This is still a WIP, I will be adding things as fast as I write them down.
- Reading (only Bukowski and Pondus).
- Darts and pool at the pub.
- Playing guitar.
- Trying to paint, getting frustrated, and giving up.
The Journey there.
One night in a bar in Oslo, Richard met a foreign woman who played him like a fool. After buying her drinks all night, he fell head over heels and brought her back to his place. After a few days of mooching off his foolish ass, she said she had to go home to see a dying relative, offering him to come along to Georgia with her, if he would pay for both tickets and stay with them for a week if he brought money for living costs.
Her cousin came to pick them up at the Georgian airport and drove for about an hour before Richard got the feeling that something was off. He wasn't sure until they pulled over on the side of the road and pulled knives on him. Took his wallet, phone, and anything else they could sell, and left him out in the dark, lost in a country he didn't know.
After what felt like hours of walking, he saw headlights down the road. After explaining his situation, that he needed to get home but didn't have the money to travel, the driver brought him to a motel and paid for his room, promising to drive him to the city in the morning. But when they woke up the next morning, the hallways were full of the infected. After a few minutes of panic, they found a way to climb down from the window and drove off, heading for the border.
Clueless as he was at the time, Richard didn't know anything about the sickness that had been spreading through the countries surrounding them, and that had now finally reached them. So the driver filled him in as they drove along the coast, unknowingly heading for Chernarus.
They eventually banded together with other survivors and started to accept the new state of the world. By winter, there were fourteen of them. Just a mismatched group of survivors trying to make it, wandering the roads.
Like everyone else, they lost people along the way. Some died, some left, but those who stuck with them got tougher for each day that passed, working together as an organized zombie-slaughtering team.
One night in March, they got ambushed at an abandoned boathouse in the northern part of Chernarus. Richard got away, but lost track of where the others went or how many even survived the attack, and found himself wandering alone.
At thirteen years old, I didn't have many friends. Socializing wasn't exactly my thing, and I had somehow convinced myself in my arrogant little hormonal mind that everyone else was out to get me, or were simply too stupid to be worthwhile. And as a result, my friends weren't much. So there I was, only two weeks away from starting eighth grade and already about to get high for the first time with my two best (and only) friends, Karl and Michael. Karl was a scrawny little fucker, but if you got him heated up he'd take a swing at anyone. He always lost, of course, but that never seemed to matter to him. "It's about the fight", he told me once when we were in our twenties, and he had just been beaten bloody by a guy outside of a bar downtown. I never could figure out just what his deal was.
Michael on the other hand was as tall and bulky as they came, and freakishly so for a thirteen year old. I always wondered if he was held back a year or three. He was pretty fucking stupid, but he always meant well, you know?
"How do I light it?" Karl looked at the badly rolled spliff in his hand, making faces as if he was looking at an creature.
"Moron, give it here." said Michael. "I get the first taste anyway since we're at my house."
Karl reluctantly handed it over to Michael, who carefully lit it with his dad's lighter. The lighter had been easy to steal, as Michael's father was, as he'd always put it, "A very functioning alcoholic!". The rest of us called it "drinking so much that you pass out on the kitchen floor every night, so you wake up closer to your liquor". Michael took every advantage he could for years to come, inviting friends over late at night to drink. They got everything they needed from the fridge downstairs, since his father never remembered just what he had to drink the night before. I had my first drink right there in their living room, twelve years old, next to a passed out middle-aged man who was dangerously close to entering a coma.
Back to that day, Michael took a long drag from the spliff, before passing it to Karl. Karl took a drag, before passing it to me. I held it up to my face. Looked at it. Michael exhaled. I put it between my lips and took a drag. Held in for as long as I could, exhaled, and had another. I passed it back to Michael, leaned back back on the couch and exhaled slowly. I smiled to myself, listening to the Zeppelin record playing in the background, and I remember thinking to myself, "I could really get used to this". I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and smiled. Not once did I realize just how badly I would fall in love with this stuff.