One Dove.
One Dove. Chapter III. Dry Lips. 1507 words.
Chapter II.
The first two times we met was coincidence. I wasn't planning to meet him the first time, and even if I kept searching for him the second time, it still wasn't more than luck, or fate if you will, that got us together. What changed after that was that he began to search for me.
I didn't have any illusions about his reasons back then, and I still don't. The only reason he kept coming to me was my money. I don't care how wrong it was to give it to him. All I cared about back then, and nothing would change now if he was here, was that the money were bringing him to me, and that felt so very right. I don't regret a single time out of those.
Whenever I went to the streets with Ellie or Adam, he was there waiting for me. I didn't care how he always knew where I was. I was just happy to see him; his thin fragile figure, his eyes lighting up from what I liked to believe meant he was happy to see me. Of course it wasn't, I knew it, but it still felt nice to think so when he wrapped his arms around me and pressed up against me. He whispered he needed money, he begged. And later he didn't even have to beg, I'd give him the money anyway.
I still didn't get to know his name. He never told it to me, sometimes I actually thought he didn't know it anymore; and I never asked him about it again. After a while I began to call him Kitten in my head. It fitted in some odd way that I didn't really understand. Maybe it was something about the way he moved when he was high, there was something feline about it. Maybe it was how fragile he seemed, so unprepared for the world and needing my protection. I wasn't sure.
We developed a kind of routine immediately. He would wait for me when I went to do the street work, and I'd give him money. Later, after the work, I'd return to check on him, usually finding him sprawled on the pavement. Sometimes I'd give him more money then.
He was high every single time. Whether he would be blissfully unaware of the world around him, lost in happy fantasy that the drugs created, or scared to death by demons that didn't exist, he was always drugged. I didn't matter at all then; I'm not sure he actually realised my presence. I could be there, holding his hand or just kneeling next to him, feeling the curious eyes of the few people on the streets that still cared about anything else than the drugs burning holes in my back; but he didn't make a single hint that he knew about me. Not until the drugs wore out enough for him to start searching for money again.
Then I was there. Then I was good enough again. And it hurt so badly. I tried to ignore the pain and just concentrate on helping him - how ironic it was that my help would always lead him back to drugs. But it still made me ache on the inside when I embraced him and he didn't do anything, or even fought the embrace.
It all changed one day. It was different from the very beginning because when I went out to do the street work, he wasn't there. I took my time to walk around to try and find him, but he was nowhere to be seen. It scared me, made me nervous and I was chewing my nails; something I haven't done since being a kid. I couldn't concentrate on anything at all, worried to death about what could have happened to him. Why didn't he come? Did he forget? Did he get money somewhere else; from someone else? Did something happen to him? I fucked up some programming in the work later on, and again it was Ellie who saved me from myself. She sent me home.
Of course, instead of going home, I took the bus back to the street where I usually met him.
And he was there. Sitting in the same spot that I saw him for the second time, curled up in the same way and shaking and sobbing in the same way. He had buried his face against his arm, waving the other weakly as if trying to push something away. His hair was messy as if he, or someone else, had been pulling on the raven strands; and he was missing the T-shirt. His pants were pulled down to the middle of his thighs, but he didn't seem to notice that. The used needle and other shit was on a pile next to him.
I kicked it away, dropping down to my knees and I pulled him in my arms. I didn't care he was dirty; I didn't care he probably just had sex with someone to get drugs. All that mattered was the fact that he was scared, terrified, and he needed me. He needed someone.
He let out another choked sob, and clung onto me like a lost child and I was whispering over and over again that everything would be alright. That I was there and everything was okay. That nothing could hurt him.
I don't think he heard me, and so it didn't matter how lame my words sounded. And I am still so unsure about who needed that hug more, him or me.
His slender fingers were digging in my back with bruising force and I held him tightly in return, his skin hot and sweaty under my touch. I stroked his back, sliding my fingers over bones that kept jutting out more than they should, over bruises, some of them were purple and fresh and some old, fading away into pale green and yellow. “Shhh, shhh, it's okay... shhh...”
The concrete under the my knees was hurting, digging in my skin through my jeans, and my legs were protesting against the uncomfortable position I was hunched in. I ignored my body, and focused on his instead. He was insanely beautiful to me.
I'm not sure how much time passed, it could have been a minute or thirty, but eventually he calmed down. Whatever demons he was seeing, they were gone, his grip loosening and eventually he pulled back. He stared at me for a while, his eyes wide and swollen, and then he looked away.
I know now it was a stupid thing to expect, but... right then, I wished he would say something. I wished he would say thank you, or... something. Anything.
Instead, he dropped on all four and started to crawl away like the most pathetic excuse of a human being that was more dead than alive; and he knew it. My muscles screamed in protest as I scrambled up to my feet, my head spinning for a second from such a sudden movement, but I ignored both. I made a step forward, and grabbed his hand, pulling him into sitting position. He blinked, but he didn't seem to be surprised at all.
I don't know what went into me, like I was possessed, my voice sounding odd: “You will come with me.” I paused, almost startled by how I was acting. That's how all those people who raped him sounded, I was sure. “Please,” I added in soft voice and he just sat there, looking up at me like I spoke some foreign language.
I squatted back down next to him, moving my hand from his wrist up to his shoulder, holding him as gently as I could. “Please,” I repeated. He turned his head, glancing somewhere behind him, and I followed his eyes. He was looking at the syringe I had kicked away, and then I got it finally.
“I will give you more money later if you go with me,” I said, my voice sounding dull. He looked back at me, and his eyes showed a little glimpse of emotion, happiness or joy, and I almost hated him for that. But then he made at attempt to get up and I had to catch him because his legs weren't obeying. I took his hand, moving it around my shoulder, and helped him up before pulling his pants back up. He hissed in pain when I brushed the fresh wound on the back on his thigh and I had to hold back nausea when I saw some bastard's semen dried just under the wound.
When we took the taxi to my apartment, he was sitting mechanically next to me as if this whole situation had nothing to do with him, as if he wouldn't care if I pulled out a gun and shot him, or kicked him out the cab without telling the driver to stop. I wondered how much lower a human person can drop.
Because he was way past the rock bottom already.
Chapter IV.
Chapter II.
The first two times we met was coincidence. I wasn't planning to meet him the first time, and even if I kept searching for him the second time, it still wasn't more than luck, or fate if you will, that got us together. What changed after that was that he began to search for me.
I didn't have any illusions about his reasons back then, and I still don't. The only reason he kept coming to me was my money. I don't care how wrong it was to give it to him. All I cared about back then, and nothing would change now if he was here, was that the money were bringing him to me, and that felt so very right. I don't regret a single time out of those.
Whenever I went to the streets with Ellie or Adam, he was there waiting for me. I didn't care how he always knew where I was. I was just happy to see him; his thin fragile figure, his eyes lighting up from what I liked to believe meant he was happy to see me. Of course it wasn't, I knew it, but it still felt nice to think so when he wrapped his arms around me and pressed up against me. He whispered he needed money, he begged. And later he didn't even have to beg, I'd give him the money anyway.
I still didn't get to know his name. He never told it to me, sometimes I actually thought he didn't know it anymore; and I never asked him about it again. After a while I began to call him Kitten in my head. It fitted in some odd way that I didn't really understand. Maybe it was something about the way he moved when he was high, there was something feline about it. Maybe it was how fragile he seemed, so unprepared for the world and needing my protection. I wasn't sure.
We developed a kind of routine immediately. He would wait for me when I went to do the street work, and I'd give him money. Later, after the work, I'd return to check on him, usually finding him sprawled on the pavement. Sometimes I'd give him more money then.
He was high every single time. Whether he would be blissfully unaware of the world around him, lost in happy fantasy that the drugs created, or scared to death by demons that didn't exist, he was always drugged. I didn't matter at all then; I'm not sure he actually realised my presence. I could be there, holding his hand or just kneeling next to him, feeling the curious eyes of the few people on the streets that still cared about anything else than the drugs burning holes in my back; but he didn't make a single hint that he knew about me. Not until the drugs wore out enough for him to start searching for money again.
Then I was there. Then I was good enough again. And it hurt so badly. I tried to ignore the pain and just concentrate on helping him - how ironic it was that my help would always lead him back to drugs. But it still made me ache on the inside when I embraced him and he didn't do anything, or even fought the embrace.
It all changed one day. It was different from the very beginning because when I went out to do the street work, he wasn't there. I took my time to walk around to try and find him, but he was nowhere to be seen. It scared me, made me nervous and I was chewing my nails; something I haven't done since being a kid. I couldn't concentrate on anything at all, worried to death about what could have happened to him. Why didn't he come? Did he forget? Did he get money somewhere else; from someone else? Did something happen to him? I fucked up some programming in the work later on, and again it was Ellie who saved me from myself. She sent me home.
Of course, instead of going home, I took the bus back to the street where I usually met him.
And he was there. Sitting in the same spot that I saw him for the second time, curled up in the same way and shaking and sobbing in the same way. He had buried his face against his arm, waving the other weakly as if trying to push something away. His hair was messy as if he, or someone else, had been pulling on the raven strands; and he was missing the T-shirt. His pants were pulled down to the middle of his thighs, but he didn't seem to notice that. The used needle and other shit was on a pile next to him.
I kicked it away, dropping down to my knees and I pulled him in my arms. I didn't care he was dirty; I didn't care he probably just had sex with someone to get drugs. All that mattered was the fact that he was scared, terrified, and he needed me. He needed someone.
He let out another choked sob, and clung onto me like a lost child and I was whispering over and over again that everything would be alright. That I was there and everything was okay. That nothing could hurt him.
I don't think he heard me, and so it didn't matter how lame my words sounded. And I am still so unsure about who needed that hug more, him or me.
His slender fingers were digging in my back with bruising force and I held him tightly in return, his skin hot and sweaty under my touch. I stroked his back, sliding my fingers over bones that kept jutting out more than they should, over bruises, some of them were purple and fresh and some old, fading away into pale green and yellow. “Shhh, shhh, it's okay... shhh...”
The concrete under the my knees was hurting, digging in my skin through my jeans, and my legs were protesting against the uncomfortable position I was hunched in. I ignored my body, and focused on his instead. He was insanely beautiful to me.
I'm not sure how much time passed, it could have been a minute or thirty, but eventually he calmed down. Whatever demons he was seeing, they were gone, his grip loosening and eventually he pulled back. He stared at me for a while, his eyes wide and swollen, and then he looked away.
I know now it was a stupid thing to expect, but... right then, I wished he would say something. I wished he would say thank you, or... something. Anything.
Instead, he dropped on all four and started to crawl away like the most pathetic excuse of a human being that was more dead than alive; and he knew it. My muscles screamed in protest as I scrambled up to my feet, my head spinning for a second from such a sudden movement, but I ignored both. I made a step forward, and grabbed his hand, pulling him into sitting position. He blinked, but he didn't seem to be surprised at all.
I don't know what went into me, like I was possessed, my voice sounding odd: “You will come with me.” I paused, almost startled by how I was acting. That's how all those people who raped him sounded, I was sure. “Please,” I added in soft voice and he just sat there, looking up at me like I spoke some foreign language.
I squatted back down next to him, moving my hand from his wrist up to his shoulder, holding him as gently as I could. “Please,” I repeated. He turned his head, glancing somewhere behind him, and I followed his eyes. He was looking at the syringe I had kicked away, and then I got it finally.
“I will give you more money later if you go with me,” I said, my voice sounding dull. He looked back at me, and his eyes showed a little glimpse of emotion, happiness or joy, and I almost hated him for that. But then he made at attempt to get up and I had to catch him because his legs weren't obeying. I took his hand, moving it around my shoulder, and helped him up before pulling his pants back up. He hissed in pain when I brushed the fresh wound on the back on his thigh and I had to hold back nausea when I saw some bastard's semen dried just under the wound.
When we took the taxi to my apartment, he was sitting mechanically next to me as if this whole situation had nothing to do with him, as if he wouldn't care if I pulled out a gun and shot him, or kicked him out the cab without telling the driver to stop. I wondered how much lower a human person can drop.
Because he was way past the rock bottom already.
Chapter IV.