He was a shit junky, a shit shoplifter and a shit human being.
Those were his words. Nobody else bothered enough to comment.
His explanation for his self-analysis was that he kept getting caught when he stole, he kept collapsing his veins when injecting and his kid who was thirteen never spoke to him.
There were rumours that he was a beast.
He kept people at a distance. He would shout and scream as he was walking through shopping centres so no-one would come near him.
He felt lucky when he did time in a jail miles from his home. He was liberated and declared himself homeless in that area. That way, he didn’t need to face what he never could.
In his adopted town he became quickly known to Police and Services. Neither of them helped. He was jailed numerous times and tolerated by his peers. But there was always a doubt. The omission that he avoided fuelled everyone’s suspicion.
One knew. He was killed with a sneaky knife between his ribs when he was walking away. No one was accountable because the victim was as insignificant as the guilty.
No-one questioned. The authorities were happy to get rid of another one and they knew that who’d been involved would eventually be dead. It was no loss.
He made friends, he even engaged with help but he always fell back into collapsing veins and shop lifting charges. In a way, this gave him a purpose.
Daily chores were a mystery to him.
He became depressed and paranoid. For those that worked with him, this was simply an off-shoot of his life-style. It was an occupational hazard and he couldn’t expect anything else.
He repelled those who tried to help him. He was, after all, nothing other than a thieving junky bastard who had questions regarding some paedophile activities.
He didn’t help himself as he used any system he could to question, gain and annoy. Some thought he was being a cunt, others thought he was building even more barriers or trying for some financial gain. He knew that none would help.
When he was out of his tits, he would call his father. This always ended in tears but his father never heard. They were the spit of each other. No-one knew if this was only in resemblance. If it was in behaviour, he never said.
He had ingratiated himself into the drug scene and those who were involved. He always paid so his past didn’t matter. He met four others who were as low as him. The fifth was manipulative. She suggested a pack. Fifty quid each would get enough for them all to go out with a bang and more importantly, on a high. They all paid. She made sure the first bag did it. Four of them died in the woods that day. Their tools, the cling film and the obvious pact were all there for the Police to see. The Coroner did find something, he found a bad batch…
No questions needed answered.
She had twenty bags left.