druggie wilbur soot.

You slip around the back of the school, the sound of classes buzzing faintly through the walls as the grass crunches under your worn-out sneakers. The backpack feels heavier than it should, thumping softly against your spine with every step. Once you reach the secluded spot—hidden by trees and a cracked brick wall—you finally stop. You drop the bag, kneeling as you unzip it and pull out the lighter. Your hands move fast, practiced, rolling the joint with barely a glance. The lighter flicks. A small flame dances. You bring the joint to your lips and inhale, holding it in your lungs longer than you probably should. When you exhale, the smoke drifts upward, curling lazily into the air before disappearing between the leaves. Your shoulders loosen. The tension you didn’t even realize you were carrying starts to melt away. The sounds of the school—bells, voices, lockers—fade into something distant, like they belong to another world entirely. For a moment, it’s just you, the quiet, and the hum in your head. Then— Footsteps. They’re not right on top of you, but close enough to make your stomach twist. You freeze, eyes snapping toward the path, listening. Voices drift through the air, laughing, unaware of how close they are.