I stare at the note she left me, for the thousandth time. Contemplating what I’d done wrong. How I’d scared her away. Why the fuck she left me.

This is morning
That's when I spend the most time
Thinking 'bout what I've given up
This is a warning
When you start the day just to close the curtains
You're thinking 'bout what I've given up…

Not realizing that I’d gone, I ran all the way to my soccer game, bag over my shoulder and bouncing against my back. Everything was a daze. I scored a goal from the half-line, and didn’t realize it. Everything was covered in this hazy film. Nothing made any sense.

A week later, and I was failing worse than I’d ever been, earlier in life. I had a solid ten percent in my math class, and I didn’t even want to know my physics grade. Nothing really mattered to me, though. Not now that she was gone.

I realize it sounds sappy, and unrealistic. But let me tell you something about myself.

My whole life, I’ve been scaring people away. Losing people. Angst isn’t my style, but now I don’t really think I can avoid it. I could deal with watching my dad beat my mom. I could almost deal with him killing her, because I ran away during the worst of it. Ran all the way to her house. That was almost ten years ago, though. Since then, I’ve been thrown from foster home to foster home, because I scared the families. “Too violent,” they said. “Too angry.” Bah. I could have been a million times worse. Especially since that was with the mood regulators.

Now though, I’ve lost my savings on bus tickets to look for her, and the foster family that I’ve been with for three years is very near to abandoning me. I can’t pay for my medications, so my fuse is dangerously frayed. I’ve been suspended six times in three months, and am threatened with expulsion: for beating people up.

My only vice is music.

Where are you now?
As I'm swimming through the stereo
I'm writing you a symphony of sound
Where are you now?
As I rearrange the songs again
This mix could burn a hole in anyone
But it was you I was thinking of…

I’d joined the cast of our school play; well, I’d tried out. Truthfully, I figured I wouldn’t get a part just because of my grades, and if that happened my fuse would definitely burn out. I needed a part. I needed to sing, and act, and be someone I wasn’t, because being who I truly was at the moment was much too painful, and causing too much collateral.

Skimming through that letter again, tracing a finger over the wet marks on it. I couldn’t remember which ones were there when I got it, and which ones I’d so graciously supplied by myself.

Suddenly, a throbbing pain shot up my arm, and I grimaced and whacked my knuckles into my mattress, hoping it would ease the pain. It didn’t. I need my pain medications; now. This was driving me crazier than I already knew I was, and I actually feared for the lives of those close to me.

I read your letter
The one you left when you broke into my house
Retracing every step you made
And you said you meant it
And there's a piece of me in every single
Second of every single day
But if it's true then tell me how it got this way…

Running down the stairs and sliding to a halt in front of a black wooden bench, I sat down in front of our…no, my grand piano. Aside from my guitar, that letter, a few textbooks, and two picture frames with my favorite photos in them, this was one of my only true belongings. The family had bought it to keep me from hurting their other foster children.

Which had worked out alright. It allowed me to vent my stress at the times that I needed to the most, and it got me a truly nice piano in the process. Also, they figured it would be cheap to maintain, since they’d bought me the tools to tune it also, and I had perfect pitch. No need to hire someone for help.

Back on track, though. Today: the piano didn’t help.

I ran out the door again before I could break a key or my hand.

Rain splattered my face, and plastered my orange hair to my tanned skin, like a helmet; uncomfortable, but you can‘t do anything about it. I’d forgotten to take a shirt with me, so the raindrops ran down my chest and stomach, trailing horizontally as they caught in ridged muscles. I ran for at least an hour, and I had no idea where. Slightly aware of what was around me, I slowed to a jog and looked around.

Where are you now?
As I'm swimming through the stereo
I'm writing you a symphony of sound
Where are you now?
As I rearrange the songs again
This mix could burn a hole in anyone
But it was you I was thinking of…

Trees. Vibrant green needles and leaves contrasting strangely against the grayed sky and whitish rain. All around me there were trees. Rocks all along the ground, making me thankful as to how my goddamned subconscious kept me from sprawling face first into the suction-like mud.

I knew where I was, now. These were Dani’s woods. Dani had always loved spending time out here. She’d spin in circles on the soft grass with her hair flying out around her shoulders, always covered with a thick sweatshirt in some bland color. Then she’d go flying to the ground when she couldn’t see straight anymore. She’d just lay there for a while afterward, her chest heaving with laughter as I’d sit down behind her and pop one of my pills, and run a hand through her hair.

Crying now. Or I most likely was, since I couldn’t really tell with the rain on my face. Then again, I was fairly certain, since thinking of her always made me cry nowadays. I couldn’t even say her name to people without breaking down into sobs, or hitting something as hard as I could and breaking a bone. So, I attempted to pull myself away from that train of thought before it crashed and burnt like mine usually do. It was already starting though, I could feel the heat of the flames from the accident, and the screaming of the panicked passengers.

Looking around me with a bit of a frantic twinge to my movements, I heard someone’s stereo faintly from the area to my left, and figured that’s where the highway probably was. Running in that direction, I dodged with all the agility I’d gained from being forced to play soccer by DSS and their juvenile delinquency charges, from the time I was eight. I was captain now, not that I enjoyed it too much, or that thoughts of it truly pertained to anything I was planning on doing now; but I needed something to pull my mind away from what I was going to attempt, or I might panic and back down like I’d done that day, and still regretted.

My sprint slowed to a jog yet again, and I stuck my hand in my pocket. Rummaging around a bit, I pulled out my wallet and then slowed down even more. Flipping the little leather thing open, I leafed through the cash I’d saved up in there.

One hundred and sixty seven dollars.

That should be more than enough to handle this.

And I can't get to you
I can't get to you
I can't get to you…

Reaching the road, I broke into a sprint again. Passing side streets I’d taken to get to this path. The grass was worn down where I’d been running for the past few months. I always took this trail when I wanted to look for her.

But, that wasn’t what I was doing this time.

This time, I was doing something stupider, but way better in many other ways. Much more dangerous, but much more fun.

Turning into an alleyway, I looked around for the black van that I knew would be there with the back door open. The one that looked as if it should belong to one of those pedophiles on a cop show, where they roam suburban streets looking for little girls to molest.

Then again, these people weren’t much more innocent with what they were doing in their little van. They were dealing. Not only were they dealing, but they were dealing something dangerous, and highly illegal to be caught with around her, let alone selling.

If they got caught selling this stuff to kids like me, their skins would be proverbially flayed from their bones. Well, maybe not so proverbially, mostly because I had no idea what that word meant. Not that I cared, since these people meant nothing to me. All they meant, were drugs.

Narcotics.

Narcotics were exactly what I needed, and goddamnit, narcotics were what I was going to have.

And yes, for all of you people out there who are saying what an idiot I am, and shaking your heads imagining that I’m mistaking the word ‘narcotics’ for something it’s not: I do know what they are. So don’t get your hopes up that this will have a cheery ending like your little faery tails.

Where are you now?
As I'm swimming through the stereo
I conduct a symphony of sound
Where are you now?
As I'm cutting through you track by track
I swear to God this mix could sink the sun
But it was you I was thinking of…

A month I spent on the streets, running back to my quaint little suburbia every day for school, just so that I could go to practice for my show. Since I’d miraculously managed to get in.

They’d told me I looked perfect for the role, and asked me how much sleep I was getting and if I had a cold: since I spent a lot of time in school shivering, and I’m sure I looked like I’d been hit in the eye. But the character I was playing had been a druggie, so they didn’t mind that I was chipping in extra for the role, as long as they didn’t see my stash. Which they wouldn’t. Stupid: that’s me. Suicidal: not so much at the moment.

So, I sang. So, I played my guitar. So I went on acting like someone I wasn’t, and yet someone I was so much alike.

Supposed to be angry, bastardly, and bitter. Supposed to be angry because his girlfriend left him alone with himself when she was too weak to deal with him and what had happened to the two of them. Bastardly, because that’s just who he is. And bitter because he believes the world hates him.

I realized that this show should make me realize the horrors of what I was doing to myself. How I could get AIDS and whatnot. Didn’t really matter to me, though. I was on self-destruct as soon as this show was done, and if the ‘PANIC‘ button got pressed a little early, well then that was alright with me.

The other kids in the cast talked about me backstage. They couldn’t decided if I was the best damn actor they’d ever met, or if I was crazy.

I figured I was both.

Roger was a role I was meant to play. Every line slipped from my lips like they were meant to be there, and every motion was exactly as fluid as it should be. I felt every pulsing wave of anger when someone pissed him off, and I wanted to scream during my first song. Too perfect to be a true reality, but not fragile enough to imagine it was a dream.

The only time I couldn’t get into it right, was when that dark haired girl would come out onstage and get all over me. I’d either choke up out of guilt, or I’d freeze out of fear. So, they always saved that scene for the next day, hoping I’d be better. I never was.

I couldn’t deal with another one. I didn’t need more baggage, as my character put it so wonderfully.

And where are you now?
And where are you now…?

After that month was up, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. I’d lost weight, and was probably killing every organ system I had. The withdrawal symptoms came increasingly often, and sometimes the pain was more unbearable than what I’d felt before. Every time I touched something, it was like there were needles being stabbed through every pore in my body, and boiling water being dumped into my eyes.

So, I went home. I finally went back to that hell-house.

And do you know what those motherfuckers who called themselves my foster family did? Leon, Luke, Jessica, the twins, Jamie, Carol and George. The only foster home I considered to even close to measure up to my mother.

And this is my mixed tape for her
It's like I wrote every note
With my own fingers…

They kicked me out again.