Novel.

I'm writing a novel. It's not a nice novel. I have a good idea of the storyline, and it doesn't end pretty. I thought I'd share the first chapter, which is kind of like a prologue.

Chapter One

 

She died in the spring of 2008. They were unfortunate circumstances. Not unfortunate enough to absolve me of all blame, but somehow the word ‘unfortunate’ comforts me. We thought we were entrepreneurs. We were just junkies. Cocaine was so easy. You can make so much out of so little, and the rewards are endless. We had our connection, we had our plan, all we needed was a little luck. Or so we thought. You may be thinking the drugs killed her, and you’d be right, in a way... except, the fatal blow that killed her was from a bullet. One shot fired off by a brutal murderer. One shot, that ended our dream. Since I’m still here, I’m the only one who can tell our story, and it needs to be told. I guess a story should start from the beginning.

Ever since I was a kid I was surrounded by narcotics. I was born in 1980, into a family of drugs. My father, well, he was the kingpin. If you wanted anything, and I mean anything, and you had some relationship with my father, he would get it for you. He was a big shot in London, and the pigs couldn’t touch him. Despite this reputation, he was a good father. He never touched the drugs he was peddling, so he had lots of sense, and certainly lots of love for his family – except my mother. She wasn’t as ‘pure’ as my father. She got hooked on heroin when I was young. So, my father’s decision was to kick her out. “It was for your own good”, he’d tell me, when I knew it was just because he couldn’t be seen married to a junkie. So, it was just me and my father. All he needed was his good clean son. Then came the day I most regret in my life. The day when this whole thing started, and my life became fucked up for eternity.

“Umm... Could I maybe... try some coke, Dad?”

He lost it. I was 15 at the time, and he was horrified at the fact that I had even thought about it. To be honest, I wasn’t all that keen on taking drugs, but I just wanted to throw the question out there, and see what response I got. That line of thinking landed me on my arse. I needed a job and I needed a home. I don’t remember a lot of the next 2 years. All I know is that I took a fuck of a lot of heroin - so much so that I owed money to nearly every dealer in town, and these were not nice dealers. That’s when I met her.

I told you it wasnt pretty.