The Ultimate Bruh Moment

By BruhBerry the IIIth

A family would be nice.

The man was alone. In a trailer park, off the interstate. At night he could hear the cars whizzing by, constantly. In a slipping stream, people stumbled by in their little metal boxes. Hundreds of lives, going as fast as they could. To jobs. And lives. And families.

He looked over. The trailer could be described with the word askew. Underwear hung on his lone folding chair. Needles littered the floor. He hadn’t bothered cleaning after the dog died.

Maybe this time he had gone too far. He’d taken too much. There was a blackness seeping in at the edge of his consciousness. A bloom of warmth in his chest. He had a habit of injecting 50 cc’s of liquid love into his slipstream of blood and bile.

This time would be his last.

The man knew he was going to die. He was confused, however. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Life. His candle extinguished quietly, in a shitty, run down trailer park near the interstate. There wasn’t even a sputter. When he was younger, he made plans. To work in an office somewhere and make enough money to start a small shop. He didn’t know what the shop would sell, but it would be a nice, small shop where young people would stop by and smile at each other while they looked around. Maybe plants, or books. Something.

He knew it started with one failed test. Fifty five and two-oh-three percent. His teacher did five significant figures. It felt like it was too precise. Maybe if it had been two-oh-four he would’ve tried a bit harder. After that, it was a blur. He couldn’t care anymore. School didn’t seem all that important. He decided that just one try couldn’t hurt. It would take his pain and bundle it up so it felt small, and far away. It would become more manageable.

His first hit of the real stuff, the type that wouldn’t just get you a night in the county jail for having, was somewhere that felt desperate. It was after he got kicked out of the apartment. It was warm when he used it. Really warm. The kind of warmth you feel when you’re really, truly home. The kind of warm that mom used to make. Small pricks in his arm told everyone that he loved it. It didn’t love him. A toxic relationship that he just couldn’t get out of. An addictive lover.

He was 24

No,

he was confused, because he had a vague idea that he’d be on top. A rock-star, or a writer or something. He would’ve been something. Not this. Not alone at the edge of his world, fighting to gain enough consciousness to grab that narcan on the counter.

He was confused at the end. He thought he would’ve done better. He was supposed to be better. A million fans. A hundred friends. A few members of a family. Just one person to be with him, there. At the end.

He just didn’t know why.

It should have turned out differently.

A family would’ve been nice.