DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimers apply. If you are underage (18 or 21, depending) and/or are offended by mature themes including consensual sexual contact between teen males, then DO NOT continue. This work is entirely fictional and any resemblances to persons either living or dead, is entirely coincidental. If you wish to reprint this story, just drop me an email letting me know where, and make sure you give me (Menzo) credit.
Feel free to give me criticism; my writing is far from perfect! Comments are very much appreciated, so please drop me a quick email at menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@yahoo.com
~Menzo
Bruised and battered, I heaved a deep breath and collapsed onto the leather couch behind me. I looked in horror at the scene around me and tried to calm myself back to a rational level. I coldly looked at the bloody, unconscious figure on the floor and failed to find a shred of sympathy for my father. As my adrenaline rush dissipated, I started to become afraid. My father - who had made my life hell for over four years - was a harsh man, and I wondered in what condition I would find myself when he woke up. It was not something I really cared to find out.
I picked up the phone and put it back down several times before finally coming to a decision. Calling the police wouldn't help anything. I had done that before, and things only ever got worse afterwards.
Let me explain: My mother had walked out of out lives five years ago, when I was 11, to live with another man. A little part of my father died with her, and the rest was consumed by anger. He worked hard, and drank harder; eventually descending into full blown alcoholism. I had sympathized with him, and hoped for things to get better for a while and I had finally resolved myself to my miserable existence living with him. He was becoming increasingly violent of late, however, and I couldn't go on like this.
So, in a moment of rashness, I stuffed some clothes into a small backpack and took what little cash I could find lying around my house and I stepped out onto my porch. I resisted the urge to turn around and go back in and, taking a deep breath, I started walking. It was the best and worst decision I ever made in my life.
Oh, the arrogance youth! We think we know everything; we read books and magazines and watch the news and consider ourselves worldly. I counted myself a very compassionate person and was constantly trying to tell people what it was like to be homeless, or to live in Africa and how they should do more charity work. At the tender age of 16, I had no idea. The following year would humble me and push to limits far beyond anything I had ever dreamed possible.
My naïveté was astounding. When I walked out of my upper-middle class house in suburbia, I thought my running away was a poetic, tragic affair that would be tough, but would ultimately make me into a pillar of strength and kindness. I fantasized about helping poor kids who, unlike me, couldn't extricate themselves from their predicament. And so, with those grandiose disillusions in mind, I walked into one of the roughest areas of town.
It soon dawned on me that I really had no clue how I would go about surviving on the streets, or even finding someone to talk to and, I supposed, help. It was dark by now and ss I searched for somewhere to eat, or sleep, I heard a car slowly pull up beside me. I was nervous, to say the least, but as the window rolled down I foolishly walked over to the white SUV.
"How much?" came the eerie voice inside. I may have been naïve, but I wasn't totally out of touch with reality.
"I'm not selling," I said, slightly grossed out. Selling my body for sex was not a part of my grandly childish fantasy.
"Come on, kid. You're new here," he started. I suppose it must have been obvious. "I'll help set you up with the right people."
I wasn't fooled by the creepy voice and I politely declined, starting to walk in the other direction. The next thing I was aware of was a blinding pain in neck and then blissful blackness.
When I awoke, it was only for a brief moment of pain. I saw a blurry figure standing over me and then a sharp pain in my stomach followed by a lesser pain in my arm. I was out of it for quite a while but when I woke, I was still looking into the same face, albeit far less blurry.
"What..?" I slurred, confused and disoriented.
"Hey, you're awake!" said the ragged looking boy cheerily.
"Where am I?" I asked, not really looking to make pleasant chit chat.
"No thanks?" he asked jokingly. His voice had an edge to it, even in jest, that I was not accustomed to.
"I'm afraid you'll have to fill me in a bit. Things are a bit fuzzy after the guy in the SUV."
"That would explain it," he said sagely. "It wasn't white, was it?"
I merely nodded and he proceeded to explain that that car was notorious for leaving dead teenagers in its wake.
"Well," he continued. "I found you last night, all bloody and lying in a ditch. Some friends helped me bring you here and I patched you up as best I could. 12 stitches from an amateur with an old needle and sewing thread is no fun."
"What?!" I exclaimed, rubbing my fingers over the long wound on my stomach. I also became acutely aware that I was naked except for some briefs.
"Heroin dulls the pain," he said soothingly. Well, I think he meant to be soothing.
"Heroin!" I cried. I had never even done pot before. I took a moment to take in my surroundings: I was lying on some old blankets in an abandoned parking garage that smelled faintly of urine.
"Stop shouting," he snapped. "It would have hurt a helluva lot more without the heroin. Heroin is an opiate, just like morphine. Didja know that?"
"I did, actually," I said furrowing my brow. I remarked for the first time that for all his ragged, emaciated appearance he spoke very well. "Where are you from?"
"Here," he said simply.
"Where is here?"
He laughed. "Here is wherever I feel like being."
"But you weren't always from here, were you?" I probed.
"Enough," he said firmly. Emotion flickered briefly across his face but he quickly resumed his stoic mask. "How did someone like you end up in such a dangerous area of town?"
"I was running away," I said, somewhat proudly, somewhat defiantly.
He laughed again. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but he was definitely mocking me.
"I'm Kale by the way."
"Jacob," I reciprocated.
"Well, Jacob, why don't you tell me what happened last night."
I nodded, and told him what had happened, right up until I lost my memory. It had seemed so hopeless last night, but apparently Kale disagreed with me.
"Right," he said. "Well, lets go find you a phone."
"NO," I said quickly.
"What?" he asked curiously.
"I'm not going back there!" I said defiantly.
"Alright, there is a home pretty close to here. They might take you in, if you convince them it's not safe to go home."
"No," I repeated childishly. "They always send me back."
He arched his eyebrow at me and I thought I saw the corners of his lips curl into a grin. "So, what then?"
"Well..."
"Gonna live on the streets?" he joked.
"You do," I said defensively. Realizing that what he had said in jest was my actual intent, he burst into laughter.
"No offense, Jacob, but you have no idea what my life is like." His face softened for a brief instant, but no sooner had he let it slip, the mask replaced itself. "You can't have any idea what life is like out here."
"You managed, obviously." I was a little annoyed that he thought I couldn't survive on the streets and I was still too caught up in a fantasy to take him seriously.
"You're right, I did," he said simply. "But it was hard. However, it's not my place to tell you what to do. If you want to stay, then stay. But I warn you, that nothing you have ever experienced will prepare you for this."
He was right; my wildest dreams couldn't compare to what my life would become. But, for all his bluster, Kale had a soft spot for me, and he made sure that I survived my first month. And that first month was one of the, if not the, hardest I have ever endured.
Getting used to not eating, drinking a lot and the constant presence of tension, drugs and violence was the first thing I had to do. Confrontation was unavoidable out there, and to this day the change that I underwent while out there still amazes me. I never resorted to selling my body for sex, although I could have, and I was one of the few that made an effort to make legitimate money. That's not to say, of course, that I never resorted to illegal means of perpetuating my miserable existence.
Things picked up and, strange as it may seem, that year and a half I spent living in an abandoned garage was quite an enjoyable experience. Of course, I was coming from a hellish existence, and fell quickly into habits that meant I had very little perspective on what was and wasn't enjoyable.
What really made the time a pleasure, I am sure, was the fact that I found love at a remarkably young age. After a rough start, Kale and I soon realized that we were meant to be more than friends. Having that unconditional love in such an inhospitable environment allowed us to, I think, maintain our humanity. We did what was necessary to survive, but we always had something more to look forward to. We were inseparable and were well known by everyone around us. Our companionship also kept us away from drugs for the most part. Kale cleaned up and after that we never really felt the need to totally escape from reality.
Yes, it was Kale that kept me there through the hardships that I had endured. We brought a measure of hope - a hope of something other than mere existence - to a world where there was only despair.
I shouldn't leave you with the impression that things were all happy, because they weren't. I had my fair share of trials and it was, more than anything, hard. There is nothing else to describe such an existence. But, I survived largely intact, if a bit jaded and cold. I was there for over a year before I finally made a mistake and wound up sitting in a police station.
"Jacob Little?" asked the tall cop sitting in front of me. He pushed an old photo of me across the table. I winced at the picture and looked up at the mirror on the office wall. I looked nothing like the blond, almost pretty boy in the photo. My once rosy cheeks were now gaunt and gray and my distinctive green eyes had sunken well back into my face. I was emaciated and looked much like a heroin-addicted waif. My blond hair was covered in cheap dye, turning it a rather dull shade of brown and was greasy and stringy from not bathing as often I would have liked. I was also covered with numerous scars, the longest of which was over 6 inches, running from my collar bone down my back. I did what had to be done, like I said, and the petty drug dealer who had given me that scar had lost his life on that very knife.
"Jacob?" repeated the cop, drawing me out of my silent contemplation.
"Please, call me Fyr," I said, referring to the name I had been given on the streets and subsequently adopted. It was initially meant as an insult, spelt Fear because I was quite timid at first, but I embraced it after proving myself and changed the spelling.
"Alright Fyr," he said cordially. "Do you have anything to say before we go?"
"Go?" I repeated. I was more than a little drunk, having been found passed out in a public washroom. My life had taken a downward spiral in the last two months, after I had found Kale's body covered in blood and discarded in a ditch. It had broken me, and I had spent the last two months drowned in a bottle. I had not been careful enough to keep out of sight, it would seem.
"To the St. Peter's Care Center for Boys. It's a top notch facility run by the Church in conjunction with Social Services."
"Sounds lovely," I said blandly.
"Come on then," he said with a smile. He reached over to lead me by the arm but I jerked away.
"Don't touch me," I said emphatically, earning myself a sympathetic stare.
And so I came back into society and things that had once been second nature to me came hard - namely trust. It was a massive shock to be placed in such close proximity to so many people. Many had led lives as bad or worse than mine but there were also many boys who were just waiting to be adopted and had had fairly stable lives. I was most uncomfortable when I was first shown around the facility but, at that moment, I honestly didn't give a damn about anything.
After a brief introduction to the priest who ran the center, I was shown to the small room that I was sharing with one other boy.
I walked in and, to my pleasant surprise, the room was tidy and didn't have the same smell as the others.
"Hey dude," called the boy sitting on the bed.
"Hi," I replied, my flat tone not inviting more conversation.
"I'm Tom, what's your name?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Call me Fyr."
"OK, you wanna to something."
"No," I said, putting what few possessions I had in the small cupboard that was provided.
"Ok," he smiled. "I'm going to play ball, come join me if you like."
I mumbled something unintelligible and then lay back on my bed, trying to fend of the hangover. They had mentioned something about rehab and therapy, but I was glad to see that nothing came of it that afternoon. I lay on my bed for a long while, and then went to take a long, hot shower. When I came out, Tom was waiting for me in the room.
"Supper time," he said. "Follow me." I did as requested and was treated to a rather tasteless meal in a large cafeteria-style room. I ate in silence, giving sharp one word answers when spoken to. When dinner was over, I decided that a nice long night's sleep was in order.
You'd think that living on the street, with nothing to do, I would have had lots of opportunity to sleep. That wasn't the case though, and I enjoyed the feeling of a warm bed beneath me and I was soon drifting off to sleep.
I woke up late, despite my early bed time, and decided not to eat breakfast. It was a luxury I was not accustomed to. Feeling somewhat lost, I took another shower in the communal shower room - perhaps the first time in over a year I had showered two days in a row - and was afterwards interrupted by a knock on my door.
"Come in," I called, sitting up. I desperately wanted to be in an alley swigging cheap vodka right now. Not dealing with his death at the time meant that I still had many painful thoughts and emotions to deal with.
"Hello Jacob," said a blond woman.
"Fyr, please," I said. She pursed her lips but nodded in acquiescence.
"May we sit down?" asked the same cop who had brought me here yesterday.
"Be my guests," I said sarcastically, waving at Tom's bed, the only available seating in the room.
"Fyr," he said solemnly. "I have some bad news. Your father died of alcohol poisoning about a month after you disappeared. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," I said curtly. "I assume that means that this lovely establishment will become my home?"
"Jac...Fyr," said the blond woman concernedly. "Are you sure you understand what happened?"
"I'm quite sure," I replied dryly. I surprised myself somewhat, being able to slip so easily back into refined speech. I had been forced to adopt a more crude, limited vocabulary during my tenure on the streets.
"I must be going now, Fyr," said the cop. "Father Thomas and Dr. Green have a few things they need to say."
He waited a moment for my response but with none forthcoming, he got up and left.
The shrink and the priest proceeded to inform me of the rules of my stay, the rehab and the counseling I would have to take. I nodded every once and a while until they finally got tired of talking and got ready to leave.
"Why don't you go outside and play some basketball," asked Dr. Green before leaving.
"Because I wish to wallow in my own despair," I said truthfully. She thought I was mocking her, apparently, but she eventually succeeded in bullying me out of my room. I walked slowly over to the court and was quickly assigned to a team. There wasn't much talking, for which I was thankful, and I had always enjoyed playing ball with discarded equipment that we found in parks. I wasn't a tall person - standing at only about 5'8 - but I was deceptively quick and agile and my reflexes were nothing short of superb.
It became quickly apparent that I was the best player out of the small group but as I deftly stole the ball from a large opponent, I discovered that talent wasn't necessarily a good thing.
"Get of my court," ordered the tall, muscular guy. He was obviously unused to not being the best - or perhaps, the others just didn't try to best him.
"No," I said simply. Backing down from a fight on the 'street' was tantamount to admitting weakness, something that often proved fatal. He had little patience, it would seem, for his fist was suddenly heading towards my nose.
He was a big, stupid bully; I was a small, clever person who had spent the last year living his worst nightmares. He didn't stand a chance. I lazily ducked his sucker punch and brought my foot up into his gut. To his credit, he didn't fold like I'd expected and he began to rush me. I nimbly sidestepped, tripping him as I did so. He went down with a crash but before things could escalate further, a 'Child Protection Officer' (a.k.a. warden) came running over to split things up. After I refused to apologize, I was informed that I would be doing the dishes after supper for the next week. I was quite ambivalent to the punishment, which seemed to further irk the officer.
The institution was awfully dull and, for someone who had come to despise boredom and unwanted company, it was a rather depressing existence. I hadn't heard from Dr. Green, for which I was grateful, but I knew she would be wanting to talk soon. I had impressive self control and the only thing impeding my progress in the rehab center was a lack of motivation. I could stop drinking, I just didn't want to.
As far as company went, I soon learned that my sickeningly cheerful roommate was about the best available. I reluctantly started to talk to him more and discovered that beneath his annoying exterior, he wasn't half bad to talk to. The first two weeks consisted of lots of sleeping, lots of dishes and a moderate amount of talking.
I could have dealt with everything - it was nothing compared to adapting to life on the street - if it hadn't been for the huge hole in my heart. I hadn't had any form of sexual release in two months and, as much as I didn't want to, I was developing a small attraction for Tom. It was more of an effort to replace someone who couldn't be replaced, but I felt that I had to move on, if only in a superficial way. I didn't even like him all that much, but I was feeling incredibly lonely and although he was a poor substitute for what I really craved, I couldn't help myself spending more and more time with him.
Of course, I had know clue if he was gay or not - although my gaydar had certainly picked up something - and I wasn't even intending to find out. It was, in all honesty, a complete accident. A very unfortunate accident, it would turn out.
I had just finished showering - an activity which never lost its appeal - and, thinking Tom would be in the library as usual, I walked into my room and let the towel fall to the floor beside me.
"Whoa," I heard a strangled voice say. I quickly rushed to cover myself up. My sense of modesty was one habit I hadn't lost.
"Sorry about that," I said, blushing. Strangely, Tom seemed to be blushing even more than I was. I looked down and saw an unmistakable bulge in his pants. He looked into my eyes, obviously terrified.
"S-s-sorry man," he stuttered.
"Relax," I laughed.
"I should have told you," he whispered, looking down at the floor. I pulled on a pair of boxers to alleviate some of the tension.
"Why? It's not really my business, now, is it? I never told you I was gay."
He looked up, his relief plain. "Wow, really?"
There was a brief moment of awkward tension and then I did something I shouldn't have. I don't know what possessed me to be so forward - the terrible sense of emptiness and loss, I suppose - but I stood on my toes and placed my lips on his. He seemed a bit startled but he kissed me back, quite thoroughly, in fact. I pulled his shirt over his head and then moved my hands down to his belt buckle. I heard the door open beside us and, startled, I pulled back quickly.
I was sitting there, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, having just kissed my roommate wearing little more. I was so mortified that I couldn't bring myself to look at the newcomer. But when I finally did look up, my shock was complete. It was impossible, impossible. There, standing in my door, back from the dead, was Kale.
Well, there's the start to the story. This is a heavily revised version of a story I started to write and post last year.
All comments, questions and criticisms are welcome at menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@yahoo.com.
I hope you liked it,
Menzo