Custom Nuclear Sheetastory
I've told my story over and over again, yet it still manages to change every time. Sometimes it's sad, other times sappy, most times regretful and occasionally angry. But no matter how many times I tell it, I feel like it's missing something. Empty, shallow, whatever. I let my mood affect me too much and muddle certain details, or leave others out that should have been there in the first place. And don't get me started on my attitude, such an edgy personality I used to have when I was younger. Well hey, now I'm older, and I think it's about time to reflect on things without all the sentimental bullshit.Might as well start at the very beginning.
Yeah, I was orphaned. Never met my folks, nor do I really pine over it. There's a ton of kids out there going through the same thing, lots of kids working their way through the system, just trying to get by. And we do, some better than others. I was fortunate enough to have caretakers that actually, well... cared about my existence. They really were nice ladies, and I gave them a lot of shit, but they took it in stride. Whether that be their training, personality or faith in a higher power, I don't know. But I'll be damned if it didn't work, haha.
I was a rebellious kid. I suppose my string of problems started there, and it wasn't anyone's fault but my own. More often than not I would wander the streets far past the curfew my Nannies put in place, getting into fights and stealing, yet every time I returned to the orphanage, they didn't say a word. They didn't have to, their stares alone were enough to spook me. Spook, but not scare; It wasn't enough. Eventually I just didn't come home, and boy was that a bad decision. One Amber Alert later and I was in the back of a police car for the first time in my life, and I was fucking nine.
Foreshadowing, right?
Although I was still a rascal, I didn't try leaving the orphanage again until much later... when it was actually legal to. I woke up on my sixteenth birthday, packed a bag and took off out the front door... even flipping off my Nannies in the process. I told you I was a little shit, haha. Thus my life on the streets began, and probably the most infamous I'll ever get.
Let's get one thing straight really quick; I don't care for fame and fortune anymore. All of that was used up during my "glory days", which was a whopping three or four years. I can't remember exactly. What I do know is that I considered the underground scene my calling, and let it stupidly brainwash me for a long time. I was obsessed with racing, drifting, clubbing, raves, drugs, and God knows what. In my rebellious, hormonal stupor, I did all sorts of bad things. I beat people up. I used a lot of people. I cheated at every chance I could get to get by.
I made myself an outcast, and reveled in it. I felt like I was on top of the world, that I was some hot shit that deserved everything handed to me on a silver platter. If my ego wasn't bad enough, I was battling my sexuality at the same time; I had never really thought about relationships or sex until I was in a position where I could seduce people with a single rev of the engine. For a while I thought I was weird for not liking ladies as much as I should. Then I came to embrace it in the most arrogant way possible, becoming a tease for the fun of it, and hurting a lot of feelings. I ain't proud of it.
Moving on. I was pretty set for a while, or so I thought. I had gotten really good at racing, and made a lot of money off of it. I got discounts with my dealers if I did them favors, like roughing up their opposition, or running deliveries for them. I knew how to dodge the cops, and had amped my car up enough so I could outrun them. I was the "King of the Underground", a stupid title that I let get to my head.
Of course, this is when bad stuff starts happening.
My ego and deeds made me a marked target. Being young, I didn't think much of it until it was too late. Gangs were sort-of commonplace in the Underground scene where I lurked, but I played a pretty neutral card to them. I didn't respond to their inquiries, they barked a lot, but left me alone. I made sure when doing favors for my dealers that it wouldn't involve gangs, thinking I was smart shit for doing so. All it took was one lie to mess things up; one of my guys had a vendetta with someone in a gang, sent me to do the dirty work, and then bailed. Since I had no one to pin the blame on and valued my life, I essentially became this gang's bitch.
They took every last penny I earned from racing. They threatened my friends. I had to move from a decent enough place with roommates to an absolute dump, all on my own. I had really dug my own grave at this point; I couldn't go to the police because of the life I lived, I couldn't fight the gang back due to numbers, and although I had a pretty mean fist, I never killed a soul. I had lost faith in life. I remember slapping my rave gear on and hitting up the club, my pockets full of pills. I planned on overdosing there, and dancing my life away.
Plans changed when I met him, though.
To make a long story short, I met a guy at the club. I don't wanna name him, but we hit it off well... too well, honestly. Because of a chance encounter on the dance floor, I decided to hang on a little longer and take a chance with this new found relationship. In hindsight I should have figured I was biting off more than I could chew, but what can I say - I'm a bit of a softie deep down, I suppose. That and I was influenced by drugs and depression, not necessarily the most logical of combinations, heh.
Life dragged on; I still raced, still faced threats from these gangs, but it had become at least bearable due to the relationship I had. It wasn't all rainbows and sunshine, though; my boy had his own set of problems I inherited by being with him, and vice versa. In retrospect we were pretty bad for one another, feeding off each other's issues and wasting away to drugs and alcohol. We even had some crazy idea to 'run away together' at one point, but as per usual, shit hit the fan.
It may or may not surprise you to learn that I had a temper during this time period. Yeah, shocking. All the same, when I got mad, it wasn't pretty. It didn't take much for me to get riled up either; unlike my younger self that brushed people off with a flip of the bird, the somewhat older me had problems. He had people hounding him, and a lot of self-induced weight on his shoulders. It didn't take much pressure for me to snap. So when I was confronted by one of the gang's goons, a newbie that pointed a gun at my face, I fired first.
That was the first and only time I ever killed a man.
Things spiraled out of control at this point; with the gang after me for drawing blood and my mind drowning in guilt, I eventually got tired of playing cat-and-mouse and turned myself in. I hadn't told my boyfriend about the whole ordeal, I guess hoping he would have figured I died or whatever. I don't really know what I was thinking, honestly... all that did was make things harder down the road. My lawyer managed to work my charge down into a self defense gig, which gave me a much shorter stay in the doghouse. I was still gone for a few years though, and for some reason, I expected everything to be hunky-dory when I came out of it.
There's no two ways around it - life moves on, even when you don't. I don't know why I was so shocked to find that my previous way of life had gone on without me, to the point of going back to square one; I found myself at the club, again, more pills in my pockets. And, again, I ran into that kid. My only mistake this time was thinking things could go back to the way they were, but they couldn't. Which, looking back on things, was probably a blessing for both of us. But damn did we try, badly, to mend our relationship. There were ups but a lot more downs, and in the end, I finally realized it wasn't going to work; he was a caged bird with me, trying to fly free, and I was too stubborn to let him.
In the end, I let him go.
No job, no man, and no ambitions, I let depression rule my life for a while. The only saving grace was that the gang was no more, having been run out of the city by police or captured by them, so I had no real threat to face besides myself. Yet even then, something bugged me; the last two times I went to the club with the intention of ending my life, I didn't. Whenever I thought my life was over, it wasn't. It happened all too often for it to be coincidental, but I didn't know what to make of it. Lost and confused, I turned to the only people I knew I could trust... back to the Nannies at the orphanage.
God, they had gotten so old. It's scary to see how much of a difference ten years makes, and at the same time, not at all; despite the wrinkles and grey hair, they were happy to see me, like before. I confessed everything to them, blubbering like a kid, and they listened with quiet respect. Once my whole sordid ordeal was off my chest, they shined the biggest smile on me and said one word: God. The entire time, it was God looking out for me, guiding me in the subtle ways that he does back to the path of redemption. Or at least, that's what the nannies said. Even after I told them I was gay, they didn't judge me for a second, still pointing to God as my savior. It was a hard pill to swallow, but if faith was the reason those ladies powered through life the way they did, I saw no harm in trying it.
Life works in mysterious ways, man. I started going to church every Sunday with my Nannies, finding determination through their kind smiles. They helped me clean up my act and taught me to stop feeling sorry for myself, insisting there was more to life than darkness and depression. They brought me with them to volunteer services, and slowly but surely, I learned from them. Seeing people worse off than yourself puts a lot of things in perspective, something I had forgotten about. Perspective.
One day, I showed up at the orphanage to find the Nannies fretting over something. When they saw me, they rushed over and explained how a dog was loose in the orphanage’s playground, and they couldn’t let the kids out until it was taken care of. I didn’t see what the big deal was until I looked at the pooch myself; it was messed up, covered in injuries and bruises that deep down, I knew where from. I saw it often in the Underground, and broke it up every time – dog fighting. It wasn’t right, and by the looks of things, this one had escaped its last owner, a torn leash hanging from its collar.
It took a lot of time and patience, but I stayed out there for most of the day trying to coax the animal to me. By the shape of its muzzle and ears, I could tell it was a Doberman, but it was in rough shape. But I didn’t give up hope – after all, I was just as stubborn. In the end, after a few burgers had been tossed its way, it finally approached me and let me take its leash. The tags on its collar read “Dante” and a phone number, which I turned over to the cops. You don’t mess with animals around me, asshole.
With a new perspective and a new dog (I couldn’t give Dante up – he grew attached to me pretty quick), I knew I had to get a job. Not just for dog food, but also to get back on my feet again for real this time. I started making goals for myself, one of them being to move into a better place than the dump I had at the time. Dante deserved better. With some help from my Nannies and my know-how about cars, I eventually got hired on as a mechanic at a shop with forgiving standards. They didn’t judge me for my crime, but rather for the skills I had – and I’ll be damned if I can’t make a car sing.
I guess that’s it then. I still work as a mechanic, and find myself loving the job. I moved eventually like I planned to, into a much better apartment with a backyard, perfect for Dante. I had some spare cash so I ended up subscribing to a gym, which has produced solid results. Overall, I’m sitting real pretty, and wouldn’t trade it up for anything. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my past, it’s that hormones are a bitch. Well… that and you really shouldn’t let your head get to you. I had such a huge ego as a kid, and look where that landed me.
Ah well. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, y’know?
Credits:
Profile by 
Ringo
Overlay by Folara
Art by thegalaxykid
Story by War
