He just wanted to be like them.

He wanted to be like the other guys at the clubs. The ones with the girls hanging off both arms, the gold chains, the atmosphere they carried around with them- a mix of serenity, arrogance and cigarette smoke. The cool ones.

He wanted to be cool.

And it worked, for a while. He was one of them. Shagging the girls, downing the vodka, passing out at the parties, smashing the windows, shooting off the best beats.

But now he was sitting alone in his living room on a Saturday night, surrounded by empty plastic bottles, ashtrays and a sweet smelling smog that creeped through his nostrils and lungs to his brain. What he wasn't surrounded by was his friends, his family, his music, his everything.

All he had left was two and a half bottles of cough syrup.

The smooth plastic was his last touch with harsh reality, but the content was a one way ticket to endless calm, so he drank the pink liquid and settled back on the sofa.

Danny Jones was alone.

I do not have a problem.

Danny Jones was broke.

I do not have a problem.

Danny Jones was addicted to codeine.

I do not have a problem.

"Somebody help me."