Every day was the same. Wake, survive, repeat. He felt as though he had fallen between the cracks of life and no one could see him. He wasn't even screaming for help anymore. Life was simple, but no less stressful. Will I get robbed tonight? Will there be a bed available? What if I miss the one meal a day? Am I gonna be stuck at the Shelter forever? Darien had thought that running away would be liberating, but all it seemed to have done lately was increase his stress and depression. He should have known this - living at a Homeless Shelter isn't freeing at all. Over the course of the week, he felt a need to numb these feelings ... he wanted to drink so badly.

It was late in the evening as he sat on the floor, charging his dead iPhone. He couldn't make calls with it, or use it for much of anything except as an iPod which he currently was as he waited. The bags under his eyes made him look five years older (and he truly felt like it), so while he managed to always find a way to keep his clothes clean, his face told another story.

In a way, his soul didn't feel clean either.

"Excuse me, sir?" He hears a woman over his music and looking up, an elderly face greets him with a big smile. He pulls out his headphones, and before he even has a chance to say anything, she's reaching for his hands to place something in them. "This is for you." It's about $40, and Darien is both grateful and confused. He had seen this woman volunteering here before, in her fancy clothes and leaving in her Porsche, but he had never seen her giving out money. She must be kicking the bucket soon. He thanks her, shyly, "Now you spend that on something nice, like a pair of new shoes - no drugs! Okay?" He looks at his torn, red skater shoes and feeling insulted by her comment because hey, he loved these shoes. With a smirk he agrees and she walks off. Now I have to spend it on drugs .. pretentious, bitch!

In a split second, he's unplugged his phone, grabbing his backpack and walking out of the Shelter in a fast pace. The urge was overpowering and now all he needed to do was decide where to get his fix. He could feel a binge coming on and this woman who thought she was helping just gave him the money to have one. He walks for maybe an hour, looking at bars (and most seemed upscale) and getting frustrated. He finds himself downtown, it's lively and crowded and Darien can feel his anxiety kicking in. In a last ditch attempt, he chooses a random bar called Alco-hole (he doesn't even notice the humor in it). Once inside, it's rather dark. It's still nice, a place for business men to come after office and have a drink or two. Alternative music plays. Taking a moment to decide what to do, he goes straight to the bar and takes a seat.

He picks a stool in the very back, cornered at the curve of the bar, to try and remain anonymous during this binge. When the waitress comes over, he removes his headphones, shoving them into the pockets of his hoodie and he knows what he wants. "How much is a shot of Fireball?" She's young, new and makes the 'ummm' sound. "Nevermind, I see it's $20 for a bottle on the shelf. Give me a bottle of Fireball and then pour me $15 of straight shots of your cheapest vodka, and give me a Bud Light." He slaps the $40 on the table and she greedily takes it, opening up his beer and handing it to him. Darien himself in a selfish manner reaches for it and meets half way and takes it from her, quickly downing it as she lines up 4 shots in front of him.

He takes off his red beanie and places it on the table, his blonde hair messy and his five o'clock shadow illuminated by the soft lights of the bar. He unzips his brown hoodie jacket to showcase an inexpensive blue t-shirt underneath. His tan skinny jeans finish off his attire, and looking around, he suddenly feels the weight of how much he didn't belong here, red skater shoes tapping on the metal of the stool he was sitting on.

The waitress is looking for his cheap vodka, hearing a group of three men in suits calling her, she ignores them at first. With a crappy paper bag she puts his Fireball Whisky in it in front of him first, and he watches as she gets anxious and starts pacing the shelf, looking for that vodka still. The men get louder. "DEBBIE! WE WANT THREE MORE BEERS!" She motions that she hears them and for them to wait. The chaos is getting to her.

The three men see Darien staring at them and he breaks eye contact immediately, finishing his beer as he sees the loud, obnoxious one get up and begin walking towards him. No, no .. please, no ... SHIT! "Never seen you here, kid, you one of those computer nerds that works downtown?" Darien's lips fold and his eyes get wide, his heart pounding a million miles. He reaches for the Fireball, opens it and takes a rather large drink. The man laughs, impressed or simply amused. "I'm just here to fuel my alcoholism like everyone else." The smile on the man's face disappears and he gets in close. "You calling me an alcoholic?" SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! By this time, 'Debbie' was pouring his 4 shots with what smelt like rubbing alcohol and he goes to grab them, but the man gets to them first and rudely, he downs all 4 of them.

Darien is about to just cry and get up and leave when the confrontation continues. The man sees the Hospital band around Darien's wrist and points at it. "You wanna go back to the Hospital tonight, asshole?" Darien shakes his head no, inside he's begging, screaming for him to walk away...and part of him wants to have the courage to tell him to pay for those shots, but he doesn't ... he can't. Even Debbie is useless as she just walks off to go serve someone else at the bar. Darien is left to deal with this on his own and he doesn't even know what to say or do.