"Please, don't do it!", shouted Tim in effort to try to convince the boy who had tripped him to stop kicking his ribs. "You deserve to be f*cked up, kid! One, less, f*ggot, would be, appreciated!", taunted the young male in between aggressive blows to Tim's chest. Tim begged, "Please, no!", but the kicking did not cease.
Two minutes of pain later, the boy stopped hurting Tim for a second and spoke. "Sh*t, gotta go. You're lucky you started f*cking bleeding. Get out of here before I mess you up even more."
Tim remained slumped on the floor. He was relieved to hear that this guy was leaving. He looked up in grimace to see the boy walking away from the alley in which he was casted all those kicks.
Tim lay on the cement floor for a minute, and then remembered why the boy had left him. He peeked into his shirt, and noticed that he had a decent-sized scrape on his chest. He could see larger tissue inside of the small wound, which had created a dry, brick-red stain on his white polo.
"Why...", Tim muttered to himself. "Why?"
Tim slowly stood up, limping over. Once he was barely on his feet, he walked out of the shady alley he was in.
Now out of the alley, Tim made his way over to behind some abandoned hotel dumpsters, all the while getting dirty looks from strangers. "What did I do wrong?", muttered Tim to himself, "Why do I get this type of treatment every day?"
Tim, now behind the large disposal area he called home, sit down and against the dumpster, so that the hotel staff would not arrest him or do whatever he thought the police did to the homeless. He shed a single tear, then turned over to his left side, where he kept his loot. His food. His earnings. Everything he had left.
Tim sighed lethargically, and then grabbed an old needle from his pile of goods. "Well, at least I have you.", Tim thought to himself as he grabbed some heroin which had also been laying around in his supply cache and transferred it into the already-used needle.
He turned his wrist, looking for a vein he had not yet hit.
As he searched his holed-up wrist, Tim became annoyed by the fact that he had run out of good spots to inject his stimulant. "Well, this will have to do,", he said as he placed the needle over an already-hit vein. "This one was good enough."
Tim dozed off into the compressed feeling in his head. It helped him appreciate his life only by a petite amount, but it was worth it, he thought to himself. Drugs made him happy, for he could not experience such state of pleasure and relaxation in the real world.
Ten minutes into the heroin trip, Tim's eyelids grew heavy. He, feeling weak, gave in to his drowsiness. It'll be better, Tim convinced himself. It'll be better.