A Purpose (1st Draft)

I heaved myself out of bed in a drowsy mess, my head bobbed like a brick hung from a marionette string that was on the verge of a split. I tried to grasp the date; I believed it to be the fifth of May. I leaned and snapped for the blaring alarm next to my bed on a tarnished wooden stand that seemed to be the only useful surface in my room. As I reached for my cellphone below my bed with my right arm it throbbed with enormous needle like stabs. I pulled back to examine the damage. It appeared to be asleep. I laid it flat on my bed to allow it to regain blood flow. I rolled and grabbed my phone with my left arm. I checked the date; the fifth of May. I looked around to study the destruction. There was nothing very obvious to me.

I rolled out of bed to the floor and conjured the will to pull myself to my aching feet; my right arm still throbbing with dull pains. Walking into my bathroom, which was conveniently located just outside my door, seemed a monumental chore in my current condition. I bent to look underneath my bed and see what I had left from last night. The lot consisted of maybe 4 shots of vodka and an unopened, yet unsatisfyingly warm, miller lite. I reached for the vodka and took a couple heavy swigs. The fiery liquid poured gently down my throat and heated my gut. I smiled at the familiar feeling and tossed the bottle back to its holding cell beneath my bed.

I sauntered my way out of my room and fell to the right like a cowboy after some long day at the ranch and a couple of tequila shooters. I found myself sprawled on my tile bathroom floor. The cold stone gave a relaxing shock to my tired body. I rose up and looked to the mirror.

There was a bland portrait of a young teenager around 15. He had a full head of curly brown hair, standard teenage acne, and bloodshot eyes. On his face he had a rather tan glow which mashed with the pale aura of his thin torso and arms.
I turned quickly as to avert my eyes from exposure to this upsetting reflection. I headed for the toilet and did my business with little heed for the neon yellow urine which I expelled at jet fighter speeds. I rinsed my face in the coldest water my sink was willing to donate and left the room quickly.

My aches had slightly mellowed and I could muster the ability to focus on remedial tasks. Grabbing my laptop I examined my fellow high school students through all sorts of social media. After this and a draught of the warm ale from under my sleeping pedestal, I took examination of the time; Only Seven Thirty in the morning. With a warm sense of lulling comfort I lay back to my tomb and slipped into a black ravine of comfort and rest.

The deep slumber seemed to last for only a brief moment before an unplanned interruption barged through my bedroom door. It had been my dad on one of his extravagant epiphanies of fatherhood.

“Jake…Jake. Jake! It’s time to get up. It’s almost two already.” In a jerking swing I at once arose to see my father standing in my doorway. In my newly awoken daze I replied with what couldn’t have been a worse response,

“I’m tired right now. Let me get some more sleep would you?” Needless to say this resulted in one of my father’s astonishing lectures on the necessity of health and importance of hard work.

After almost a half hour of mindlessly nodding and drowsing off into restless sleep my father finally evacuated my quarters leaving only his path of pestering leftovers for my mind to pick on. I turned to look at the clock; twelve fifteen.

“Should’ve figured.” I could never have trusted my parents with timing. My father was always exaggerating the importance of it, and my mother was always letting it waste away.

Predicting my room to be solitary for at least the next hour I reached underneath my bed with my right arm. As I picked up my bottle of vodka, an overwhelming pinch grabbed my attention. I examined the source of the shock; it seemed to emanate from a bruise on the back of my elbow which I had not previously noticed. I grabbed my shot glass from under my bed stand and poured myself an overflowing pool of vodka. The navy blue anchor engraved into the side glistened with droplets of alcohol which flowed off its textured surface like the morning dew on a leaf. I tilted the glass to my lips and leaned back.

After almost 6 more shots I felt a minor buzz percolating through my spine. I decided one more should be enough to suffice the morning session. I raised the glass to my lips as I heard the creek of steps fall from beyond my door. I shuffled the bottle away in time to cover it and rose from underneath my bed with an image of my mother standing at the washing machine, which was ever so inopportunely placed just feet from the corner of my bed.

Feeling my gut instantly drop I thought of the first logical excuse for my shuffling beneath my bed, “Hey mom, have you seen my phone charger anywhere? I can’t find it.”

She examined my face for a brief second and then went back to her cleaning. While pouring the laundry detergent she turned back and sighed, “I don’t think so, you look everywhere?”

Then in a fleeting moment of insight I caught a glimpse of my shot glass sitting boldly on my dresser. It was sure to be spotted if not for some miraculous action taken immediately. I turned and walked straight to the glass. I swept my hand across the surface of the wooden plane while silently swooping up the glass and several other miscellaneous items.

My mom turned to me with a bewildered look upon her face, “What was that all about? Why’d you just clear off your desk?”
Feeling my savior resting in my left hand I used my right hand to gently drop the glass. It fell silently to the floor. In the same motion I demonstrated a pile of ash in my left hand to my mother, “I was cleaning up from my incense.” I then proceeded to step towards the trash bin while kicking an old tee-shirt over the incriminating shooter. I dumped the ash and returned to scrimmaging underneath my bed so as to convince her of the cell phone fantasy.

I laid back to bed, finding comfort in the intoxicating aroma floating above my sheets and pillow.
“What do you got planned for today? Doing anything special?”, my mom blurted interrupting my slumber. I raised my head, turned and replied,

“I don’t think, probably ross’s or maybe something else. I’ll let you know.”
After she had scurried out of my quarters I rolled to look out my window. The spring dew flared in the bright afternoon sunlight. It had been a cool spring, however, a bright one none the less.

I flopped out of bed, took a shower, and clothed myself in the usual, “I could give a fuck less…” attitude. I wore a tattered Ohio State hooded sweatshirt and a lengthy pair of elastic Analog jeans. The attire was form fit, so I had to stretch it to comfortably balance with the normal bending and movement of my body.

Finding my cellphone tucked in a corner pocket on the side of my headstand I had noticed several received messages. Ignoring the notices I grabbed my wallet, iPod, and a pack of rolling papers to line my pockets for now. I arose to open my cabinet. Inside there was a rather average looking pile of childhood memoirs and a used encyclopedia. Though, this encyclopedia weighed maybe 2 pounds less than average. It was hollow. Or at least, was hollow before I had gone and filled it with all the vile mind altering products of which teenage life these days was filled with. I had a small, maybe gram and a half, bag of weed tucked away in the corner of said stash.

I picked up my glass pipe and walked beside my bed as to cover my illicit actions. I packed the bowl full of the sticky green leaf I called my friend. I poked into the side rails of my bed frame to find my lighter which I had so carefully made sure to keep out of view. I briskly opened my window and pulled the pipe to my lips. I sparked the flint and a flame illuminated the bowl of the pipe. I inhaled like a diver taking his last breath before a long deep sea journey. I worked the carb with the precision of an Artist twisting a brush around an ever so clever curve in an ever so clever painting. After a lung and a half filled with scorching smoke my mouth gaped and let loose a torrent of pluming smoke.
After three hits the bowl seemed to be painted white with little to no color left. I sauntered confidently to the trash bin to blow it empty while stashing my lighter back in its home located just under the side rails of my bed frame.

As I knelt to empty the white powder, I heard a familiar screech. I raised, turned, and shoved the pipe in between the belt of my jeans and my left hip. Instantly my mother plowed into my room. I briskly walked back to my bed avoiding the questions related to my location next to the trash. As to provide a breaking point I asked, “Do you know when my next behind the wheel is scheduled?”

In a heart stopping instant she turned and sniffed the air around her. She sniffed again, and again. She took one long exhale and said, “I think you have one later today at one.”