Dangerous Minds

© Sweet Kisses™

~*~

Nick sat in his room, toying with his Swiss army knife. His blonde hair fell into his eyes as he did this, playing with the idea of self-mutilation, like he had done so many times before. Playing with it so much so that he wanted it bad, and he wanted it now. He needed it, it was his sanctuary away from the hell-hole he was living in.

He held the knife down to his wrist that was held out in front of him. He sucked in his breath as he lowered it further down. His heart was racing. He could feel a bead of perspiration build on his brow.

"Just fucking do it!" he ordered himself.

He was diagnosed a masochist just weeks ago and was now forced to attend a rehabilitation week at his psychologist's holiday house. He didn't want to. He tried to object as much as he could. Finally, it was his mother's words that were the final nails in the coffin.

His coffin.

"Please, baby, I want you to go," she had pleaded with him in a gentle 'I-really-do-care' voice. "Please, do this for me. I don't want to see you hurt yourself anymore."

"Damn mother," he snapped in a harsh tone. "Wish I could slice HER to pieces."

Finally, the cold metal blade touched his skin. He pushed down on it with force, and quickly. He felt relief as he saw the incision, which was followed by a tiny river of deep red blood. He held his wrist up to his mouth and began to suck on the cut.

After a few moments, he dashed into the bathroom and wrapped a small bandage around it. He looked in the mirror and smiled.

If his trusty Swiss army knife made an appearance, he could possibly get through the week at Dr Sheffield's.

~**~

"You have to go! You're on drugs, you're spaced out all the time. You're either always stoned, high or in the midst of it. You need help!"

Kevin threw a shirt into his bag as he said this in a high female voice, trying to impersonate his mother. How dare she make him go to a psychologist, anyway? What kind of a mother was she? So what if he was constantly high or forever stoned? It made him happy, she should be supportive.

"Supportive," he scoffed, "yeah fucking right!"

His mother had thought maybe rehabilitation might help him, but he didn't believe in that whatsoever. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to see that pesky doctor again, she was a total bitch! Asking him all those personal things...shit!

Where the hell did she get off, anyway?

Some nerve she had!

He hated being famous. He hated being recognised everywhere he went. He hated being asked for an autograph all the time. He hated being asked what his favourite colour was. He hated being asked if he liked Nsync. He hated it all!

His eyes came across a little plastic bag sticking out of his draw. He took it out and stared at it in his hands. It was a small plastic bag with a small contents. White powdery contents, no less. He sat down and placed it in front of him.

Oops, he forgot his mirror and knife.

He jumped up and grabbed his little compact mirror out of the bathroom and ran into the kitchen to find a knife. Sitting down once again, he let a small portion of white powder drift out onto the mirror. He began to sift through it with the knife, very meticulously.

Leaning over the mirror, he closed one nasal passage with his finger and inhaled deeply with the free one, his eyes tightly closed. An exhilarating rush ran through him and he leaned back against the sofa with a small smile.

Breathing deeply, he allowed himself to ride the crest of ecstasy. If his little white friend accompanied him on this trip, he could definitely see himself getting through it.

Definitely.

~***~

"Where the fuck is my J.D?"

A.J asked this to himself sleepily as he slowly woke up from an alcohol-induced slumber and staggered into the lounge room with a throbbing headache. There were about ten empty bottles of beer lying around the lounge room and a few empty bottles of various liquor, ranging from red wine to Jack Daniel's, his personal favourite.

He began to get uptight. He had no alcohol. Anywhere. None in his room.

"Shit!" he screamed and threw a bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall.

He tried to remember something his mother or his shrink had told him. Something about him being a raging alcoholic. Something about how he needed help. Something about how he needed to go into rehab. Something about how he was dangerous.

"Whadda load'a shit!" he slurred.

He didn't need rehab, he wasn't dangerous. Sure, he almost committed vehicular manslaughter, but what did that matter? It wasn't as if someone had actually died! They were all completely overreacting.

What he needed was a drink.

He stumbled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter before reaching out for the handle on the fridge. Placing his body weight against the cold chrome, he opened it slowly and almost felt relief when he saw a bottle of wine that was half-full. He would've felt relief if it hadn't have been for his constant hangover.

Sculling the contents quickly, he decided that if he could just grab some booze on the way to Dr Sheffield's, life would be pretty cosy.

~****~

"Thou God, who art in heaven..."

Christian music was playing softly as Brian sat on the beige carpet with his legs crossed, a few white candles around him. He was praying for world peace, and himself. Of course, his other four best friends, too. They were all so evil! Sleeping with all these girls, taking all these drugs, drinking all the time...

They were contaminating him and it was up to Brian to save them.

And himself.

"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done..."

So what if he was praying and chanting all the time, and his favourite bedtime possession was his bible? So what if he prayed a million times a day? So what if he carried his bible everywhere he went? So what if he never had a drink in his life? So what if he never used profanity? So what if he'd never slept with a girl before?

Did that mean he needed rehab?

No. 

"Deliver us from evil..."

He wasn't a threat. He wasn't dangerous. He wasn't a danger to anybody. He was a modern-day evangelist, he was here to protect people. God had put him on this earth as an extension of himself. He was here to save the world from evil!

He was God's son.

"All these things, I ask in your name..."

If he just had his bible, his Christian music and his white candles with him, he knew God would protect him and see him through.

"Amen."

~*****~

"Need porn, need porn, need porn..."

Howie sat down on the lounge and stared at the pile of magazines in front of him. His breathing eventuated in short, stifled gasps. Relief. He needed relief. He needed it badly. He needed relief to survive.

He needed sex.

Since there was nobody around, he decided to substitute a human for a smut magazine. That was normal. It was usually what he did when he actually couldn't get some action. Literal action, that is.

Did that mean he needed help? No. Did that mean he had to see a shrink? No. Did that mean he had to spend a week in rehab? No.

So why was his mother and his psychologist so hell-bent on making him go?

So what if he was addicted to sex?

Sex was one of the most natural things in the world. The best thing in the world, to him anyway. It was completely normal to like, or love, sex all the time. They were all probably just jealous because he was getting some and they weren't! They were all prudes, no wonder! Of course they'd be jealous!

He picked up a magazine and opened it up to the centrefold. He stared at the naked girl in the picture, turning his head from side to side, his eyes misting over with lust. His heart began to race. He began to dream of this particular girl. Her holding onto him, kissing him, touching him, her...

"Oh shit!" he gasped and raced for the bathroom with the magazine in hand.

Perhaps if these little joys made the trip also, this trip away might actually turn out to be fun.

~******~