ZackgoesHEY

Zachary watches the light fade from the junk-yard that is his life. Metal skeletons and broken things are the only furniture to keep him company while he lights up.
Zachary knows that smoking is bad. But doing speed, that's a little worse.
Still, who's here to stop him?

After getting a good hit, he turns away from the window and looks towards his cavernous apartment. The electricity's out again, he notices. But that's fine. He'll just make a fire in the trash and burn a few candles.
From outside, Zachary hears some yelling, and then the sound of a car alarm going off.
Who'd be stupid enough to park their car here? he wonders.
Within that moment, he has to laugh.
His life is so...pointless. It's not like he helps anyone, not like he cares about anything at all.
He's lost anyone who ever loved him, if there ever was anyone to lose in the first place. From the beginning, his mother couldn't support him, so she handed him off, to someone who handed him off, who handed him off.
It was a cycle, and Zac learned to take care of himself. Eventually.

For a second, a small breeze sweeps in through the window, precariously edging it's way along the walls of his dingy apartment. It smells like the gardens at the foster home he lived in for two years when he was 8. Like blue violets and blue grass. All of it, sweetly tuned to the fire-light bugs that swam through the air carelessly nearing midnight.

"Fuck," Zac laughs, pulled at the edge of his sleeves. "Fucking hell."
For a moment, Zac considers grabbing a jar from the kitchen and getting something to drink, but instead, he sits down on the beat up couch and puts his feet up on a green crate.

It's not even worth it, he decides. I'll just be dead in a few years anyway.