Note: This is the prequel to a lengthy, semi-fiction story that I plan to span across many different genres including BDSM, threesomes, and a few others. This part, however, will be non-sexual, although it will deal with drugs, family issues, and underage children (again, NONSEXUAL.). I plan to tell three different origin stories of three main characters, as detailed as I can, in the order I myself experienced them. However, due to me being the narrator, my story will probably be the most detailed, and for that, I apologize in advance. Names have been changed to protect all characters.
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Part 1: My Beginnings.
I grew up in a trailer in a small rural town in Alabama, the son of two surveyors. One was a blonde, rather large female, one who tried her hardest to raise me correctly, despite my father, a scrawny, dark-haired drunken redneck with two kids from a previous marriage, both roughly 10 years older than I. My father left days before my 7th birthday, and showed up for maybe thirty minutes. My mother and I moved into a small duplex one town over, where I lived from 7 to 15. During this time, my mother went to a nearby college while still trying to work in town at my grandfather's small motor repair shop. I helped when I could, but eventually my grandfather retired, allowing my mother to focus on her degree. She eventually graduated with a bachelor's in psychology. Unfortunately, all that time spent going to college left me alone fairly often, and one night after a phone fight with my father, I fled the house. Distraught, I wandered to the park, where at almost 9 at night, an old friend of mine (for the purposes of this story, we'll call him M)saw me as he and an older friend drove by. Seeing me in visual anguish, he offered me a small needle of black tar heroin.
Heroin was a great crutch for missing both parents, and I was able to hide my habit from my mother for quite a while, mainly due to my major fear of needles and subsequent switch to snorting it. I did, however, become strapped for cash, and M offered me a sweet deal. Stay at the same park we had met that night at for a while, and hand someone in particular an envelope with some money in exchange for a paper bag of marijuana. While sitting in a tube, reading schoolyard graffiti and waiting, three young girls, only a year younger than I, climbed up the play set and struck up a conversation with me, despite nervous giggles about me being a serial killer. One in particular drew my attention, and I later began talking to her on a fairly regular basis. Her name, I soon found, was Allie.
Part 2: Allie
Allie, a short, larger girl who grew into a (relative to me) short, curvy woman, was the main object of my attention. With her brown hair, glasses, fairly open mind, slightly kinky (She was a pre-vert, we'd later joke), and being rather cute, I had a crush on her for quite a while. With parents divorced and a drunken father, we had quite a bit of common ground, which I attempted to leverage into a relationship. She wound up dating a close friend, J. Still living by the ever-present 'bro code', I knew that attempting a relationship after that would cause a major rift, so I cut my losses and wound up missing her for years. We still flirted, although I was rather new to the subject, my only sexual education coming from porn and tales from my friends. Unfortunately for me, she went to live with her mother in California for a while, which at that age, may have well have been Mars. So, I went on, living for drugs.
Part 3: My Formative Years
That one drug trade led to more, and soon, I was a proud, bandanna carrying gang member at roughly 13. Many doubt this, but who would you expect to have a packet of cocaine under his scrotum, a 13 year old barely pubescent kid or a 17 year old with a record? I made money in this lucrative trade, carrying everything from harmless marijuana to prescription pills to GHB and PCP, often tasting the goods before the sale. Only one proved to be truly addictive, though, and I soon found most of the money I made going into heroin instead of my pocket or 'accidentally' leaving small bills around the house in a rather futile attempt to stave off food stamps. Quite a while passed, including some things I'm not and never will be proud of, but one thing I was proud of was football. Being a roughly 200 pound kid, football had always been available, but it wasn't until a friend dared me to sign up that I started. So I did, and hated every minute of it. Trembling and sweating more than I could ever remember, I trudged back to the field house, ready to quit, until I heard some other kids placing bets on who would quit first. My name popped up rather frequently, and I resolved to stay in as long as possible. I struggled to keep up with the pack, while also dealing with withdrawal symptoms from my decision to quit heroin after M's death in a drug deal one wrong (his death signified the end of our drug ring), but eventually made it to the first game. We won it handily, and on the bus back, everyone was cheerful and brotherly. I knew that feeling of belonging in a group like this, but this time, it was a team, not a gang. I kept playing all the way to high school, where, on the first day of 9th grade, I met Quinn.
