KENNEDY, joseph michael

[boston]

TWENTY-THREE. RETURNEE. UNDETERMINED. BITTER. JOSH BEECH.
( JOSEPH MICHAEL KENNEDY )

I SEE YOUR EYES, YOU'RE BARELY SOBER.
I HEAR YOUR VOICE, YOU'RE CALLING OUT FROM ME TO YOU.
the character

Antoinette Zozam and Conan Kennedy were a bit shocked to find out about the prxgnxncy in April of 1986. Needless to say, it was a bit of a surprise. The two were fresh out of Boston College of Art and Design, having graduated mere weeks before they consummated their recent engagement. Neither one of them were fully prepared for a family, or at least one that centered around a child. However, their options were limited. Abortion was out of the question, and adoption had one too many set backs. They decided to keep it, and on January 23rd, 1987 Joseph Michael Kennedy was born.

As a result of the unplanned pregnancy of their son Annie and Conan were not necessarily as financially stable as most new parents should have been. This proved to be slightly difficult, seeing as Annie had to stay home with Joe during the early years while Conan pursued his career as an architect for office buildings. This, naturally, rested the entire burden of supporting them on Conan, which proved to be more stressful than could be fathomed. As a single income family, their yearly profit was considerably less than it should have been, forcing them to move from the house in Kingston that Annie and Conan had originally chosen to an apartment of a much smaller scale (and price). Unfortunately, Conan wasn't able to establish himself in the architectural ring quick enough. He was forced to give up his dream, for the sake of paying their rent, and found another job working as the manager for a grocery store chain. Though the paycheck was lower at this new job, it was at the very least guaranteed. By this time, Annie managed to find a job of her own working as a secretary for a dental office.

Joe grew up surrounded in an atmosphere of stress and chaos. His parents were constantly in a heightened state of what seemed to be panic and distress, causing tension to rise along with voices and arguments. Of course, he couldn't possibly comprehend why. All he knew was that neither of his parents seemed to be around all that often. So, he took his own duties upon himself and even at an age as young as four, Joe managed to take care of himself the best he could - even walking to school (which was only a block or two away) on a few occasions when it was necessary.

Kids can be cruel, and that's a fact. Even kids as young as five tend to judge immediately by appearances or the way in which a person holds themselves. For Joe, kindergarten year was the start of everything, and in turn, the end of everything. When the teasing started, it was mainly focused to verbal assaults about his wardrobe choices - the Kennedy's obviously didn't have much money to spend on non-basics such as new clothing, or really anything besides food and their rent. In other words, Joe had to re-wear clothes, sometimes three and four days in a row. And to children, that is almost a mortal sin. Joe hid this from his parents, not wanting to put any more pressure or worry on them. He figured he could simply ignore it; push it to the back of his mind. It seemed to actually work - Joe wouldn't even acknowledge the harsh remarks spat forth from the other boys. He would sit at the picnic table during lunch and read whatever small books were assigned to them for their reading lessons in an attempt to distract himself. He'd figured out how to block it out and almost, in a way, detach himself from reality to avoid getting hurt. This was the start of a pattern he would continue throughout his entire life.

It was the month of December, a few days before Christmas; halfway through his kindergarten year. Joe was asleep in his bed as any normal child would have been at 3:00 in the morning. But the sensation of a large hand clamping down over his mouth, and the rough tugging at his clothes woke him with a start. The pain that followed was something he'd never forget. The guilt and ill feeling that lingered well after the man left was something he still felt to this day, but nothing compared to the sound of his words, with lips pressed against his ear: "It was your fault".

That night, and every other night he felt the hands and heard those words, marked a turning point in the road for Joe. Though, he could never bring himself to hate his father, his father brought him to hate himself. It was only to be expected - what else would a five year old blamed for the entirety of his family's problems do? Just what Joe did, most likely. He shoved it inside, just as he'd done with the teasing at school. And just as he'd done with every emotion he'd ever felt. He jammed in down, and locked it away, hopefully to never see it, feel it, or deal with it again.

The start of eighth grade, Joe met Frankie. Frankie was New York kid, specifically, from Brooklyn. And Frankie had marijuana. They hit it off surprisingly well considering Joe's long-term aversion to conversation. It began, as most school friendships do, with Frankie asking Joe for a pencil in science class. It soon progressed to a piece of paper in english, and even asking for the answer to a problem in math. Soon enough, the two of them were practically inseparable. Hanging out at school, on the weekends, at each others houses. But it was a Friday night, the end of their eighth grade year when Frankie showed the joint to Joe. Joe, of course, had never seen anything like it before, much less even knew what it was. Frankie said it would make you feel good. Joe didn't ask twice. The short piece of rolled up paper was lit, passed, and inhaled. And Joe was immediately infatuated.

Now, the myth about weed addiction has circled around for quite some time. It's been tested, and the official results say that it's not "chemically addictive". Which, compared to other drugs; harder drugs; it isn't. But if you're a fourteen year old boy desperately searching for some kind of way to deal with the rotten hand life dealt you, then you're going to latch onto whatever you find with all you've got. And that is addiction in it's purest form.

His use of weed was surprisingly kept under tight wraps. Joe managed to keep his loser stigma free from the stoner label, at least for a while. At the end of eighth grade, however, Frankie moved back to Brooklyn, leaving Joe to take on a new school and and an entirely new atmosphere by himself. Feeling vulnerable and, for lack of a better term, petrified, Joe retreated back once more into the shell from which Frankie pried him from. This time, only peeking his head out to obtain a few grams of the plant that nearly kept him sane.

Once more, the first two years of high school were trapped in a haze - this time, one containing much more THC than anyone should be consuming. It was his attempts at numbing himself; at escaping further from reality. And, although his intelligence was remarkably high, his grades suffered immensely. Mainly from his apathy and lack of motivation to complete any of the assignments that were given to him. His one goal in life was to get as baked as he possibly could, and to forget even more. Everything else had taken the back-burner. Fortunately for Joe, it was around this time that the abuse finally came to an absolute halt, however the damage had already been done, and it was nearly irreversible. No one ever knew about it, that is save for Joe and his father. And to this day it remains under tight lock and key.

It was around the beginning of his junior year when he introduced to prescription medications. He'd met a group of kids in his sophomore year that were into weed just as much as he was. Naturally, they hit it off, almost as well as Joe had with Frankie. They all smoked each other out on a regular basis, though not much conversation was shared. They were all more or less "drug buddies", and only got together when they needed something. Joe had no problem with this. In fact, he almost preferred it in contrast to normal, healthy friendships. No one shared about themselves, and no one asked. Why? Because no one cared. And Joe was just like them. Though, the day one of them brought to school an orange pill bottle filled with small white tablets was the day that they were offered to Joe. And that was the day that he accepted. In the bathroom during lunch, he and a few other of the boys swallowed a good number of oxycodone. A good number being nine or ten. The other boys were experienced in this sort of excessive drug use, but Joe was only familiar with weed, and popping ten oxys was something that would sure have extremely negative repercussions. And sure enough, it did. As he sat down in his desk for his algebra II class, it hit him like a truck. Sweating and coughing, Joe was fairly lightheaded when he made the decision to make a run for it to the bathroom. Inevitably, he didn't quite make it, and ended up vomiting near the doorway and promptly collapsing.

911 was immediately called, and so were his parents who nearly rushed to the hospital. While Joe was having his stomach pumped, Annie and Conan were briefed on the situation by the principal. The punishment was as follows: One month in school suspension. All work missed has zero opportunity to be made up for a grade. Required Saturday detention for, also, the duration of one month. They all agreed it was more than appropriate for the rather large scene Joe had caused by the overdose.

As if the school's reprimands weren't enough, his reputation was now officially tainted and Joe was now permanently branded a "burn-out". But, rather than take it offensively, he found it almost humorous. He wondered why it had taken the school's population so long to figure that out. As time ticked by, and the days dragged on, Joe did become tired of the jeering (in that similar fashion of his kindergarten class). He became bitter and resentful, not just towards his peers, but towards his parents, and even himself. This complete turn around from the quiet, reserved boy can't be pinpointed to an exact date or occasion. But it can safely be assumed that it was a transformation that was long overdue.

He began to lash out in the form of his own verbal harassment, even going so far as to shoulder check individuals into the lockers. Ironically, the kids he took his frustration out on were the kids who painfully reminded him of himself when he was younger. This wasn't a conscious decision, but the mind is indeed a mysterious thing. Even though his first experience with pills wasn't one to necessarily brag about or even to have a fond memory of, he continued to use them. He smartened up, though, remembering to build up his tolerance before going to ten pills at once. Soon, he was there. And then not long after, he was taking fifteen, and twenty. He'd turned himself into some kind of walking zombie, simply existing rather than actually living. He'd succeeded in his goal, and sickeningly enough he was almost content. The people around him, however, weren't as stupid as he took them for. They caught on to his scheme, including his parents. And for once, they actually did something right.

As Joe's junior year came to a close, both Annie and Conan sat him down. They informed him that they were sending him to a free rehabilitation clinic up in New York City, and that he had no choice in the matter. Of course, Joe protested. After years of desperate searching he'd finally found the one thing that worked and it was getting stripped away from him. Just like that. What made matters worse was looking his father dead in the eye and hearing him say the words "We love you." Joe spat at the man, and almost like a match held too close to a can of gasoline, he exploded. He spilled everything that had happened to him from when he was five years old right on the spot, in front of his mother as well. Conan denied it. Annie believed Conan. And Joe stood dumbfounded. She didn't believe him. She thought he was lying, just trying to get attention, or some stupid teenage action such as that. The very next week, Joe was put on a plane and flown to New York, New York and checked into Hazelden for the six month program.

After getting off the pills and completing the six months, he was released to return home, back to Chicago. When he arrived at the same apartment they've lived in since his birth, he seemed changed. He seemed as if he'd actually worked through what he needed to and gotten clean for good. Joe thought so too. He felt better, even slightly happier. But it didn't take long. At eighteen years old, enrolled in his senior year of high school, was when heroin was brought into the picture. It was at a party - an after prom party - and one of Joe's buddies told him he had something to show him. Pushing Joe into the bathroom, he locked the door behind them and proceeded to take out the needle and various ingredients. Having just come out of rehab not even four months prior, Joe was more than apprehensive, but for whatever reason was completely enthralled. It took no more than asking him twice, and he offered his arm out to his friend who injected him with the drug. And that was when the ultimate love affair began.

Every day, which soon grew to be nearly every hour, Joe was in the bathroom shooting himself up. It was unexplainable, the high he got. The warm, flushed feeling that alcohol couldn't even rival, followed by the safe and secure sensation that everything was going to be just fine. It was the comfort he never received as a child and the encouragement he needed to keep pressing on, all wrapped into a tar like substance. Which was then cooked and injected. He made no effort to hide the ever present track marks that dotted the inside of his elbow, embracing the new "junkie" stigma for all it was worth (which, was near to nothing). He was shameless, even around his parents. It was almost his way of getting back at them, which only caused tensions to rise even more than they already were. Emotions were on edge, until one day the back of Joe's hand collided with Annie's cheek. He was extracted from the apartment and their lives for good. With only one month left of his senior year, Joe dropped out to pursue his drug of choice and the new life on the streets of Chicago where he'd promptly made his way to.

Even through his time when he was essentially homeless, he managed to cut a deal with a local heroin dealer, and in exchange for a rather large amount of the drug, all Joe has to do is pay a small price. Ultimately, Joe has resorted to selling himself for it. A few days before his twentieth birthday, he met a girl named Connor who offered him a place to stay. He gratefully accepted, having not quite enjoyed the short months he spent living out of dumpsters and sleeping in the depths of alleyways. Connor was an odd one, almost reminded him of himself. She had a nut case family, and (shockingly enough) willingly support his drug habit. Even going so far as to provide the heroin. Of course, she was a user as well, and in her one room apartment was where Joe experimented with nearly any kind of drug you could possibly imagine. From cocaine, to ecstasy, to acid, to various forms of amphetamines. He took it all; he wanted it all; and sure enough, he got it all. Soon enough, however, Connor left him far behind leaving him to contend with his spiraling way of life all alone once more. But instead of simply coming to terms with the devastation, he picked up and ran away. Back to Kingston; much to the shock (and dismay) of many, many old acquaintances.

SO SAY THAT YOU JUST WANT TO RUN AWAY.
AND REPLAY ALL THE THINGS THAT I TRIED TO SAY.
behind the character

hhey bitches, it's boston and i've been pimpin' these hoes for about seven or eight. i know right, it's great isn't it? need to get a hold of me? hit me up by AIM = throwonepunch; MSN = [e-mail]. i'm also in the new orleans~ time zone just so you know. don't need to be telling you people twice. also meet the rest of my lovely babies, the pope, and sarah palin!

He was never one to spend the duration of his days out and about. He never was, even when he was presumably “free”, or something of the sort. Social interaction was never considered his forte, and nothing was destined to change in the near future…or even in the long term. At least from his perspective. He considered most to be a waste of time and space, and even brain matter. Not that he held himself so far high up on a proverbial pedestal, but he was convinced that common sense was extinct. Not that he enjoyed his own company any more but at the very least it was a slight reprieve.

The last few hours had been mindlessly spent, Joe’s eyes fixed on the old white ceiling tiles above his bed. They almost gave off the cold, distant feeling of those public school classrooms, tainted with grime and dust. Unwelcoming and assuredly brash. He clenched his jaw tightly and glanced off to the side, peeling his bloodshot gaze and his thoughts away from the memories that sharply prodded him without so much as an invitation. School days from years ago were not of his favorite memories to savor – in fact it was quite the opposite. However he did have a terrible knack for digging up things long since buried away that had no business being mulled over any longer. It was almost a habit in a way; something that his brain seemed to have more control over than his own will power – not that his will power had proved to be effective in the least.

But a smirk seemed to immediately tug at the corners of his lips for just a brief moment. Ty had been seated on that couch for a good long while, stuffing pizza into his face and staring intently at a piece of paper. Joe could only imagine what he was doing (and was admittedly only half-aware of the other male), and quite frankly he didn’t want to. Most likely it had something to do with some cooked up conspiracy that he himself deemed insanity. Not that Joe wasn’t any less of a theorist, but after a thirty-two hour meth binge he wasn’t exactly up to mental par. Clearing his throat and squeezing his eyes shut, he rolled over onto his right side facing the wall in a probably futile attempt at catching just a few moments of rest. Sleep was indeed out of the question in itself.

That familiar feeling of sickening regret slithered its way into his chest the longer he laid on the small bed. Though the reason was a bit vague (probably lost somewhere in his drug induced haze) he tried not to pay it much mind. However trying and succeeding are two very different things, and for Joe the latter proved to be almost unattainable in most cases. It was an array of suggestions that seemed to stem from essentially nowhere; a constant reminder that he was indeed a little less than sober. Not that his life wasn’t spent in that manner – in fact, it had flip-flopped the meaning of reality long ago. Normalcy had taken on somewhat of an avant-garde definition leaving in its wake a somewhat disillusioned Joe. He had become the poster-child of an apathetic generation.

His eyes snapped open as he jerked awake, initially unaware that he had fallen asleep at all. It must have been fitful, for the blanket was upturned and crumpled and he found himself staring at the ceiling once again. Not that any sort of sleep he managed to grasp came easily and soundly.He was, for lack of a better word, taken by surprise. After a minute of hitched breathing his chest fell into a normal pattern – one that wasn’t so sped up to suggest anxiety. His mouth felt dry, and the pressure that pulsed against his temples nearly bordered on handing him a generous dose of nausea. Such was life.

After yet another long minute, Joe took it upon himself to sit up, which proved to be no easy task. With a verbal grunt and knitted brows, he slid his legs off the edge of the bed, helping the process along by twisting over to the side and pushing the rest of his body up. He felt stiff – though it was most likely just a self-fulfilling prophecy. ”Where the fuck…” He cut his own comment short as he soon spied the blue and white pack of gourmet Pall Malls resting on the small little nightstand next to the bed. Premium quality cigarettes for premium quality cancer. In other words, he had no qualms about sending himself to an early grave. With the same blank expression that seemed permanently etched into his face, Joe reached a hand and grabbed hold of the pack with quivering fingers. He hadn’t eaten in at least two days, but he had to admit, the lone slice of pizza that was now resting on the carpet squashed any appetite he may have had.

Wrinkling his nose in off-handed disgust he shook off the unsightly slice and fished a cigarette out from the carton. Placing it firmly between his lips he reached down to pat the pockets of his pants in search of the lighter he usual kept on his person, but felt a bit disoriented when he only felt the thin fabric of his boxers beneath his fingers. It was only as he glanced down to survey the situation did he realize that he was half naked, save for the single article of undergarments. And then he made the wisest choice he would make all day – he chose not to analyze the situation any further, and just accept the fact that somehow through the course of yesterday (or was it today?) that he’d been stripped (or stripped himself). Any facts beyond these were just far too much for him to handle. Deciding against standing up and checking the pockets of his pants, Joe simply sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on the tops of his thighs, a slight hunch in his back, and his eyelids blinking rapidly every so often. It wasn’t a well kept secret that his health was as ragged as he looked – from the protruding ribs and chronic dark purple circles underneath his eyes, his condition was painfully apparent.

After yet another minute ticked by, he shifted his gaze to the floor and much to his dismay there lay a small book of matches. By some grace of the almighty above, the journey for the source of fire wouldn’t be a long one. Reaching down he picked it up and flipped it open, and not a second before Joe was preparing to indulge himself in one of earth’s vile pleasures, a crack came from the ceiling. Followed by what he assumed to be a massive dust storm, sheet rock, tile, and presumably batman (judging by the garments). But when the figure rose to brush himself clean, and when the dust had settled over the carpet did Tybalt come into view.

With a match in one hand and the cigarette dangling limply from his lips, Joe’s expression did not waver as he blinked back slowly at his roommate. ”Well, I guess I can’t complain. It was nice of you to drop in.”