The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part three - Released But Not Free

The day I got out —
I skipped.

Honestly, I bounced out of that place like my feet were made of springs.
After everything, it was finally over.
And somehow… I managed to stay out too.
Beggars belief — but it’s true.

And waiting for me outside… was my brother.

I hadn’t seen much of him while I was inside — and I get it now.
He’d had his own shit going on. His own spot of bother.
As I was getting locked up, he was coming to the end of his own sentence.
He was trying to stay out, keep quiet, and forget that part of his own story.

I was probably the last thing he needed now.
But he still came.

And when I saw him, standing there outside the gates —
He handed me a big fat spliff.

Welcome back, little bro.

I don’t know what I was thinking.
What I had planned.
How I thought life would unfold from here.

I draw a blank when I try to remember.
And maybe that’s because… I wasn’t thinking.
I was just living again.
Back out in the world. Out of the cage. That was enough.

While I was inside, I’d reached out to an old foster family — people who’d said they’d help me when I got out.
I didn’t want to go back into the care system.
And I think they were happy to help. Maybe.
Maybe it was through the system — I’m not even sure anymore.
At nearly sixteen, I wouldn’t have been with them long through social services anyway.

All I know is, I had somewhere to land.
And at that point, that felt like everything.

And all I really remember of that time… is the collapse of it.

I was maybe two weeks into being there — if that.

Every time they went out, I’d jump straight on the phone and ring a girl in Ireland.
I’d run up the bill, thinking they wouldn’t notice.
Or maybe not caring either way.

One day, the foster dad pulled a sneaky.
He crept back into the house without me realising.
Turned out he’d been trying to call and the line was engaged — for what must’ve been over an hour.

He walked in, hung up the phone, and lost it.

I left.
That was that.

They tried to get me back — social workers, calls, probably more than I know.
But I was having none of it.

There was no way I was answering to that fuck-up I made.
And truthfully?
I didn’t want to be there anyway.

From this point on, everything gets a bit messy.

I’ve done my best to piece it together — to keep some kind of order to the timeline —
but I can’t promise it’s all in the right place.

I know I’ve said this before, but it matters to me:
the timeline might be out,
some of the stories might be misordered —
but everything I’m telling you is real.
And it’s true to my memory.

This is how I lived it.
And this is how I remember it.

That lad who first introduced me to heroin —
it was his mum who took me in next, I think.

He wasn’t around — I don’t know where he was — but I remember living there.
And I’ll never forget her help.

As much as some of our parents struggled, they all loved us.
They were doing their best at any given moment — and she was no exception.

I don’t know how long I stayed, but I was there for a little while.
And what stands out from that time —
Speed.

Amphetamine.

I’d been given a fat lump of “pink champagne” — a dry, chalky lump that had once been paste, I’d later learn.
But this was my first time.
And of course — I fucking loved it.

The high was intense. Sharp. Clean. Pure adrenaline.
I don’t think I slept for a couple of days.

I remember sitting up, wired, playing some skateboarding game until I had blisters on my thumbs.
True story.

I spent hours drawing — just scribbles, thinking I was some budding artist.
And when I did try to sleep, I’d turn the lights off…
Only to start tripping, panicking in the dark, and leaping back up to turn them on.

Fuck, that was scary.

One day, for whatever reason, I decided to go back to my old school.
I walked in like I belonged there. Somehow managed to hide the state I was in — or so I thought.
Mingled with old teachers, chatted with students I’d once sat in lessons with.

Looking back now, I don’t know how I wasn’t removed from the building.
But I wasn’t.

I don’t even remember leaving.
Don’t remember going “home.”

But I’m pretty sure that was the day the speed finally wore off.
And I finally — finally — slept.

There’s one more memory from that time.
Valium.
And alcohol.

And then — blackout.

I don’t remember much. Just snippets.
Nothing clear.
Just flashes, like half-dreams stitched together with fear.

The next day, I remember a knock at the door.
It was the police.

They said they’d been told about a break-in — and that I had something to do with it.
I didn’t remember anything clearly. I denied it.
I wasn’t lying — not exactly.
I just… didn’t know.

Looking back now, if I’m honest…
I think I did it.

But it didn’t come back to me until much later —
little flashbacks, broken fragments of a night.
Not that day. Not then.
But sometime later, when the high had long worn off and the silence had room to speak.

nothing came of it anyway.

From there, I fell in with a group of people I started taking a lot more with — more speed, more pills, more of everything really. I was getting half ounces of bass — pure amphetamine paste — and fifty pills at a time. I’d sell a few bits here and there, just enough to fund the rest. And then I’d neck the rest.

I ended up staying at one particular house most nights — maybe even living there. It was just a blur of weed, bass, pills, and chaos. We stayed stoned and high almost constantly. The highs were wild. Full-on hallucinations. Days without sleep. It was madness — and it became routine. High for days, crash, recover, repeat.

I don’t know how long that went on for. But it was long enough.

And that’s where heroin almost got me.

Over the course of about a week, I dabbled. Not once. Not twice. I think it was every day — sniffing it, smoking it. Smack. I was messing with it like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t grab hold.

Then one day, I caught my reflection.

Just one look in the mirror — and it hit me.

I saw a version of myself I didn’t recognise. Or rather… one I did. One from a future I didn’t want to live. Something in me snapped. It was like my soul stood up and said, No. Not this road. Not now.

And that was it. That was the last time.

I never touched heroin again.

I’ve always counted my blessings when I look back at that moment.

Since then, I’ve lost people. Loved ones. Close, dear friends — including the very one who first introduced me to it.

All gone. Taken in the name of addiction. Taken by heroin.

I had more than a lucky escape — I was spared. And without that moment of clarity, that glimpse in the mirror, that nofrom deep within my soul… I honestly don’t think I’d be here now. I wouldn’t be telling this story. Wouldn’t be sharing any of this with you.

So let’s take a minute.

Let that soak in.

I know I will.

Somehow… somewhen… I found myself turning to the council, looking for social housing.

It wasn’t easy. I remember feeling like I was shouting into a void — like no one really gave a shit. But I kept pushing. Kept chasing. And eventually… something gave.

They offered me a place. Somewhere to call home.

And that marked something new.

For the first time, I felt fully responsible — for myself, for the space I lived in, for how I held it all together.

It should have been a fresh start.

But instead… it became something I ran from.