Internet-Degenerate

Fun fact: Jesus Christ tried being gay for a year in 1472. It's still unclear whether he was successful or not.

Hi. My name is Seraph Thorne, and right now, I'm homeless and on the run from the local mafia/yakuza/loan sharks or whatever. Now, you may be wondering why my name is so weird. Well, to that, I would tell you to go ask my parents. If I fucking had any, that is. You may also be wondering why all these dangerous people are after my butt. Well, I guess it all started when I was born, really. My mother was a hardcore illicit drug user. She'd shoot up, smoke and/or snort any addictive stimulant and hallucinogenic drug imaginable whenever she got the chance. My father is a heavy gambler who is entirely alcohol dependant. I've never seen either of them sober for so much as an hour in my entire life. Maybe starting from the moment of my birth is a little too far back, but you can imagine how being raised by these two creatures would screw up my life. I didn't live with both of them for long. Not because the Child Protective Services caught wind, but because my drunken dad caused a pile-up on the freeway when I was eight, killing my hallucinating mother. Despite how crazy it was with cars literally exploding and flying everywhere, my father got out unscathed. I, however, wasn't as fortunate. Seeing as how he was unfazed by the whole ordeal if it turned out that he was actually sober the entire time and deliberately crashed the car in an attempt to kill both my mum and me to use our life insurance to pay off some of his debts, I wouldn't be surprised in the least. Fast forward roughly eight years of perpetually running away from responsibilities and problems whilst simultaneously dodging the mob and loan sharks from which my father borrowed money, here I am. 

So tired... I whine myself. I've finished my part-time job and have just returned to my shabby, dilapidated apartment to take a quick nap before my night shift that starts in an hour at my other part-time job. Just business as usual. There wasn't anything fun to do at all since I swamped myself in as many jobs as humanly possible to make ends meet. But don't worry about my mental or physical health or anything. I make sure to get the proper, healthy amount of sleep for any person: seven hours a week. The apartment my father and I were holed up in didn't require a finder's fee or a security deposit, but I had to pay the first three month's in advance. That had made a clean slate of what little savings I had. Quite frankly, I'm just glad that we always fled with nothing but the clothes on our backs. It saved a lot in moving funds. But no matter how much money you save, it costs money to start a new life. It's a cruel, money-driven world we live in.

I walk up the rusted old stairs that both sound and feel like they might come apart with every step. Honestly, I had gotten to the point in my life where I wouldn't care if I fell through the stairs, landed on my neck and died. In fact, I was silently praying that it would happen. Unfortunately, I made it up to the second floor safe, sound and very much alive. I push the squeaky door open and enter my rotting one-room apartment. The light was turned off, and that old drunk wasn't home.

Guess those mob guys must have come around.

He spent all of his time lazing around the place, drinking himself to an early grave or fleeing from debt collectors. He never even tried to get a job, that lazy leech. I don't even know why I put up with him. I flip the light switch upwards, and the halogen light bulb on the ceiling starts flickering melodramatically. There was a scrap of paper and an envelope on the wobbly coffee table. My stomach immediately sunk, thinking about what my father could've left for me in those papers. Tentatively and anxiously, I reach out and check the paper first. It was the drunken scribbles of a deadbeat written on memo paper. I decipher the squiggles.

I'm tired of this lifestyle. I'm going on a trip.  

"Oh, thank God," I breathe aloud in relief. I took a glance around the room and saw that the little belongings he had were all gone. He seriously left. My burden has been lifted. He never contributed anything to our living expenses. He only took. His being gone was going to make my life a whole lot easier. Oh, frabjous night!

Now, what's with the envelope?

Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. Both of them contained what was tantamount to my death warrant.

By the way, regarding the money we owe... I'm taking this opportunity to have them transferred in your name. The papers in the envelope are my contract with those goons. I took your thumbprint while you were sleeping. You slept so soundly. Your jobs must really tire you out. Try not to work yourself so hard. You need to take better care of yourself.

-Your Father

P.S. I needed money, so I borrowed all of yours. Hope you don't mind. 

. . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

Huh. That's weird. Why is my foot stuck in the wall all of a sudden? It just happened before I knew it. 

"YOU FUCKIN' CUNT!" I heard someone yell. Was it me? "YOU DISGUSTING SACK O' SHIT! WHY THE FUCK D'YA THINK I'M SO TIRED, HUH? YOU HAD ME SLAVIN' AWAY AT DOZENS OF JOBS FOR YEARS JUST SO YOU COULD LIVE ANOTHER DAY AND FUEL YA CRIPPLING ALCOHOL ADDICTION, AND THIS IS HOW YA FUCKIN' REPAY ME? HUUH? BY LEAVING ME FOR DEAD? D'YA NOT FEEL EVEN AN OUNCE OF REGRET WHEN YA THREW ME UNDA THA BUS? YOU UNAPPRECIATIVE, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING WASTE OF HUMAN SKIN! ARRGH! FUCK MY LIFE! I'M NEVER SLEEPING AGAIN!" 

I found myself driving my foot into the wall over and over again as a decade's worth of rage and complaints gushed immediately out once. I think I might be a little bit angry. I sunk down onto the hard wooden floor with my back against the wall and uncrumpled the piece of paper I had clenched in my little outburst. 

What the hell am I supposed to do about this... 

My thumbprint was on the loan. The interest rate was 30% every ten days. There's no way this is legal, but I doubt that argument would convince those goons. My father's tactic when dealing with those kinds of people was entirely dependent on his 'genius' way of talking around people. I haven't the faintest idea how, but he managed to hold off even the most fearsome of loan sharks with the most laid-back (albeit drunk) manner possible. It seems he couldn't talk his way out of this one, though, and he finally broke under the pressure. In the past, whenever some loan sharks approached me about my parents' debt, I would just point my finger at them, and most of the time, that would be that. But I can't do that now that he's gone, and I pretty much shut down when it comes to conversing with strangers outside of work, so there's no chance of talking my way out of anything. Faced with this hopeless situation, all my strength and energy leave my body, and I regret not having died, even after all those times I had ample opportunity to. Why was I so compelled to push forward?

As I contemplated my reasons for living, there was a rapid and forceful knocking on the door. "Hey, you!" a voice called out. "We know you're in there! C'mon! Get out here!" 

Sounds like the Goons are here. Should I pretend I'm not home? Nah, the door's too thin. They could break it down easy. 

"Hey! You better get out here quick, or we'll break this door down!" The person kicked the door, causing it to rattle. Resigned to my fate, I let out a sigh and answered the door.

"What do you want?" I monotonously ask the two well-dressed thugs. They seemed to be taken aback by my appearance for a slight second. I didn't mention this before, but I'm a pretty big boy - almost 180 centimetres (or 5ft 10 for you imperial users) and still growing. But then again, I hunch most of the time, and I'm built like a twig, so my height doesn't really matter. 

"You know what we fuckin' want," said the man that was kicking the door.

"Sorry, but I'm not in the mood for this," I tell him. The goon threw his hand out to grab me by the collar and threaten me in response. Oh, while I'm at it, here are some other things I didn't mention before:

1. I have a lot of places where I don't like being touched, and my reflexes kick in to avoid it. Anywhere near my neck is one of those places.
2. I don't like being attacked.
3. Remember when I mentioned earlier that whenever loan sharks approached me about my parents' debt, they'd leave me alone most of the time when I told them where my parents were? The key phrase there is 'most of the time'. I had to fight them off and run about a third of the time, or else they would cut me open and sell my organs (or so I suspect). And,
4. I really don't like being attacked.

Before the thug could get his hands on me, I grabbed his wrist, pulled him towards me and headbutted him in his nose. There was a loud crack. I think I may have broken his nose? Sucks to be him. It looked like I knocked him out as well, but I don't know how long he's going to stay out, so before he collapsed, I shoved my foot into his stomach and kicked him over the second-floor railing. Remember kids: double-tap. That should stop him for a while. 

"You bastard!" Seeing his friend get sent flying, the other goon sent his fist towards my jaw. The punch was very slow and sloppy, so I effortlessly managed to step out of the way. He staggered forward a bit when his fist went astray, carried by the force of his own hook. I get behind him, place my hand on the back of his skull and drive his head through the door, where he went limp. 

Well shit. I've done it now. 

It was time for me to leave. I had done everything I could to de-escalate the situation through peace talks. Don't let what anyone tell you otherwise. 

I started to make my way down the stairs when I remembered...

Ah... I'm still in my work uniform.

I head back inside my apartment and change into my regular outfit: A black tracksuit with a long-sleeved undershirt, a pair of dirty joggers and a navy-blue knitted scarf wrapped once around my neck and thrown over my shoulder. Perfect. I like to cover myself up as much as possible, even in the summer. I'm very self-conscious about my disfigurement, okay? It causes people to stare at me, and I have a mild case of scopophobia. I try to grow my hair out, so it's long enough to cover my blind eye, but I can't because of work. I'd put an eyepatch over it, but I feel like that would just garner more stares. After I leave the apartment (for real this time), I see that the two goons are still knocked out where I left them. They're not dead, are they? I can't be bothered to hide the bodies right now, and it'd be bad to go to prison. I think. Actually, the more I think about it, the more prison life sounds nice. I mean, it's free room and board after all - something that I need at the moment.