In His Shadow
Goth Party Animal Hedonist Music-lover
-3 Addiction to Heroin
+1 Eat Food
Trent grew up like so many other urban youth: with too much money and too little direction. There was no weekly allowance, no balls to throw nor yard to mow, but there were always straps of cash left on the kitchen counter.
His father worked on Wall Street, but he may as well have lived there. If we had to choose a role model from Trent’s adolescence, this was it — but the few hours before bedtime (if he even came home at all) were hardly enough to garner any sort of bearing, let alone any notion of “father-son” time. Trent’s father provided for his son’s private schooling, and a stipend for his wife, but that was about all he had in himself to provide.
Trent’s mother an untamed flower, a free spirit, or in other words, “Flighty”. They say in love opposites can attract. It worked for a while, but burnt out quickly, as romance is sometimes wont to do. Meningitis took her when she was 35. Trent was 13.
It didn’t take long for the downward spiral to begin. Trent’s father became exceedingly fond of his working hours, and spent less and less time at home as his son reached junior high. He passed the first few stages of mourning (if there ever was any), and escaped into his work. Trent however, had another way of dealing with the tragedy. Like every good teenager, he found his respite in rebellion. The goth scene of the 1980’s was just taking off: Bauhaus, The Cure and Killing Joke, and along with that: alcohol, coke and heroin. In many ways, Trent became his mother.
High school came and went, his later years dabbling further and further into the developing goth scene of Chicago. He developed an interested in the occult and satanism, although it was more of a hobby than anything else, another way to scare away the jocks at school. The question of further education was pretty much of the lowest concern to our newly-minted creature of the night. “I don’t care where you go, or what you take up,” his father told him, “but you’re going.”
A real job was out of the question. Trent recalled his mother, and the music lessons he was forced to take up until her death. Piano and violin. Now at 18, expressing himself through art didn’t seem so bad, and he regretted giving up on it. Not only that, but keyboards had their place in many of the goth rock shows he frequented. What better way to score? He always had a passing interest in music growing up, and it was about the only activity he ever participated in at school. Classical composition became his intended major, after all what could be more tormented and dark than that?
Trent didn’t aim high: he applied to two schools, and was accepted to one — a state school not far from the city. It seemed like a good enough fit, with minimal pretension, and just close enough to still make his way downtown nearly every weekend. The studies came easy to him, provided he showed up to class. Now he had made real friends, a real crowd to roll with, and the drugs were quickly becoming a problem. Always more of a rebellious act in his teenage years, heroin and coke were now a necessity for day-to-day life.
Thursdays through Sundays for Trent were a drunken blur – the women came easy and the drugs were plentiful (having a filled wallet never hurt), and his body soon took the toll. Normally attractive features sunk in, skin stuck to bones, as the poison overtook blood in his veins. Trent was on the path to destruction, skirting death by mere inches every time he shot up — if it weren’t for one fortuitous night at the Succubus Club, Chicago, IL, which is where we finally catch up with our sullen hero….