbs still attached to my body. And so I said:
“Yes, sir.”
He kicked me, hard, and on the leg. I winced, but he did not see the expression on my face because I was lying face down in the mud.

He kicked me again, this time on my side. He was testing me.
“You like that, don’t you, you little scumbag,” he said, “I bet you like that a lot.”
I nodded into the mud.
“Yeah, wise guy? Well, I’m feeling generous today. And you know what that means, don’t you boys?”
The gang members were crowded around me in a circle. They laughed and their bodies rocked back and forth.
“What happens when I feel generous?” He said.
They stopped laughing and some glanced at the ground.
“You… give out candy?” Said one guy with a patch over his eye. Plucked out, no doubt.
They all giggled.
“NO!” He barked, “I don’t have time for this bullshit and I definitely don’t give out ****ing candy to you cunts!”
It started raining, and the boys were silent.
He started pacing around my body, his footprints making large valleys in the slush. He looked at each one of the goons straight in the face until their eyes were forced to the ground. He deliberately stepped on their feet and spat on the ground in front of them. He stopped pacing.
“You should all know by now. And I know you know, you’re all just too damn pussy to say a goddamn word. You all know what I do when I’m feeling generous, don’t you boys?” He spat, “And you’ve all gone through it. Time. After. Time.”
They nodded through the drizzle.
“Yes, yes. You’re all grown men. SO START BEHAVING LIKE IT!”
With that he kicked me hard in the skull. I felt as if my head was caving in, and the pain made me go dizzy. I rolled over on my side, moaning.
“You like that? You like that, mister wise guy? Do you?”
He kicked me again. I tasted blood mixed in with the specks of dirt already in my mouth. I was swooning.

“I sure hope you like it. I hope you like it a lot. Now get up, you measly piece of shit. Get up so I can take a good, long look at you.”
I couldn’t. I clutched my head with both of my hands and managed to sit up. I wobbled and fell over, into the disgusting wet earth.
“I said, GET UP!”
Rage, rage. The pain in my head was almost unbearable. There was an acidic taste in my mouth. I had vomited. I could smell it. It was nauseating.
Then they all began to laugh. First it was a small chuckle, like something a seventh grader does in the back of a math classroom. Then it became a huge, echoing sound. My ears rang. He raised his finger and the laughing ceased.
“Can’t you get up? Do you want me to get a stretcher? Or are you capable of standing on your own?” He said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “This, ladies, is what will happen. You’ve all seen it before, you’ll all see it again. And everyone has to go through it. This kid lying before you cannot or will not get up. And there will be consequences, mark my words.”
There was a buzzing noise inside of my head, but then, it wasn’t inside of my head. I didn’t understand. My brain was so full of muck that I couldn’t see through the red haze. I could feel the blood pulsating through my veins. But what was that cacophony? I saw lights. Red lights, blue lights. Sirens. Sirens in the distance.
“Get in the ****ing truck! NOW!”
I heard him. He was in my head, but he wasn’t talking to me. At least I didn’t think he was. His voice was far off and I tried to ignore it. I heard a door slam and someone floor a van. Tires squelching through the mud. It sped off, leaving me behind, covered in shit. Covered in wet slime. Disgusting.
I float in and out of consciousness. It’s like heroin, all over again. But there’s pain all over. Pain in my head, back, chest, arms, legs. Pain. Everywhere.

When the ambulance pulled up, the sound just drowned me. I felt like I was dying. My brain shut off for a few seconds. But I pulled out of it, like a tortured soul coming to the surface of an icy, dark pond. They did have a stretcher, but I didn’t mind. I had had enough for one night. Enough bullshit. They shoved me into the white van. I was covered in white sheets, the walls were white, the people where white. They’re faces drifted in and out, in and out. Sometimes blurry, sometimes clear. I shut my eyes and tried to block it all out. I felt an all-too-familiar pinch in my forearm. My eyes opened, and my vision was clear for once. Needles. Oh, those were the days, I thought. The IV cord was even white, taped to my skin with white bandages. White liquid flowing through white tubes. Someone was going through my pockets. No, my brain yelled, they can’t know who I am! They just… but they did.
“Aha,” cried the medic, “I’ve found some sort of ID.”
The van was moving. The white van. The white tubes. I was out again. But the pain, the pain. Someone was squeezing my arm, “Don’t fall asleep. Try your best to stay awake.”
Stay awake. Stay awake.
“Riley Anne McCoy. 5 feet 7 inches. 19 years of age. 115 pounds,” the medic said, “a woman.”

Uh, this is depressing mood but interesting.

I promise it will have a happy ending! 😕 😱