The High School Diaries 3: A True Story

The High School Diaries 3
Looking Down The Barrel of a 45: A True story
By
TL Stafford

!! WARNING!!
ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE GUILTY, THERE WAS NO INNOCENCE THAT I KNOW OF IN MY SCHOOL. THIS STORY ALSO CONTAINS PROFANITY AND HEAVY DRUG USE. IT WAS MY CHILDHOOD AND IT WAS A ROUGH TIME. I WANT IT TO BE ACCURATE. I DO TAKE SOME LIBERTIES, BUT VERY LITTLE.

PLEASE, DO NOT READ IF THESE THINGS BOTHER YOU IN ANY WAY!!

If you wish to start with the first two stories, you can find them here.

Part one: The Darkened Halls Of High School: A true story

Part Two: The High School Diaries 2

The High School Diaries 3

As I opened my eyes and glanced at the small square basement window above my bed, I could see the dark blue light of dawn starting to dance with the sky. Looking at the clock I was disappointed to see that I had only slept three hours last night, only three… I grinned and smiled at the same time. Some people would almost find that painful! It was Saturday, no school today. No “Hellions”, no “Shit Kickers”, and no smug teachers who didn’t give a crap. I had barely glanced at the calendar all week. But I knew Today was my birthday and I wasn’t going to let a bad week ruin my weekend. A day to myself and no one else. I glanced at the Dean Koontz book I was reading and recited out loud to myself.

“The night was warmish and full of hopeful surprises.” I cringed at the words, warmish, with a shiver. The mutated grin was still resting on my face as I rolled from my bed and stretched the night’s sleeplessness away. I had dreams of someday becoming some great master of horror stories. Hopefully, I would use better opening lines then, the night was warmish. I liked Dean Koontz, and I guess being a successful author can let you get away with anything.

I thought I could write the greatest and darkest stories of my time and people would question my sanity and my humanity just reading my dark and disturbing words. They would wonder who this man is and what makes him write so many disgusting and yet suspenseful novels. I would be asked in interviews to describe how I began to think up such nightmares.

“Honey Smacks!” I spoke aloud. “It was all Kellogg’s fault you see,” I spoke to my poster of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark hanging on my wall. She was moon bathing according to the caption of the poster. She wore a small revealing leather bathing suit. What else would a teenage boy have on his wall?

“That darn frog was oppressing and warping my already abused childhood mind. The peer pressure was too much to resist, and I needed Satis-Smack-tion! You dig-em? They’re Honey Smackin’ good!” The advertising dollars swam in my eyes. Money for everyone. Successful books, cereal commercials. No one would be without now.

My laughter trailed off as I approached the stairs. My family had been busy the past few weeks and I had no hints of any kind of party, be it a surprise one or not. I did my best not to get excited. I was sixteen now, I was going to go get my official driver’s license and my permit was history. I could venture out on my own now without having to be accompanied by an adult as I drove. Reaching the peak of the stairs I entered the kitchen entry-way and was startled.

“Good morning mom, what time did you get up?”

“Oh, I haven’t been to sleep yet, I am too busy working on the business, I could really use your opinion on this. What do you think?” My mother said with rushed tired words. She hasn’t slept in days, she would crash soon and hopefully awaken to even more business adventures on her mind. Or maybe she would like to watch a good scary movie with me later, anything but a crash. A crash landing tonight would suck ass and I didn’t think I could put up with it if she did. You can only hear “No one loves me!” so much before you feel like your going to puke. Of course, that was the thoughts of a sixteen-year-old with his own issues.

I approached the makeshift desk my mother sat at. She came up with the brilliant idea of getting a six-foot piece of Formica countertop from the hardware store and two steel filing cabinets to place it on; presto changeo, a desk. It was a brilliant idea and it worked out well, except her desk, like many surfaces in the house, became infected with Flat Surface Syndrome.

Flat Surface Syndrome: 1) the pattern of symptoms that characterize or indicate a particular social condition where people constantly place objects on any cleared flat surface until such surface is completely covered.
a: Said surface could easily have multiple items stack upon each other.

I tried hard to show as much interest as I could. It was a strain to take another roller coaster ride of emotions and get all excited about yet another financial adventure that she wanted me to be a part of.

“This looks great mom, what else do you have planned?”

“Oh, that is just the first three pages, here is the rest!” Her hand waved over the stack of at least one hundred typed pages of text. My eyes widened with concern that I might get trapped the whole morning, looking over and listening to three days worth of pure manic high adrenaline. A wonderful idea in itself, an idea so very good and brilliant, unfortunately someday forgotten as waste on a desk taking up space. I later thought how much money she could have made if she just kept with it. Her experience in sales was amazing, but her sickness always won over in the end.

“I am headed to bed. Would you like to watch a movie later?” Her words were spoken more to the papers in front of her than to me. Unless she was very serious and wanted to be understood, she often talked, around, many objects instead of talking directly to you.

“Mom, I don’t know what you guys have planned later, but I was hoping maybe I could get a birthday present early this morning. I need twenty bucks to go get my license before the DMV closes at three.” She stopped in mid-motion and looked at me, her forehead wrinkling and a glaze over her eyes. In them you could see her lost in time and space, for a few moments there were many questions in her stare being asked all at once. For one split second in that drawn out stare, she glanced at her wall calendar; it was the quickest glance I ever saw. Her recovery was amazing, but I knew she had forgotten my birthday, everyone did. I was sixteen right, How should I feel?

“I will tell you a secret. Your father and I were going to get you a card later and shove some money in there to let you go get what you want for yourself! We figured that would be better then us trying to figure it out, let me call your father real quick to make sure it’s okay. I have to go pee, I will be back in a minute!” She grabbed the phone and headed to the bathroom.

I couldn’t believe they forgot. Oh well, I understood, they had been busy, right? My thoughts were sad and lonely. I didn’t want a party anyway, but having one would have been nice, would have been normal… But I was an adult, right? At least I had been treated with and the responsibility of an adult for years. Unless I did something wrong of course… Then the punishment of children would fall upon me.

“Okay, your dad will be home, in an hour, and he said he has your birthday money on him, I thought it was in the drawer upstairs, but he has it in his wallet. I’ll give you a hint of how much! It has a pretty picture of Benjamin Franklin on the bill.” She spoke with carefully chosen words and her guilt was remarkably written all over her face. All I could do was think how great guilt could pay off!

“That’s great mom, thank you guys so much! Dad has the night off and I would love it if I could borrow one of your guy’s cars tonight? Please? I want to take a few friends out to the movies on my first permit free day!” I said stirring the culpable embers in her blazing fire of guilt.

“Oh, I am sure that would be fine! You have fun today son, I am headed to bed. Happy Birthday!” She kissed me on the cheek and hugged me. She smiled then and walked past headed to bed

“Good night mom, have sweet dreams, I love you, and thanks again for the great birthday present!” In my best grateful son voice. I was grateful but pretty damn angry they forgot. Even my future self that leaves out so many details about this time in my life. So many details I have forgotten. Most of it lost in forgotten fogs of LSD and other pretty drug acronyms. Times I have blanked out on purpose. Times burned into my soul, like this one. Times, that slam into me hard like being hit by a car. I’ve been hit by a car. It feels like that, but it is a memory or an emotion I buried deep.

My father arrived home and handed me a card. Inside were five twenty-dollar bills fresh from the ATM machine. I smiled secretly to myself expecting a one hundred dollar bill with Benjamin Franklin sneering at me and laughed it off. I hugged my father and dragged the tired man with me to go get my authentic drivers license. My father’s signature and ID was required for the final draft.

Eleven AM approached and I was a free man so to speak. I had eighty-five bucks burning large holes in my pocket, a Lumina mini-van equipped with its very own sliding door, bullet shaped nose and a full tank of gas.

The first place I headed was to my good friend Jerry’s house. Jerry was neither my friend or good for that matter. I had a problem many teenagers have, I was addicted to an illegal substance, Marijuana, among a few other choice drugs. It had me in its grip. It kept me for many years to come. It made me feel loved and comforted, it helped me let go of the stress of life and for a sixteen-year-old, I had more stress then I could handle sometimes. My cousin introduced me to the seductress calls of Mary Jane, oh how sweet her kiss is. The consequences of being arrested for an illegal substance in my parent’s car never crossed my mind. It was just on the list of things to do on my birthday.

There were two more things on the shopping list, Acid. LSD, shrooms, or phycobilin mushrooms technically. one or the other, or both. When I was thirteen years old, I started doing something a druggy friend of mine called, Surfing. This activity did not involve a surfboard or waves. You would take your mind-altering drug of choice, LSD, or shrooms, or a cocktail of both and surf through your day, or days, or even weeks and months. I have lost very large parts of my memories. Some of them slamming me hard as an adult. Horrible fits of violence sometimes. The abuse from bullies at school… All of it was too much. I surfed often. Opium became a favorite surfboard. Acid and Opium together. Was heaven…

“Hey man, howz-it going?” I threw my words at Jerry, walking into his very dark living room. The sunlight was completely blocked out by shades and twenty or so black lights burned loudly and pasted the walls and surrounded objects with its special light. Walls were covered with every conceivable black light poster you could buy and his fifty-gallon fish tank was loaded with fish and decorative rocks colored to glow when the light came in contact with it.

I looked upon the stoned and wasted individuals on the couch in this magnificent throne dedicated to the black light Gods and asked Jerry for a half. A few tourniquets lay on the floor near their feet. Heroine coursed through their veins like fire. Their Frontal Cortex lit up with artificial pleasure and bliss. The body odor was bad. Jerry’s chick was washed out and looked like she had a bad infection in her leg. This one vision of this particular day stands out in my head very strongly. I think because when it was happening, it was very complacent to me. Even the obvious infection in the girl’s leg. It did not matter to me at all. Not one bit. I was there for what I wanted. One half an ounce of grass, weed, Mary Jane (To the old hippies of the world), pot, whatever you wanted to call it, it was temporary relief from madness. Oh, don’t forget my side of Opium. Cut into the weed…

Oh yeah, baby. Even now, my mouth waters and a dark deep side of my soul is smiling. I can feel him there. I shit you not. He is listening, waiting. He won’t go away. He won’t ever leave me alone. He sits there in the dark laughing at me. Cancer has caused me so much physical pain. I refuse to take narcotics now. I refuse to be injected into my spine by pain clinics. I think maybe I might be punishing myself, with the pain? Fucking therapy bullshit. I can’t stand that I should talk to someone about all of this. Or maybe, I’ll ignore it more. I’m good at that.

“Back here man.” Jerry motioned as he walked down a black-lit hallway toward the sacred chamber of scales, bags, and weed. He sat at a small desk and grabbed a lock box under it. Now most people when they think of a pound of Marijuana, they see a huge square like a bundle of fluffy dark green stuff wrapped in cellophane and tape. When in reality a pound of weed is about the size of one or two decks of cards, the brick being compressed and very dried out. Unless you are talking about fresh grown or hydroponics. That is a whole other beast. Such luxuries were not for a sixteen-year-old user. A dealer should re-hydrate his inventory before selling this, to add water weight and get the most out of his pound, maybe get one and one-half pounds, or more, out of one dried and very compressed brick for profit; Jerry just chipped it off today. Inside the box was at least four pounds of Marijuana, I stood watching carefully as he grabbed a brick and proceeded to chip off my half-an-ounce.

“You sure that is all you want man?” Jerry asked. A why are you wasting my time for just a half, voice.

“No, microdots? Shrooms? I need some Buddha also. I breathed keeping a close eye on the scales numbers.

“Yeah man, that’s better… I got some in yesterday. I’ll give you some, no charge. You try it out and let me know what you think”

This was Jerry’s favorite thing to do. Give you free new stuff. Even to his regular customers. He liked to spoil us. Always keep us coming back to him. He even helped his regular buyers when they didn’t have money. He was like a check cashing place. Except with drugs.

Other things were happening in the house while I waited for my buy. A new customer showed up and wanted to make his own purchase. It was Pete, the drug and alcohol receiver for the glorious high school “Shit Kickers”. I had no idea Pete got his drugs from Jerry and I had no clue what I was about to walk into.

Jerry grabbed an already rolled joint and examined the paper on the outside of it. He licked his fingers then with a wad of his own saliva and lathered the long yellowish blimp of a smoke to slow down the burn so it wouldn’t waste away too ash too quickly. He took a long draw from the joint and held in the smoke as he passed it to me. As he exhaled the smoke he spoke in a very raspy, dried out voice.

“This is the good stuff man, it’s blueberries, one hundred and twenty for a half, for you.” Jerry always wanted to sound like you were the one always getting the deal.

“I would only take one hit if I were you.” The sweet and sour smell entered my nostrils as I held the joint, I didn’t want to drive stoned, but I had no choice. If your dealer passes you a joint, you take it, you hit it, and you get stoned with him. It’s God Damned common courtesy and very suspicious and insulting if you don’t.

“Wow, this tastes interesting, is this what it’s supposed to taste like?” I choked as the harsh smoke exited my lungs, eyes watering as the smooth taste of flowers invaded my taste buds. It was instant, the blood rushed by my lungs carrying the poisonous chemicals to my frontal cortex and lower spinal cord. The high started quicker than any pot I had ever smoked.

“Oh, that…” Jerry sneered up at me with glowing white teeth from the magical lights within the room. “That’s the new Buddha I just got in. Opium-laced, nice touch eh? It has a sprinkle of, H, also. Some call it a waste. I like to live in luxury.” My world was a daze, I was angry and extremely paranoid about the fact that I just ingested Opium and never would have tried Heroine, without knowing I was doing so. I tried very hard to control myself and looked down at Jerry as I felt the high coming on stronger by the second.

“I have to split man, I have people waiting, is that cool?” My acting was smooth and I held my fear and temper at bay.

“Yeah man, have a good weekend…” Jerry closed the steel lid on his box and threw me a half-ounce sack of weed. Inside was a foil of Opium and a few extra joints laced no doubt with what I just smoked. After hanging with Jerry and buying from him the past two years, I never saw Jerry’s little box again or his room, and soon his house. I walked out into the living room and saw Pete standing there glowing brightly in an all-white Nike outfit.

Pete’s eyes widened in instant hate when he saw me leaving Jerry’s room. Two guys stood on both sides of Pete, I didn’t know either of them. One was completely bald and wore a sleeveless muscle shirt. He had to be almost seven feet tall. He was literally ducking his head as he stood in the archway to the living room. The lights in the room did nothing for his tattoos, but I could clearly make out a swastika painted on his upper arm. The other guy was around my height at about six foot four inches with a buzz cut. His shirt glowed with what looked like millions of tiny white specs. I started to trip balls. I was so high and paranoia was setting in.

“Holy shit, I don’t believe it. What we have here boys is a golden opportunity to get some payback.” Pete spat from across the room. Payback I thought. What the hell do I need paying back for now, from HIM! I could feel the healing cut on my arm burn through the drug-induced high I was experiencing. It was almost enhanced. Like the wound was an eye, opening for the first time, in the presence of its creator. Jerry exited his room and assessed the situation.

“Take it outside guys, I don’t want any shit going down in here, or I will never sell to either of you again. In fact, don’t do anything outside either. If the cops come here I will swear in a court of law you both help me on a daily basis selling my shit!” Jerry said in a low matter-of-fact voice. “I have several witnesses right here that will say so also.” He concluded.

I shot passed Pete and out the door, I went. I couldn’t believe I had to put up with this high-school bullshit on my birthday. It was supposed to be a violent free weekend. I walked quickly down the back steps of Jerry’s house. Everyone parked in the back and drove out to the dirt road. It was a very secluded home and too secluded for my taste at the moment.

Pete’s Corvette sat parked in the driveway, his mommies birthday present to him this year. I slipped past it and reached for the door handle throwing a glance over my shoulder and heard someone speak. When I looked back the first thing I saw was a huge seven-foot Nazi pulling back his fist to hit me in the face. What I heard was…

“Not so fast fat boy, my brother wants to talk to you.” I heard the word, talk, just as I was looking back and turning my body toward the sound. The Nazi’s fist was cocked and coming at me. My first instinctual thought was to drop to the ground, but my instinctual anger and survival decided to kick in instead, with a touch of adrenalin, all slowed way down and playing to the opium beat of narcotics still flooding through my virgin veins.

In one quick and lucky motion, I turned my body more, fully facing him and flung my head as hard as I could forward into his fist. The Nazi’s knuckles landed squarely on the top of my skull with a crunch; he had just busted several bones in his hand. The Nazi yelled in pain as I fell to the ground. The darkness was closing in all around me as I pleaded with my body to not give in to the intoxicating drugs and probably severe concussion I had just given myself; my eyes closed, I was out.

“Wake up, fat boy.” I heard Pete’s voice in some distant bad dream I was having and opened my eyes. In front of my face was a 45-caliber handgun. It was so close, I could smell the gunpowder in the muzzle. My father taught me many things about guns, and the smell told me this one had been fired very recently. I blinked my eyes and couldn’t feel anything now. I didn’t even feel the warm urine spreading itself out in my jeans and streaming down my leg. My head was bleeding and I knew this was the end. I didn’t even know who had the gun. I was so high. I think I might have been smiling…

“Stop it Pete, or you’re going to regret it,” Somewhere in the still parts of my brain I understood that Jerry was talking to Pete. Then they were gone. I closed my eyes.

“Hey man, you okay?” I woke up to Jerry standing above me.

“Yeah, I’m okay. What.. um.. oh.. yeah I’m okay..” The words tried to form better meaning, but that’s all I could get out. Even now I barely remember waking up. I stood up, reached for my car door and got in. Jerry was already inside his house when I turned the key in the ignition, I headed home. I was still very intoxicated. I can’t believe I made it home. I think I vomited on my self during the drive. I can’t remember too well.

I stood there in my room emptying my pockets. I threw the bag of weed on my bed and covered it with my pillow, I threw my wallet on the nightstand and stripped off my clothes. I walked half naked to the shower two floors above and tried not to think.

“You can’t be seriously considering revenge you dumb fool,” I spoke aloud to myself. My mind blacked out again and I didn’t remember showering at all, or the trip back to the basement. I stood there wet and in a towel contemplating if I should kill Pete, or just hurt him badly. I remember this scene very well in my head. The violent thoughts, putrid and disturbing.

I glanced at the calendar. It said Saturday the sixth… But my birthday was on the fifth. Ironic laughter filled my head, I don’t know if it was out loud or not. We had all forgotten my birthday…

To be continued…

I realize this story contained a lot of drug talk and violence, but I really wanted to share it as detailed as I could. For your information, I DID NOT EVER KILL anyone! This story was a critical part of my life and changed whom I was inside. I thought the abuse I took on a daily basis was something most people endured. I was smart enough to know I was singled out quite a bit, but I hated myself for being who I was and I hated the world for not even noticing what was going on. But not just with school, but all aspects of my life. The next few “High School Diary” chapters deal with this life-changing event of my life. It was a very bad life-changing event. I became a very angry and bad person, and my drug habit worsened. I know many people have had it worse then I, but it helps to get it out after so long… This is one of those stories I have never told anyone before, except a very inebriated friend one night, I don’t think he believed me -laughs-… I will pick up the next Story where I left off here.

AFTERTHOUGHT: I had no idea how emotional it would make me writing this event out for anyone who cares to read it. I am sitting here shaking and almost in tears. Reliving moments I have tried so hard to forget. Those moments made me who I am today I suppose.

The High School Diaries 3
By:
TL Stafford
Revised for grammar and spelling errors November 2017

 

Part one: The Darkened Halls Of High School: A true story

Part Two: The High School Diaries 2

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12 comments

  1. That was one hell of a birthday!!!!!!
    I am very interested in the rest of your life story. What happened to your parents, your mother, your father, when you moved out, when you got away from the tormentors.
    It is a harsh realization to write these things and read them as an adult. I never realized how horrible my life had been, how bad the abuse was until I saw it through my adult eyes and into my child eyes and had this moment of oh my gosh that was hell. How did i survive. Then i started to realize how i had coped. How i had minimized the gravity of it all and how PTSD had now haunted me. How the memories, the nightmares, the past was right here with me.
    I’m glad you are writing it and sharing it. These chapters of your life.
    I never edit just as fyi. I know if I did I would change everything. I sit down. I write. I push publish and how knows how many mistakes there are. But I never see typos in any other’s work because i become so engrossed in the story that I guess my brain autocorrects or who really cares because the story matters more than the letters

    • I will write more. I have several things I need to write. One, I can never share. One I have to try and share. Several things I think are practically writing themselves without me. lol… I Edit… I take very little Fictional change in my memory. I can’t remember word for words memories. But I know how I felt and a few things I used to think and say. Slang and thoughts and my writings and poems from my journals from those days. So I used those things to make the memory I shared. I changed names… Places.
      The writer in me won’t let me let anyone read anything with proofreading it! lol. There are several months to a few years of my life I can’t remember at all. It is terrifying. Reading words that supposedly were your words. No memory of the events or writing them. It makes me dizzy thinking about it. PTSD events, unfortunately, happen daily. I am empathetic and sorrow filled sympathy pours from me when I read peoples stories. The bravery of them all, sharing so much. I can only hope I can share the moments and events also. I think I have too… Thank you so much for your words. I promise, more to come!

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