CHAPTER ONE — SAVIOUR OR GOD COMPLEX?
TW // SUICIDE MENTION, ADDICTION, OVERDOSING, ILLICIT DRUGS.
Jakarta, 27th November 2019.
Draven came home at 6 pm, driving an hour back to his house after confessing what was going on inside his head. All the thesis, the blocked ways, the journeys and attempts he wanted to stop doing, and just took it all in.
He had transferred all of his money to his father, wrote his suicide letter on a small note, which he found was too dramatic, and threw it on the ground. Once he arrived home, he lay down next to his bed, with his back on the wall, staring at the cupboard emptily. Not to mention his mother hugged him as tight as possible once she heard the sound of the motorcycle.
They didn’t say much except trading, “I’m glad you’re here.”
That was also the same night Draven confessed to his mother that he was an addict, since he nearly ended it all; he might as well confess everything until there was nothing to hide anymore between them.
The light flickered as his mother broke down; the sound of his mother yelling echoed through the room. “Kenapa. Mama udah banggain kamu ke semua orang, mama kira kamu anak baik-baik.”
It wasn’t that smooth since every syllable was disrupted by her hiccups and yelling, screaming, and prayers, asking God why. As if He had an answer to this.
He couldn’t do anything except stare at the same cupboard; he hadn’t moved an inch, barely blinking. It was suffocating, not because of his thoughts but because of his mother. It felt like he had wasted such a loving mother. He destroyed her completely that night.
She told him as she calmed down, her words were no longer fumbling, her tone was sweet, yet there was something to it; Mama kabur kalau kamu gini lagi, jangan berharap bisa ketemu mama seumur idup kamu.
And that was the night, the same night where he was so sure he should’ve ended it at five pm.
Jakarta, 7th December 2019.
It was the second time he was rushed to the ER due to overdosing. He had taken around thirteen pills of benzos. And it was the same night he went to rehab. Again, his mother stayed beside him, all the words spilled from her lips of how much she loved him and how thankful she was to have a son like him.
His dad was working as Draven, and his mother both took a taxi to the psych ward. He sat in the passenger seat, plugging in his earphones and playing “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon, remembering how his family would sing it to little him, especially his dad.
Draven knew once his dad went home and heard this news, he would be shattered inside and out. He destroyed him completely that night.
The next day he proved himself right. His parents visited him; both looked like they hadn’t slept the whole night.
Dad hugged him tightly without saying a word as soon as they both met. He looked so old and weak, and it hit him: he was making it way harder in his old age.
He should’ve enjoyed spring somewhere, or at least lived by the shore, but there he was, hugging his addict son who didn’t know who he was without the pills.
When he got home from rehab, dad had taken all his benzos and promised to kick himself out of the house if he ever touched a pill again.
And that was the night, the same night where he was so sure he should’ve ended it at five pm.
(End of Throwback)
Draven slumped back on the couch; he told his lover that he had to go to work. But here he was, in the same apartment where he found himself filthy just like every day.
“DH, someone on the door, a random frat boy,” someone mumbled. Draven had been smoking a few blunts, which gave him relaxing breath to pull and push. There were two guys blacked out due to Molly and alcohol intoxication.
It was normal here.
“Are Chase and Tracy here?” Draven replied as he got up from the couch, leaving two guys there unconscious.
“Yeah.”
“Told them to accompany me.”
Draven never went alone trading drugs and packs without his friends outside this room. If he didn’t recognize the faces or the name, he would tell everyone to build up walls high.
He got up from the couch of the abandoned-not-really apartment room, where one spring had punched through the cushion and the curtains smelled faintly of rain. Chase and Tracy were already walking ahead of him, moving through the narrow hallway like they had been hired to escort a secret instead of a twenty-year-old with a backpack.
The apartment belonged to nobody in any official sense. The electricity worked when it felt generous. A dead plant leaned toward the window. Somewhere behind the bathroom wall, pipes knocked at regular intervals, as if the building had a pulse it was trying to hide.
Draven adjusted the backpack against his shoulder. He never sold weed, or anything else, to unfamiliar faces. Not because he was careful by nature. Careful people did not end up in rooms like this. He simply preferred knowing who might remember his face later. That was why Chase and Tracy came along, broad-shouldered and silent, his friends by technicality and bodyguards by necessity.
The buyer waited alone near the kitchen, wearing a fraternity sweatshirt too clean for the apartment.
“Show me your ID,” Chase mumbled.
The frat guy looked from Chase to Tracy, then to Draven. His mouth tightened.
“Do I really need to do this?”
“Yeah, do you want the weed or no?” Draven mumbled.
For a moment, nobody moved. The pipes knocked again. Then the stranger reached into his pocket, and Draven wondered whether the room had ever been abandoned at all, or merely left waiting.
The stranger reached into his pocket and handed over a laminated card.
Draven took it before Chase could. He checked the photograph, the date, the state seal. The name blurred into the other details, too small beneath the weak yellow light. He turned it once, then again, as if a different angle might make the letters matter.
“Where do I know you from?” Draven asked.
The frat boy shifted his weight. Up close, he looked younger than his sweatshirt had suggested, though the confidence was still there, stretched over him like something borrowed.
“Blamore,” he said.
Tracy glanced at him. “Isn’t that Blasty?”
“Yeah,” Draven said. He looked back at the stranger. “Do you know his full name?”
“Blamore Green or something,” the frat boy replied.
Chase made a quiet sound through his nose. The pipes knocked behind the bathroom wall, steady and dull.
Draven handed the ID back. “Where is he?”
The frat boy pointed toward the room at the end of the hall. Music leaked through the door, a thin bass line vibrating in the walls. Draven walked in without knocking.
The room was crowded now. Bodies had gathered around a coffee table stained with old rings and newer ash. Someone had opened the window, but the air still smelled of sweat, smoke, and the sour remains of cheap beer. Blasty sat on the floor with his back against the couch, staring down at a phone that was not doing anything.
“Blasty.”
He looked up, blinking slowly.
Draven grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Blasty stumbled, laughed once, then stopped when he saw Chase standing in the doorway.
“Come outside.”
“What?”
“Outside.”
Draven dragged him through the hallway and onto the narrow landing. The rain had left the railing slick. Below them, the street shone under the lamps, empty except for a shopping cart tipped against the curb.
“Do you know this guy?” Draven asked.
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Blasty rubbed the front of his shirt where it had twisted in Draven’s hand. “Yeah.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
The frat boy appeared behind them, holding his ID and trying to look as if nothing unusual had happened. Draven watched the exchange closely. Blasty nodded at him, and the boy relaxed.
The rest went quickly. Blasty produced the ounce, wrapped tight and divided into smaller bags, enough for roughly sixty joints if somebody had the patience to roll them. The frat boy counted out a hundred dollars in wrinkled bills. It was cheaper than even the illegal market, which made Draven suspect either desperation or stupidity. Maybe both.
After the money disappeared and the boy went back inside, the landing grew quiet again. Music thudded through the wall.
Draven turned to Blasty. “You gave a random kid the address?”
Blasty frowned. “I didn’t give him anything.”
“You gave him this place.”
Blasty looked past him toward the apartment door. “He came here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“He came here, and then I was slumped out.”
Draven stared at him. The music inside had changed to something with a heavier bass, each beat traveling through the floorboards and into the soles of their shoes.
“Slumped out how?”
Blasty rubbed his face. His pupils looked too small, and his mouth kept pulling into a smile that did not belong there. “Fent.”
The word sat between them.
Draven felt the anger arrive before the fear had finished forming. “You took fentanyl?”
Blasty shrugged.
“You took fentanyl, passed out, and let some random guy find you?”
“He saved me,” Blasty said. “The guy saved me.”
“Where did you get it?”
Blasty laughed softly. It was the kind of laugh that made Draven want to shake him. “Around.”
“Where?”
“From the place with the stuff.”
Draven stepped closer. “What place?”
Blasty’s smile widened. He seemed delighted by the question, as if Draven had given him a riddle he already knew the answer to. “You sell cheap drugs. You should know where drugs are.”
“Blasty.”
“You’re always asking people what they want. Weed, pills, powder. Whatever. You act like you know everything.”
Draven grabbed his arm. Blasty glanced down at the hand, then back at him.
“I told you if you take fent or any kind of drugs, do it here, so I can watch you.”
His voice came out louder than he intended. Chase appeared in the doorway, and Tracy stood behind him, looking down the stairs toward the street.
Blasty pulled his arm free. “You weren’t here, okay? No one was here. You were out there being perfect and doing your normal people job.”
“Yeah, I have a life out there. I have a boyfriend. I have bills to pay.”
“Well, sorry then if I don’t have a life and I’m homeless and I’m basically shit like this.” Blasty spread his hands, almost losing his balance. “You are so perfect, huh? Aren’t you? Acting like you are our savior just because you sell cheap drugs and take care of us.”
The word savior struck harder than it should have.
Draven looked through the open doorway. The apartment seemed smaller now, crowded with smoke and faces that would forget this night by morning. On the coffee table, a needle lay beside a crushed can. Nobody had bothered to hide it.
“I’m the person who keeps you alive when you do stupid things. I give you and everyone a place to live.”
Blasty stared at him. For a second, the anger in his face went quiet, replaced by something tired and almost frightened. Then he looked away.
“Alright, whatever. Sorry, okay, Mr. Perfect.”
He pushed past Draven and walked inside his room.
The door did not slam. That made it worse.
The whole apartment had been watching. Chase stood near the entrance with his arms folded, his expression unreadable. Tracy remained by the stairs, one hand resting on the railing. The frat guy had disappeared into the kitchen, but Draven could hear him moving around, pretending not to listen. Even the people gathered around the coffee table had gone still.
The music kept playing from somebody’s phone, but it sounded distant now. A bass line repeated beneath the silence, too soft to cover anything.
Draven stayed in the doorway.
On the table, the needle was still there beside the crushed can. The sight of it made his stomach tighten. He had seen worse things in that apartment. He had cleaned blood from the bathroom floor. He had found Chase asleep with a belt around his arm and Tracy shaking so hard she could not hold a cup. He had called people, watched them breathe, watched them stop breathing, and learned which ones could be pulled back and which ones could not.
He had told himself this place was safer than the street.
He gave them somewhere to sleep. He made sure they had food when he could afford it. He kept naloxone in the kitchen drawer and carried extra doses in his backpack. He asked what they were taking, how much they had taken, and whether anybody had seen the batch before.
But he also kept everything available.
Weed. Pills. Powder. Whatever somebody asked for. He called it harm reduction when he explained it to himself. If they were going to use, they should use where he could see them. If they were going to buy, they should buy from him instead of a stranger who might lace everything with something worse.
It sounded right.
It also sounded exactly like an excuse.
Draven stepped away from the room. Nobody stopped him. He walked through the apartment, past the dead plant and the couch with the broken spring, then out the front door into the wet night.
Behind the building, the rain had collected in shallow puddles along the brick wall. The air smelled like mud, rust, and old cigarette smoke. Draven took a pack from his pocket and tapped one loose against the cardboard. His fingers shook slightly as he lit it.
The first drag burned his throat. He held the smoke in anyway.
What was he doing right?
He looked up at the dark windows of the apartment. From back there, the building seemed empty, almost peaceful. Nothing moved behind the glass.
Draven exhaled and watched the smoke disappear into the cold air.
Maybe keeping them alive was not the same as taking care of them. Maybe it was only the part he knew how to do.
