You read it, though you hated it

Words indented with saturated ink, 

blotting on the page, like spider webbing craters 

in old, rotting walls

All the half- aware epiphanies in the world

won't call you from your self portraits

Scrawled on canvases with valuable charcoal

And valuable strokes

you read it though you despised it, 

your contempt slithered as smoke does, 

growing, 

then becoming a withering curl 

Your rubber band grin,

Sewed a patch on the gray mold

and perforated my silver shield 

of dirty, lucky nickels

Your smirk left imprints in the cloud dust 

Where it emerged with rapid speed

Then slowly sunk back through 

the fortuitous quicksand    

You read it, but a film of hidden tire tracks 

muted your relation to it

And your philosopher's fingers graced your straight lip

then snapped the last page back

Red, lazy lover

Sleep near your ink 

tonight or I might catch you

Dissecting insects under

lights, under hanging heads

Is no longer for idealists 

And the serial numbers 

that I found ground into my wrist

are all wrong, and all backwards

The plan skewed our heads, twisted back a rigid angle and

The map healed from the backs of our hands 

The plan ate us up, but we couldn't be persuaded

It takes stitches, but not thread 

My pets all rally at the 

edges of our land fills, built to

retain years of silence

And the scars in the letters are so hesitant, it's a joke

But they're still there when I look

And the voices that spoke through sodden

lips painted purple by my wish, 

They aren't moving, 

but I still can see them,

just approaching

High in the branches, is the paper bag I adopted,

So, tonight, I can store tin cans, sleep on eggshells 

Let it ride the waves of 

clattering teeth and relics 

Lungs under wraps to reach an end, and

We'll let it bury us in maudlin snow

My mild, delicate gauze 

My crystal child hood friend 

The ocean is a lurid sheet from 

the top balcony 

The glass isn't there at all, 

blocking me

I can lean farther and farther

Over the metal, over my head

The people are little neon tragedies

And they move like busy insects; faces slack with the ground beneath their feet

But they still mean so much to me

The freight boats are determined slugs; carrying crates of orange fall colors

Across the stretch of silk and diamonds

Under the bridge, that the wind up toys drive on

I try to get closer, lying tape inhibiting, 

Each nail grappling for its turn to reach the other side of vertigo

I am terrified but still, 

I want to touch them all

When I look at myself I see

A dream in winter

A cardboard box and 

A game of monopoly

My rounds

Keep asking me, the animals

all in my bed, around the covers, 

Wait for me so faithful and sound, 

Keep asking when will

I recover 

Being born is sure to take

the life out of anybody

insane enough 

to think about it

Cold enough to keep 

walking

When I look at me I see

everybody else
which is why you're a comfort 

When I look at "you" 

I wonder 

Who is this "you" from every song 

And where is he or she from

Obviously "you" are
the one

"you" are the one who

Dances when 

No one will offer

shines shoes and cleans 

scars

"Alice, where are you going? Upstairs to take a bath.

With legs like toothpicks, and a neck like a giraffe.

Alice in the bathtub. Alice pulled the plug.

Oh my goodness, oh my soul, 

There goes Alice down the hole..."   Childish, panting, and the scuffling of shoes, three sizes too small scraping on the concrete can be heard for miles around.  A group is jump roping with an old chain, while others run around in circles like little savages, chanting rhymes they had picked up, some place or another.  "One, two, three..." As they count down the number of hops, Rhys Webb watches the spectacle through a little slit in his refrigerator box, loving the way the children's faces flush and brighten when they laugh, and the carrying lilt of their voices.  He does not however, like the condition of their clothes, or their scraped knees, and dirty skin.  He turns away from the makeshift window, kneeling to fold and smooth out his only woolen blanket, setting it neatly in the corner.  There is far too much hair falling into his eyes, but a haircut would be expensive, and if he tried to do it himself, it would just look uneven.  He is brushing it back frustratedly, when a small pack of children gallops out of no where, straight into his home, knocking it over, unfolding the blanket, and spilling his partially broken instrument, along with other various trinkets out onto the ground.  A mass of filth is kicked up in all directions.  Rhys is also knocked over with the box, rolling with it like a loose marble.  He climbs out slowly, brushing off his trousers and pressed, striped shirt.  The kids are already on their way down the street, leaving lingering dust clouds behind like a stampede of elephants.  Rhys isn't angry though.  At 17, he is about the oldest in their little (for lack of a better word), 'neighborhood'.  He has therefore, taken it upon himself to look after the other kids as well as he can.  They are almost all orphans, some with parents that ran out long ago, and some with a parent or two always nearby, but never actually present.  

Rhys carefully rights the box, and all his worldly possessions within it.  He finds his mirror resting on the curb and has to scramble to the ground to grab it, before some very lost business man crunches it under the heel of his shiny black dress shoe.  He glares down at Rhys as if he is a rat, or some other disgusting creature, perhaps a cockroach.  Rhys ignores him, and stands, brushing the dirt off the meager piece of reflective glass.  He had found it abandoned in a parking lot one day, it's circular, probably fallen from somebody's compact.  He inspects his reflection carefully.  His skin is ashy and pale, a dark smudge of dirt splotching his cheek.  He rubs at it angrily, but it mostly just smears.  He heaves a shuddering sigh.  It's about twilight now. 

Rhys follows the same ritual every night before going out.  He gets his face as clean as he can manage,  brushes his soft brown hair with his fingers, trying to place every strand in its correct position.  He straightens his clothes, and fastens the strap of his accordion around his neck.  He grabs a rusty metal bowl to set out for tips, and sets off to make sure the kids are inside for the night.  He finds Lilah, Henry, and Evan playing near a dumpster.  They seem to have found a small gray toad and Lilah is brandishing it at the other two as they squeal in apparent disgust and delight.  "Oy, you!" Rhys skips over to them and they flock towards him eagerly, 

"Look! Look!" Lilah holds up the toad, which she has somehow managed to keep within her grasp thus far.  

"She licked it!" Henry proclaims, and Rhys grimaces.  These children need full time parents.  Lilah nods excitedly. 
"Only cause, HE dared me!"  she points at Henry.

"Now she has warts!" Evan yells. 

"Do not!!!!" She drops the frog and turns on him faster than Rhys can follow, knocking him over.  He topples like a bowling pin and immediately bursts into tears.  Rhys kneels down to hug him, but it's starting to get really dark and he needs to leave soon.  "You're alright?"  he asks with concern.  Evan nods, "Where does it hurt?" He holds out his little grubby hand, which is slightly skinned on the heel, although not bleeding.  Rhys takes it and kisses it gently.  "I have to be off, you guys. Why don't you go spend the night at Joe's?"  They nod excitedly.  

"I hope he has pixie sticks again!" Lilah squeals and runs off. Evan hugs Rhys's leg before scurrying off behind the others.  Joe is one of the few on the street with an actual house, but Rhys is almost certain he's squatting.  It's still one of the safest places, and he knows Joe well enough to trust him, although, he hopes the pixie sticks are indeed actual pixie sticks.  He sighs and keeps moving down the street, playing with a few of the accordion's yellowed keys.  There are a couple missing, but it plays fine anyway.  

He wanders onto the big, crowded, nightlife street, the one close by that's sparkly and clean.  It's lined with fancy restaurants, high class boutiques, theaters, and so on and so on.  Rhys sets up his bowl on the corner near the old fashioned theater, with lit up letters on the front.  A show is just ending, and the crowds pile out like ants.  Rhys hurriedly sinks into his first chord.  The tone of the instrument reminds him of immigrants, and gypsies and old fashioned circuses.  He's made up his own words to the song, because no one ever told him what they were.  A couple of old ladies smile at him, he grins back and is rewarded with a few bills.  And this is how it works.  

The chatter of the crowd as a collective force is loud and messy, but for some unknown reason one voice in particular catches Rhys's attention.  It's low and relaxed, self assured, and even before Rhys catches sight of the face he can hear the sneer.  "That was bloody horrible.  I cannot believe we degraded ourselves by sitting through that pitiful attempt at theater,"  He rants.  The voice strides directly in front of Rhys, about a foot taller than everyone else, but thin and elegant.  He's with a companion, shorter, and with a wild blender of black and blond hair that is curtaining even more of his face than Rhys's overgrown locks.  He's leaning into Faris's side, and letting his gaze wander a bit hyperactively.   

"Stop for one second,"  The shorter man says, his voice, despite his eccentric appearance, is exceptionally soft and gentle.  He rummages in the pocket of his overly snug jeans and pulls out a crumpled wallet, tossing some money into the tip bowl.  Rhys nods at him appreciatively.  The other man hangs back watching with absolutely no change of expression; he appears bored with the whole thing.  Rhys stares down at the accordion intently. 

"Hey." He looks up to see the taller man now towering over him.  It is quite a menacing sight.  "You look hungry."  Rhys misses the shorter man raising his eyebrows at the other, because he is too busy blushing and stuttering.  He stares downwards, darting quick glances up at the blank face watching him.  "Come on," He motions to Rhys with one hand to follow them.  

"Hurry up!" The smaller bloke screeches in a tone that reminds Rhys of someone possessed; it startles Rhys because of how different it is from the tone of his previous words.  He lunges forward without warning to grab Rhys's waist and tickle him viciously.  He laughs in spite of his terror, flailing and squealing as he very nearly drops the instrument still cradled in his arms.  Rhys is actually glad when the other man steps in, "I'm Faris," he says quickly, as though introductions were a waste of his time, "That's Joshua."

"EH!" Josh pipes up from beside his friend.  

"Come on, we'll buy you dinner."  Rhys stands there for a moment, two sides of him at war, because he knows this is such a bad idea, but a free dinner is something he just can't bring himself to pass up.  He nods, slowly kneeling to pick up his mostly empty bowl.  "What's your name?" Faris has a mumbling, vague way of talking, but Rhys finds he can understand it perfectly.  

"Uhh..Rhys." He pulls at his hair, hoping he looks at least a little presentable.   

Faris steps out onto the curb, waving an arm empirically.  There are tons of people jumping and screaming for taxis, but Faris gets one right away. 

          As they pile into the back of it, Rhys somehow becomes sandwiched between the two men.  Neither of them speak, apparently not needing to fill silence with small talk.  Rhys doesn't like silence, but he doesn't know what to say.  Half way through the drive, Josh seems to get bored and lets his hand wander up Rhys's thigh, staring out the window vaguely.  He thinks he catches Josh smiling a little, a sadistic glint in his eye, when his muscles flinch and grow tense under his touch, but it could have been imagined.  
         They pull up in front of a pair of revolving glass doors, leading into a cavernous lobby, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers.  Rhys hesitates in front of the spinning, partitioned entryway.  It looks frightening, but Josh saves him the trouble of figuring out how to maneuver through, by shoving him in the small of the back straight into the opening.  Rhys has to run, fearing for his life as the door chases him.  Josh laughs hysterically, before following along behind, and grabbing Rhys's hand, practically dragging him along to the elevator;  Faris shadowing them.  Rhys is about to ask, why they are aboard a hotel elevator, ascending to floor 8, when he had been promised dinner, but he doesn't want to sound stupid.  They probably just want to retrieve something from their room.  Rhys wishes he could use the shower.

Josh takes off, sprinting down the hall as soon as they exit the elevator, almost colliding with a wide eyed maid and her cart of cleaning products.  He avoids this, and runs further ahead, dashing around the corner, far ahead of Rhys and Faris.  They hear a loud thudding sound and a raspy squeal before passing the corner themselves.  Faris jogs ahead, and when Rhys catches up, he is pulling Joshua off the floor, a broad shouldered, broad chested man with a buzz cut is observing them.  He looks like an enraged bull.  "He did that on purpose! I should smash your smug little face in..." Josh gurgles and buries his face into Faris's side like a shy child.  Faris glares down at the guy, and it seems like he is about to unleash a ferocious snarl and smite him down with a lightning rod, but he just flips him off instead and proceeds down the hall.  Rhys is frozen on the spot, his knees shaking a bit.  "Rhys, you coming?" Faris calls, without looking back.  Rhys shuffles on, trying not to look at the angry muscle man on the way.  It is silent as they walk, a little more soberly than before, corporate carpet designs and brass sconces drifting by.  Josh giggles evilly,  "I did do it on purpose." 

When they reach the correct door, Faris pulls the key from his back pocket, and slides it through fluidly, allowing the door to unlock with a soft click.  Rhys's mouth drops open a bit when he sees the room.  It screams glamor, and money, and cleanliness.  There's a giant, king size bed with red, velvety blankets draped over it, lacking any wrinkles, and huge windows looking out over the city.  There's a pristine and sparkling bathroom, with an over-large, sliding door shower.  Mini shampoos, and bars of soap.  Josh runs straight to the mini bar, pulling out a whole bottle of vodka and taking a large gulp from it.  "Muffin!"  Rhys is standing, lost in the middle of the room, one hand clutching the opposite bony arm at the elbow, and doesn't realize that Joshua has taken to calling him muffin in the short time they have known each other.  "Come here, now!"  Rhys shuffles forward when he realizes he is muffin, still feeling lost and horrified, but at the same time, like he is amongst rock stars.  Important, charismatic people.  His motherly instincts and desire to let them go, clashing and fucking to create a mutant child of extreme awkwardness.  Joshua thrusts the bottle into his hands.  It's heavy and covered in beaded condensation.  Rhys stares at the thing for a bit, feeling blank.  He looks back at Joshua who is watching him with amusement, so he carefully brings the bottle to his lips, tipping it back and taking a generous sip, which he inevitably chokes on as it burns his throat, some of it dribbles down his chin.  Rhys had only had a large amount to drink once before and it had ended with him on his hands and knees in Joe's back yard, vomiting his guts out into the scrubby grass, because the toilet was out of order.  He figures if he only drinks a little though, he will be okay.  It seems like the thing to do.  He gives the bottle back to Joshua's waiting grabby hands, trying to ignore the now predatory look encasing his features. 
        Josh takes another swig, then sets the bottle down on a reddish brown desk, and marches over to where Faris is staring out the window idly.  He flips him around by his lean waist and connects their lips with a sudden urgency, all in one motion.  He stands on his toes to reach.  Faris's hands travel Joshua's body, coming to rest on his hips.  "Uh-" Rhys's face is burning as he watches from the other side of the room, "Should I go?"  Joshua half barks, and half laughs, sounding like a rabid dog, and skips back across the room, wrapping his hand around Rhys's tiny wrist.  He apparently forgets Rhys is still in his grip and drags him along like a rag doll.  He jumps onto the bed, pulling Rhys under him and leaning down to bite his shoulder as he squirms and spews inarticulate whimpering noises.  Joshua's straddling him now, and Rhys has managed to gain control of himself and lay still.  This seems to bore Joshua though, and he begins to tickle him again, sending him into another flailing and squealing frenzy.  "Josh!" Josh goes still, staring at Faris, who is skulking near the side of the bed.  "Stop."  Faris says, authoritatively.  Josh literally growls at him, but Faris reaches him in two steps and shoves him over with one hand, sending him twisting off the bed.  He lands sprawled on his side across the floor, by the foot of the bed before crawling towards Faris and biting his ankle.  Faris ignores this, now climbing onto the mattress himself, his movements surprisingly graceful for his gangly form.  Rhys is propped up on his elbows, looking flustered, glancing between the two in distress.  "Do you mind?" Faris asks, and without warning, grabs Rhys by the back of his neck and presses their lips together.  "We'll pay good money..."  He murmurs against Rhys's trembling mouth. 
"Huh?"  Rhys's mind works in circles, what do they?-...this doesn't-...it's-...Oh.  The pressure is unbearable, so Rhys nods his permission.  It's not like he can say no now.  He doesn't even ask how much they will pay, that would be rude. 
           Faris sits back on his knees, pulling off his jacket and tossing it to the ground.  He inches towards Rhys, backing him against the headboard and kneeling between his legs.  Rhys accepts another kiss openly, Faris's lips are soft and gentle, and it makes him feel vaguely appreciated, sends warmth spreading under his skin.  He wraps his arms around Faris's neck, playing with his mop of hair, which Faris seems to take as encouragement to kiss harder.  The feeling engulfs Rhys completely, as he watches the backs of his eyelids, listens to the blood pulse in his ears, inhales the scent of cigarettes and hairspray.  He doesn't notice when Josh scrabbles his way in beside him at the headboard, pulling at the hem of his shirt, and breaking apart the kiss as he yanks it over his head.  Faris slides down his body, unzipping his trousers and rolling them down his legs, tossing them to the side, onto the floor.  Rhys never flings his possessions about like this, but everything is happening so fast, he can barely process it.  He focuses on one thing: watching Joshua lick down to his smoothly concave stomach, and misses another: Faris, now in the process of pulling his underwear off, leaving him exposed and shivering.  Both Faris and Joshua, he notices with an obscure feeling of shame, are still completely clothed. 
          "He looks good..." Joshua mutters to Faris, licking his lips, as if Rhys is deaf and not splayed right there in the same bed as them.  "Hold onto the head board," Josh instructs, "Don't let go".  Rhys obediently raises his arms, grasping on.  He lets his head fall back against it, the material unforgiving as the two men he has fallen into company with.   Josh crawls back up Rhys's body, and find his lips, kissing Rhys for the first time.  His lips are different than Faris's.  Just as full and soft, but they probe more, his tongue flicks across Rhys's slowly, then violently.  He sucks Rhys's lower lip into his mouth, lovingly, and without warning, bites down on it.  He whimpers, feeling hot blood dripping, and a harsh set of nails scrapes down his chest, dragging out a second string of pain. Josh licks once, at Rhys's cock, sending a helpless shiver through him, and Faris brushes his lips with Josh's across Rhys's trembling body, their lips moving together, against his velvety skin.  Faris rests his chin on Rhys's sharp hip, looking up at him from under long eyelashes.   

"Have you ever done this before?"  He asks.  Rhys shakes his head no, seeming unable to conjure words.  Before this, he had never even been kissed.  Joshua grins, looking devious.  He licks at Rhys's belly button, relishing the way he cringes and makes little, pathetic noises.  "This is going to be fun."  Rhys gulps.  He tenses, waiting for another onslaught, but instead Faris leans across him once again to clutch Josh by the hair, licking his mouth open furiously, and tipping his head back to achieve a more dominating angle.  He whispers down Josh's jaw line, and back up to his lip, tugging at it between his own.  Rhys watches, in a trance like state, Faris's obvious passion for the other man inspiring an inexplicable envy in him.  Faris's hands wander under Joshua's shirt, stroking him teasingly and he whines with impatience, leaning across Rhys to pull at the zipper of Faris's trousers.  Faris however, slaps his hand away, grabbing it in two of his instead, and bringing it to his mouth to kiss the knobs of the knuckles.  Josh gives him a dirty look, turning away.  He rests on the side of the bed, opening a pack of cigarettes that rests on the nightstand and sliding one out.  He pulls a lighter from his back pocket and ignites the end carefully.  
          Faris is pulling off his shirt when Josh returns his attention to the bed, but  Josh pounces quickly, before Faris can move, sprawling himself along the length of Rhys's body, and blowing a ring of smoke into his face.  Rhys coughs and splutters, his eyes burning, and Joshua doesn't try to conceal his pleasure at this.  He lifts the cigarette out of his mouth and hovers it close over Rhys's collar bone between two fingers, grinning.  Rhys's eyes widen in horror, but he doesn't protest in words, so Josh twists the burning end down into the soft flesh, grinding out the embers slowly.  Rhys shuts his eyes tightly, mouth in a stubborn, grim line, but the tears spill down his cheeks anyhow.  "There, there..." Joshua reverts to his softer voice, patting Rhys's hair lightly and kissing him on the temple.  He raises an arm back and slaps him mercilessly across the face, snapping his head to the side.  Rhys doesn't move, trying to bury his face into the bed.  "Please..." He sobs, half whispers, and Joshua must decide to ignore him because another splitting pain explodes across his cheek.  He can already feel the bruises forming.  Joshua kisses down behind his jaw, bites his earlobe, before yanking at his hair, hard and striking his face again with a delighted cackle.  Rhys can't hold back a scream this time, and he wants to say stop so badly, but he can't seem to form any syllables.  Before he can regain his breath from the last blow,  Josh curls his entire hand around Rhys's neck and leans forward with most of his weight.  He kicks and thrashes, his hands falling from their grip on the headboard for the first time, scrabbling at Joshua's.   Joshua watches, giggling the whole time as Rhys's face starts to turn purple,  his muscles convulsing, laughs at the way his efforts to remove Joshua's hands are pathetic and useless.  Rhys is starts to become light headed quickly; he sees gray dots dance across his vision, lungs twitching in protest, and then the pressure is finally released.  Faris has grabbed Joshua by the back of his hair and yanked him off.  Rhys gasps, panting hard.  "Turn over," Faris mutters, and Rhys complies quickly.  He is ready for this to be finished. 
         He's curled up on his knees now, bent over with his cheek pressed into the blankets.  He feels probing fingers at his lower back, traveling down, even lower.  The dim lighting is neon bright now, to the sore windows of his eyes.  He tries to breath deeply, sucking in huge gulps of oxygen when Josh inserts one finger deep inside of him, curling it experimentally.  It's wet, but it's also not very gentle and he feels a burning pain all the way through his body as he's further pulled in half, a second finger snuck in now, pulling and stretching. Faris is kneeling in front of him, running a forceful finger over his bottom lip, pulling it down.  He guides Rhys's head into his lap and drags his mouth down around his erection, as Josh sinks his fingers in deeper.  Rhys gasps as a strange but pleasurable spark pricks him through the aching.  He gags slightly as Faris hits the back of his throat, but tries desperately to please him, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, his lips closing in a tight 'o'.  Faris moans low in his chest, almost inaudibly.  Too soon, Rhys thinks, Josh pulls his fingers out.  He lines himself up at Rhys's entrance and pushes in in one jerky thrust, Rhys squealing in pain.  Faris moans louder at the vibrations.  Josh remains still for a second, as Rhys catches his breath, but new tears are streaming down his face.  Faris wipes them away with his thumbs, his cock twitching in the heat of his mouth.  Josh pulls out at a crawlingly slow pace before slamming back in with more force, his nails clawing at Rhys's prominent spine.  His thighs clench around Rhys, as he continues to thrust deeper and deeper in a crescendo of rolling hips.  Faris pulls out of Rhys's mouth with no warning, letting his face thunk carelessly back to the bed, like dropping an inanimate object.  He shimmies artfully  around Rhys's body as it slides back and forth across the bed.  Again, with no signs in advance, Rhys is slammed forward with a bone breaking force, as Faris pushes into the man already inside of him, his cheek scrubbing against the blanket.  Rhys bites down on his tongue, tasting yet more blood, and curls his fingers into the sheets, clutching them tightly.  Faris sets a moderate and more steady speed than Josh alone, although the weight behind each thrust is now almost unbearable. Rhys can hear the both of the other men's breathing, short grunts and moans overlapping with Joshua's breathy screams.  Rhys, however, isn't screaming any longer; he's been reduced to a low sob, as he waits for it to end.  The rhythm becomes stuttering and erratic and he hears Faris gasp sharply, followed by Joshua's release deep inside of him, slick and dirty.  He bites Rhys's neck as he orgasms, groaning uninhibited.  
         Faris collapses to the side, breathing heavily, as does Joshua, landing directly on top of Faris and kissing him sloppily amongst a tangle of limbs.  Rhys is still curled there in a ball on his knees, face pressed downward, trembling, his cheeks still wet with tears and his cock still hard against his stomach.  "Hey, kid," Faris pokes Rhys in the shoulder, and he glances up through his hair at him, he's still completely naked, holding out a thick wad of cash.  Rhys takes it tentatively, staring at it in wonder.  It's three times as much as he usually makes playing music.  "We're going to take a shower," Faris tells him, "Feel free to take a drink when you leave, if you like." Rhys nods and flips over exhaustedly onto his back.  Josh has entwined his hand through Faris's, skipping into the bathroom, and kissing him occasionally on the cheek and neck, adoringly.  Rhys takes care of himself alone, as quickly as he can, coming messily over his hand as he hears the shower turn on.  So he won't get to use it, then. His hair feels extra greasy now over his face.  He rolls off the bed, stumbling slightly as he tries to stand, and scours the ground for his clothing.  It's scattered everywhere, but he eventually manages to get it all on.  He skips checking his reflection on the way out, but does take the mostly full bottle of vodka from the desk along with him. 

When Rhys returns to his little box on his little, sad street, he crawls into it, feeling smaller than a speck himself and falls asleep right away, a now empty bottle in his hand.  He wakes up to a risen sun, and the sound of little fists banging on the cardboard.  He crawls out to the opening, his muscles aching in protest, his head throbbing fanstastically.  Three children are waiting for him.  "What are you doing asleep Rhys?" Lilah questions him.  He usually checks on them in the mornings.  "What time is it?" He asks.  She rolls her eyes, " Past lunch time." oh. 
"Sorry...."   He rubs his eyes at the intruding sunlight.  They don't even seem to notice how beat up he looks.  "I worked late last night." 
"Oh...Guess what!?? Joe gave us COOKIES last night!" She squeals, as though Joe is some kind of god because of this.  Rhys forces a smile into place like a shrunken mask, "That's great, hey, I'll see you guys later, okay?"  They reply okay and all hug him at once before galloping off to play somewhere else.  He watches them leave, their innocence astounding him.  He sits back against the edge of the box, feeling in his front pocket for his money.  If he was paid this much each night, he would soon have enough to buy a small apartment, which is an attractive possibility despite how utterly disgusting he feels.  It is time to make an exchange.  A life, with a shower, and a roof, and three meals each day, for something else, although he isn't quite sure yet what the something else is.  Rhys counts the money carefully before stowing it away in his shoe.    

I can't sleep
when I know my days are numbered

I will live until I die. 

Think of all the weary nights to toss the sheets through.

Watch the fan spin, parting the birds, that wake up as I finally succumb.

Feathers and tiny spinal cords fall.

Through a haze of half conscious memories, I recall, 

a day when I left blood in the sidewalk chalk. 

Ripped apart, though it may be, twisted as a barbed wire animal,
whining at the apothecary,

all we have are mornings and days

 
How can I sleep

With a dream in my head, so vivid that my bed
becomes a hanging wreath on the wall, and
my hair is charged with the energy of a whole colony of them
 
How can I let my lashes drag, like anchors, 

when shivers are pinching my arms, and running down
the crooked slope of my spine, 

from the line I just read, or a sudden, unexplainable bout of wind.  

When there are people in motion,
and people in white,
dancing somewhere downtown, or in their living rooms, 

feeding off the rations doled out by body heat
and strobe lights. 

How can I sleep when there's work to be done.  

Work I could have attended, as my mind slept underwater,
all afternoon,
when the food tastes stale,
and the sound of daytime television
stings words numb with one lame tentacle  

How can I sleep,
when I could be, sitting here,
half naked, 
the summer air visiting from winter
blowing like gravity, straight into the dull blade of my shoulder.  

When I am here, and breathing. 
Listening to the dust entering and leaving
the chambers of my animated lungs. 

They've been quiet for too long,

Now, rejuvenated by early mornings alone. 

How can I sleep,
when there is still more to type.  To write. 

I should just be scrawling this by hand, but I can't be bothered, I guess. 

I should be leaving on a ship, bound for ancient coasts,
and tourist traps.   

How can I sleep when I still haven't spoken the truth?

But who am I to tell the difference? 

Between fact and opinion

I'm not really qualified, to give anything 

other than congratulations

How can I sleep,
when the posters on my wall keep smiling? 

Watching me waiting

for rain in the south

And the sun is just now trying, 

to break through in the east. 

I think today, it will succeed. 

How can I sleep
when such challenges are being met with such vigor
In every place I cannot reach.  

And I am merely here. 
still cold, because there's too much flesh to conceal, 

I could find a blanket,
there's one right here,  

I could ask it to join my ruse

but for some reason, it's just been watching
and I've been ignoring it's presence, 

If I waste time courting comfort,
I fear I might miss other chances.  

How can I sleep,
when I'm not sure if there are any more words to pull from my gut,  
from this inarticulate basin of letters and organic numbers.  

I almost wish them to stop, so I can go and creep under the covers,

and sigh in superficial contentment 

How can I sleep
when I'm still so restlessly   

Shifting around on my heels, 

and nature is sending my stomach to twitching
with it's greedy compulsions. 

Now, my head is aching slightly, (my pulse is to blame), 

And whatever vague surface I've been trying

to scratch at 

keeps moving on, before I can catch it. 

I fear it never really exists.    

How can I sleep,
when it's finally time.  

I'm rambling and naked, and god damn it: tired.  

Jesus Christ.  

This is turning into a puppy love phone call,
You hang up, 

No, you.  

I don't know who to hand the thing over to.   

Thanks a lot, other side,
for taking the initiative to let this sentence die. 

You're welcome. 

       Do you love me?

Go to sleep.

       Do you believe in me?

GO to sleep. 

       Okay.  

"I'm scared," Jamie huddles farther into the blockade of Adam's steady shoulder, his face dropping to rest on it, breath ghosting the soft downy hairs behind Adam's ear.  A strange shade of yellow trickles into the cerulean of the sky.  It spirals in shapes, like threads of smoke, infecting the innocence of pristine, white clouds.  Adam watches this display of freakish nature through a diner window, smudged with years of overlapping children's finger prints, and smashed insects.  He squeezes Jamie's tiny waist, "We're okay, dove.  Every thing's fine now," His voice is low, a calming whisper.  "I mean," Jamie sighs, like he is exasperated with explaining this, "Something bad is going to happen."  He inches back a bit to claim some space, out of reach of Adam's distracting touch.  "I have this feeling." He gives a meaningful look, and Adam immediately comprehends.  Jamie's intuition is about one step below a psychic power.  He had known a week in advance the time that he had caught the flu and was motionless in bed for more than two weeks.  He had known, all the times when Adam ran away to Vegas, or Hollywood, or New York,  that he would return hung over, broke and begging to  get back together, despite adamant words of goodbye .  He always knew when Adam was feeling less than joyous, even when he put up all the walls and acted his part perfectly; had known that Adam would make it through all the rounds on American Idol.  He could almost always predict the weather.  

They are draped around a red, plasticky booth: David, Jason, Allison, Matt, and Kris, are all watching the exchange with untouched pancakes resting in front of them, probably getting soggy.  Pity.  David observes in that morbid way he has, mouth a thin, grim line, like it's been sewn shut, peering out from under his eyelashes.  Matt and Allison watch with wide eyes and open mouths, while Kris's mien is one of concern, brow creased, but he seems to be more aware of what's happening than Matt or Allison.  They sit in a moment of tense silence, until David finally pipes in,

"You know why he thinks that?" He nods at Adam, as if he should already know. "The tour starts in three days." Oh. Adam chokes on a sip of orange juice, before attempting to reassemble his casual demeanor.  He shrugs, running the back of his hand over his mouth, "We'll just have to keep moving." But Cook looks doubtful.  Jason is plastered to his side, and David takes a few of his crazy, frayed locks between his fingers, playing with them idly as he stares into some imagined horrible future that no one else wants to see. 

They haven't been staying at hotels (they leave too tangible a record behind), so when they leave the diner, the only place to trudge back to is the van, parked down a few blocks; it's their home at the moment.  They open it and all tumble in, it is a bit small for seven people, but no one will admit it; there are enough seats anyway.  David claims the drivers seat, yet again.  They all keep offering to take turns driving, but he will relinquish control to no one.  Adam and Jamie sit curled together in two of the three back seats, with Matt, moodily hunched in the third, (Allison takes one of the middle spots before he can protest and Kris has to take the other one.) Jason, naturally, occupies the spot next to David.    "So!" Allison barks, a few minutes after the engine is revved and humming along.  Her energy never seems to waver. "Where're we going?"  she asks the car at large.  No one answers her for a moment.  "Neverland." says David.  Jason looks at him, shaking his head before answering Allison himself, "Very far away."  Allison nods, satisfied enough.  She squirms in her seat restlessly, "Adam!" he jumps, as she yells his name and his ear bangs against the window.  Jamie is asleep, his angelic cheek resting against Adam's lap. 
"Yeah?" Adam replies, wincing and rubbing his eyes groggily.  
"What do you miss most? About normal life."  Adam blinks.  Odd question.  "I don't know Allison...freedom I guess." 

"No, I know," Allison shakes her head, like he's chosen the wrong answer, "I mean besides that." 

"Oh. um.." Adam runs his fingers through Jamie's caramel hair, all he really needs is here.  But there are other things, wants.  "Performing."  He states, assuredly, "On my own terms." Allison nods, approving his answer. 
"I think I miss my family."  Adam leans forward in his seat,  clutching Allison's shoulder lovingly, and kissing her on the forehead, "You can think of me as part of your family."  She smiles, tears shimmering in her eyes, and turns back around in her seat.  David coughs obnoxiously, and Adam thinks he hears Matt say something about vomiting under his breath. About two minutes later Allison speaks again, "I'm bored!" They all groan inwardly.  "Hey Kris!"  Kris is sleeping, completely upright in the seat next to her.  She pokes him in the eye.  He doesn't wake up, therefore she must kick him in the shin.  He jerks in his seat, eyelids fluttering frantically.  "You're awake!" Kris looks confused for a second, "Penis!" she shouts at him.  He stares at her blankly before falling back to sleep in a matter of seconds.  "Hey that looks fun!"  Adam leans forward in his seat as much as he can without disrupting Jamie, running his index finger down Kris's cheek before grabbing his face in one hand and squishing it together, making him appear like a little, fat puppy with fish lips.  Allison bursts out with an embarrassing snort of laughter.  She kicks him again, and yells "scrotum!"  at him.  He wakes up with a gurgling wail and everyone laughs delightedly at this new game of torment-the-sleeping-kristopher.  Kris touches his cheek, and turns to the side, burying his face moodily. 

Adam hears a soft chuckle from the figure in his lap.  He can feel the vibration of it on his thighs.  "Hey you!" Jamie rolls onto his back, staring up at him, a bright smile in place.  "I thought you were asleep..." he murmurs, leaning in to press his lips to Jamie's pale neck.  Jamie shakes his head softly, "Nah...I just didn't want to move." He nuzzles his face against the leg he is currently utilizing as a glorious pillow, "I like it here." Adam laughs and pats his head,
"Then by all means, stay." 

"I think I will."  He makes a soft little purring sound in his throat, and snuggles farther up into Adam's crotch.  

"Get a room," Kris says dully, and Adam sticks his tongue out at him like an eight year old. 
          The tires screech as David pulls over into a grimy gas station.  "If you have to pee, get out." David barks.  "Were only spending at most, five minutes here." 

"Oy vey," Adam mutters, that man needs to calm down.  He Jumps out, pulling Jamie along by the hand.  They maneuver their way through many suspicious eyes, none of them quite believing their vision.  As soon as they make it into the bathroom, Jamie throws himself at Adam like a wild animal, attacking his lips and neck and any other skin available with a hunger that is almost frightening.  (Allison's not the only one growing restless with the constant driving, apparently.)  "Jamie, stop..." Adam whines, but his heart is only half in it.  When Jamie pulls at the hem of his shirt, Adam grabs him firmly by the tops of the arms, pinning them to his sides, "We only have five minutes. Stop."  He tries to look authoritative.  Jamie grins wickedly, his breath loud, "That's plenty of time..."  he says, sensing a challenge.  "No.  No it's not..." his voice goes weak when Jamie lunges forward, grinding himself against Adam, fingers laced tight around his neck.  Before he even recognizes what's happening, Adam is guided into one of the bathroom stalls, and Jamie is on his knees, fumbling with the zipper on Adam's too- tight jeans.  He sighs and lets his head fall back against the metal stall, giving up as Jamie tugs his pants down until they are wrapped inconveniently around his calves.  He nearly falls to the ground when Jamie clutches on to his thighs, nails biting into them, and swallows all of him at once.  He feels lust and heat spreading like some warm liquid in his muscles, settling in his belly;  his breath fluttering erratically.   Jamie pulls back, teasing the head of his cock with tiny licks, before covering the whole length and sucking hard, pulling a strangled whimper from Adam when he hits the back of Jamie's throat.  "Fuck..." he holds the back of Jamie's neck,  loving the little sound Jamie makes when the pads of his fingertips press just a little too hard into humming skin.  
 

About ten minutes later, Adam and Jamie are exiting the gas station, all disheveled clothing and mussed hair.  David is standing outside the car, arms crossed impatiently.  "Have fun?" He asks with biting sarcasm.

"Yep!"  Adam beams at him, before leaning in to lick Jamie's throat playfully.  Jamie giggles and climbs into the car.  Adam is about to step in after him, when David catches him by the shoulder roughly.  "Can you go five.." David looks down at his watch, "Oh wait, I mean TEN, fucking minutes without acting like the goddamned queen of flamboyancy?"  Adam juts his hip out and inspects his deep blue nails, "Nope."  He gives David a crooked smirk, but he just scowls in response, pulling at his hair, "What's the matter with you?"   

"What's the matter with me? At least I don't act like the fucking grim reaper is constantly sitting on my shoulder." 

"Might as well be..." David mutters.  Fragments of deep, bruised purple and gray have seeped into the clouds now.  David sighs.  "If you don't start acting a bit more inconspicuous, you're going to get someone hurt.  Most likely your precious little beau there," He nods his head towards the van window,  "He does always seem to be the one getting hurt, don't you think?"  Adam's eyes narrow as fresh feelings of guilt begin to eat at his confidence like acid, and for once, he has nothing to say in response.  "Do you remember? I was the one who rescued him? Lord knows he can't save himself..." Adam takes a step closer,
"Don't talk about him."  He says it quickly, through a tight jaw, his fists clench at his sides as he bounces between contemplating smashing David's face into the pavement, and running off into the path of a zig-zagging semi.  David opens his mouth, and then closes it, obviously thinking better of whatever he was just about to say.  The rain starts up then, gray and driving.  They both turn away and get back into the van.  

The wind is against them now, rain pelting the windshield like a hail of bullets.  David turns up the windshield wipers, only they would be much more effective if one of them wasn't snapped in half.  "Shit..." He squints through the driving rain, trying to see the road straight in front of him.  "Maybe we should pull over..." Jason suggests.

"No time..." David grunts.  He is beginning to sound like a caveman, Adam thinks.    "Adam," Jamie whispers, twisting around in the arm that is wrapped around his shoulders to peer out the back window.  Adam follows his gaze to a sleek coal black car, unscratched and clean with dark tinted windows.  There is an identical one following straight behind it.  "I've been seeing those cars all day." 

"What." Adam stares at him blankly, "And you didn't mention this-" 

"What? WHAT?" David asks from the front seat, watching them through the dashboard mirror.  There is stony silence.  "What the fuck is going on?" David asks again.  Adam clears his throat, subdued, "Someone's following us," he mutters quickly.  David's intake of breath is loud enough to hear from the back of the van through the sound of screaming wind and rain.  "Fuck...Do NOT look back!" David yells, halting Alison, Kris, and Matt as they are all in the middle of doing just that.  He speeds up a couple miles per hour, and Adam thinks he will die inside with curiosity, knowing he can't turn to see how the black cars are reacting.  David takes the next nearest exit, not daring to glance into the rear view mirror for several minutes.  The cars are still there.  The wind picks up, gaining strength and volume,  and no one can hear David when he warns them that they had better have their seat belts on.  So the only ones who do are Kris and David, when he speeds up to a good 20 miles per hour over the speed limit, and makes a sharp right turn, slamming all of them to the side, and barely missing a telephone pole. "Jesus Christ!" Kris screams out, and Matt takes his hand over the seat in an attempt at comfort.  "Don't say the lord's name in vain!"  Adam yells slightly hysterically, then turns to Allison, "Guess who I am?"  But then David pulls another sharp turn, and the wind is knocked out of him.  He pulls Jamie protectively into himself, and feels him trembling.  His face has gone completely white, and Adam presses a kiss to his temple.  David speeds up, still more, watching the two cars behind them do the same.  They are on a rather abandoned road now, nothing but trees and occasional street signs lining it, and the cars are beginning to part into two directions behind them.  David mutters to himself intensely, leaning over the wheel, and Adam watches with relief as the two cars become smaller and smaller as they fall behind.  Then, in quick succession, a vibrant flash of lightning sparks, and a creature appears in the road in front of them.  David swerves, narrowly missing the shadowy human form, and then narrowly missing a tree, before bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop in the woods.  Everything shakes and vibrates as the car falls to a complete halt, the smell of exhaust and smoke and rain surrounding them.  David's hands are so tight on the steering wheel, the knuckles are paper white.  "Is everyone okay?" He asks through gritted teeth.  They all whisper yes's or nod.  "Good..." David says with a shudder.  Jason grabs his hands, and gently pries them free of their vice on the wheel.  David doesn't even seem to notice, his look is calculating.  Adam looks down at the shaking boy in his arms, and is confused by the expression on his face.  It is one of complete and utter terror, and he is staring, transfixed out the window behind Adam's head.  Allison shrieks, scrambling at the lock on her door, and Adam turns around.  His lips part slightly, eyes become hollow orbs.  A massive, spiraling cylinder of gray and yellow dust and wind is kissing the earth not too far away.  It seems to come from heaven, or space, poking through livid storm clouds.  Adam springs himself forward in a kind of daze, everyone's faces are blurred and softer than usual, voices echoing.  Allison has already managed to fall out of the van and has taken off running.  Dragging Jamie with him, Adam follows her, "Allison!" He screams, but the wind is so loud now, he can barely even hear himself.  Bits of twigs and garbage keep flying past his head, scraping his face and arms.  He can no longer see Allison now.  Suddenly, David is behind him, grabbing his wrist and yanking.  David sprints, and Adam just tries to keep up, tripping over his feet in panic.  He leads them a ways to the left, and behind an old tree where Jason, Kris and Matt are already crouching in the weak protection of a narrow trench.  Kris and Matt are wrapped around each other tightly, heads down, eyes shut.  Adam helps Jamie lower himself into the hole and is about to jump in himself when a large branch cracks off its trunk and is shot towards him, knocking him over the side of the head with a sickening crack.  

Adam wakes up completely alone.  The sun is shining brightly, intensifying the smell of earth surrounding him.  He is lying on his side, taking up much of the length of the hole.  He scrambles to his knees, feeling along the dirt floor beneath him, some roots are poking through.  He looks up, just long enough to see a dark figure crouching over him at the lip of the trench.  The sun all but blinds him when he looks and he pulls his head back down, gasping.  He hears scuffling somewhere in the distance, and muffled shouts, however the tone of the voice, is unmistakably  Jamie's.  "No..." His voice breaks at the end, coming out as just an agonized rasp.  The figure above him chuckles.  Hatred surges through him.  He wants to hurt whoever is causing this.  Rip them apart in one motion.  Torture them, nice and slow.  He jumps to his feet, hands scraping on the sides of the walls of dirt,  and lifting himself up with as much energy as he can amount, but as soon as he does so, a heavy hand grips him by the neck of his shirt.  He thrashes against the restraint, but as soon as the hands let go, they wrestle a hold on both of his wrists behind his back.  Someone's hot breath shoots out into his ear, "If you just relax, this will be so much easier."  A mans, gruff voice, a little bit out of breath with the effort of holding him back.  Adam hears a door slam, then measured foot steps approaching.  A blur of a second tall, broad-shouldered man, with a ragged mop of dark brown hair grabs Adam by one upper arm, the other man taking hold on just the other.  He twists against them, maybe screaming but he can't tell.  The one on the left jerks his shoulder hard, and a burst of pain actually clears things up for him, so that two, shiny black cars become visible, parked on the road ahead of him.  Adam bends to their will, sagging under the force for a moment, before jerking hard and running in the opposite direction, a last ditch effort.  One of the men runs after him, shoves him forward by the small of his back, and he lands face first on the ground.  The man is quickly on him, dragging him back up by the hair.  He calls out to the other one, while staring into Adam's face, "Poor boy thought he could get away!"  He pats Adam's cheek condescendingly with a sneer as the other man jogs back, this time brandishing hand cuffs.  They click into place, entrapping Adam's wrists together behind his back before he is once again pulled roughly to his feet, and dragged back in the direction of the car.  He still resists, but his efforts are weaker now, as he feels hope drain away.  A single gray bus passes them but doesn't stop or pause.  Adam is shoved into the back of the car, next to Jason and Kris.  As they pull off the curb, a figure is visible amongst the trees.  It is just standing there, too far away to make out details, a little blotch of black clothes, made into a silhouette by the blinding sun light.       

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5


        It's cold and wet under the bridge, like the stomach of some man eating reptile.  It's almost like a tunnel...cement walls, curving in slightly on either side, and there's a muddy strip of brown and green sludge, running through a small portion of it.  Joe is huddled on the large stretch of pavement, as far away from the creek as he can get, listening to cars speeding by over his head.  Drops of water plummet from the rafters above, occasionally hitting him on the forehead, or sliding down his neck.  He shivers.  No jacket.  No phone...Faris is probably seething.  And this is why he has arrived early.  He and Faris meet up every night, sometimes early morning, and when he is already in a bad mood, the best thing to do is to be punctual.  A bat swoops down, flying past Joe's ear and back up again, causing him to gasp and scramble back against the wall, nails scraping against it;  he is terrified of those things, and they're always fluttering around under here....they must have a nest or something...Do bats even have nests?  He slumps onto the ground, and is trying to just breathe, when the sound of foot steps descending towards him, heavy long strides, echoes through the air, and he jumps to his feet, catching a glimpse of Faris's gangly, but menacing form before it reaches him.  There are too many shadows to make out much of his face.  "Oy! Faris!" Joe calls to him, waving enthusiastically before crossing his arms, and attempting to look casual.  He has a theory that if you act less pathetic, the aggressor will be less tempted to completely obliterate you...so far, this theory hasn't been tested.  It doesn't work.  As soon as Faris is close enough, he digs his fist into Joe's stomach, creating a starburst of pain that he feels all the way up to his shoulders, and in between each of his ribs.  He hunches over, falling to his knees, all intentions of acting tougher than he feels, forgotten.  His eyes are watering.  Faris crouches down in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, "So, where were you last night?" he asks pleasantly, in that understated tone he has.  Joe is staring intently at the ground, trying to hide the hurt on his face.  Faris grabs hims by the chin, between his thumb and index finger, jerking his face up to make eye contact.  "I-I can explain, I had-it-it was-" Faris cuts him off with a driving knuckle to his jaw.  Joe tastes blood in his mouth, but he isn't sure where exactly it's coming from.  "It was Rhys!" He blurts out, before Faris can hit him again.  Faris visibly hesitates, "I was in the hospital with Rhys," Joe finishes, breathing shallowly. 

"What happened?"

"He-he, I think he was attacked," Joe isn't sure if he should tell Faris the rest, he doesn't know why...maybe it seems private. A flash of concern flits across Faris's face, but it's probably more about his profit, then Rhys's safety.  He's still scowling with anger.  He flicks some hair out of his eyes.  

"Who the fuck were you with when I tried to call you?" Faris asks, rather randomly.

"I lost my phone...left it somewhere...why?" Joe winces, thinking he'll be struck again for asking questions, but Faris just regains his grip on his chin, snaking his other hand into his frazzled hair.  

"Because whoever answered, was bloody psycho...he kind of...cackled at me, and hung up." Joe doesn't see how this is relevant, it's something that Faris normally wouldn't think twice about.  He ponders for about a second, then tugs hard on Joe's hair.  It feels as if he's going to rip chunks of it out by the roots, and his neck bends like a pipe cleaner under the pressure.  He tries to choke back a pained whimper, but it comes out anyway.  "You are so pitiful."  Faris happily returns to abusing him, raising an arm back before slapping him across the cheek.  Joe tumbles onto his side, going slack, and not bothering to retaliate; it only makes it worse.  "Stupid whore...Get up." Joe reluctantly sits up, elevating himself on his elbows. 
"Sorry..."  Joe mumbles. 

"Sorry? You're sorry, are you?  You still don't even know how much that was worth."

Faris shoves him down again with one hand, and he falls onto his back, his head bouncing against the pavement. "Half wit." Faris would be smirking, if he weren't so enraged. 

"But why-" Joe cuts off, but Faris is just staring down at him disgustedly.  "Why was this particular job worth any more money than the rest?" He says it quickly, but carefully.  Wincing at the pain in his face, he almost misses Faris's expression changing.  He's not sure why or how, it could be anything from guilt to happiness, it just...changes, before speedily settling back into his usual bored countenance.  "Guy's a doctor, offered more." 

"Oh..." Joe begins to sit up again, but Faris is on him quickly, digging a knee into his chest, and clasping a large hand around his throat.  "If this ever happens again," He leans in closer, his nose barely brushing against Joe's, "You'll regret it." Joe refrains from saying, he already does regret it...although its hard to speak when you can barely get any oxygen in or out.  Finally, Faris releases him and stands, brushing off his jeans, "You'll be working overtime, to make up for it," Joe nods, massaging his neck in an attempt to restore circulation and getting to his feet gingerly.  "And get a new phone." Joe has to stop himself from replying, yes sir, and saluting. He grimaces,  every blow stinging now that he's on his feet.  Faris gives him a list of names and addresses, and god, it's fucking long.  And he's already exhausted. 

              Joe falls through the door to his apartment, at 5 am, feeling like the walking dead, accept they can probably walk better. He staggers through the short hall and into his bedroom, not intending to wash, or brush anything (although he needs a shower badly).  Glimpsing the glowing clock on the nightstand, he estimates about 6 hours to sleep before he has to wake up again.  Day job.  He groans, tripping over some lumpy object on the way to the bed in the inky dark.  The temperature in the room is lower than usual, an icy breeze seeping in through the open window.  He groans again, maneuvering slowly across the room to close it.  It squeaks loudly on the way down, sending shivers down the back of his neck and arms.  He walks back around to the bed, kicking his shoes off, and yawning.  Clawing his way into bed, Joe is about to fluff up the pillow and settle in when his knee digs into something solid and pointed.  He jumps up, like somethings stung him, causing him to tumble to the floor onto his back.  He stand hurriedly, backing away from the bed.  It almost felt like...but it couldn't...He moves back towards the door, feeling for the light switch, holding his breath as he flicks it on.  There, sprawled across his bed in the newfound yellow lighting, is a man.  There's blood, some dried over large welts, and some still leaking from fresh gashes on his neck, little cuts like some disease riddle the skin of his face.  Parts of his stomach are dissected, chunks missing like someone is attempting to make a human jigsaw puzzle.  One arm is dangling off the edge of the mattress, his eyes are shut.  And Joe cannot breath.  He feels nauseous but the shock is subduing all the terror.  Right now, fear is a muddled, impure thing. When he steps closer back to the bed, he realizes it's not just any man, but the exact one who had given him and Rhys a ride the day before.  He is wearing Joe's jacket. He stops about a foot away, peering at his face, and feels the urge to prod him with a stick but he doesn't have one, and doesn't dare move any closer.  Suddenly, the man's eyes fly open wide, quivering in the sockets, and settle on Joe, staring blankly.  He sighs, almost inaudibly, and his eye lids drift back down, blanketing his vision.    

beep. 

     beep.......... 

                           beep 

It has been too fucking long, and Joe isn't sure he can stand that infernal sound much longer.  It's like someone is drilling a dull hole through his head, slowly, so slowly, as the beeping reverberates throughout the hospital, bouncing from room to room.  But he remains where he is anyway.  He isn't sure if Rhys has anyone else to stay with him, and he sure as hell doesn't want him waking up alone.  Everything is so very white, and intimidating.  All white beds, with white floors, stark walls.  Rhys has all sorts of machines hooked up to him, a clamp around his finger, needle piercing the back of a frail hand,  and tubes running into nose.  It's a morbid sight, as if life is being forced upon him, which actually, it kind of is.  Joe wonders what had possessed him to attempt that. Suicide, of all things.  One week, he was warning Joe about the dangers of drugs and telling him he should really carry pepper spray everywhere he went, and the next he didn't care at all. He wanted out.  Besides the obvious, self inflicted wounds, the doctors had found extras, after rinsing all the blood away with damp clothes and antiseptic. There are a few shallow cuts along his neck, and oddly,  a couple bite marks, deeper than the cuts, and under the bandages, an angry, vivid scarlet.  Rhys had screamed when they disinfected them, causing Joe to wince and shut his eyes.  He couldn't stand watching other people in pain.
"ehh..." Rhys makes a low grumbling sound, eyes cracking open, squinting against the fluorescents.  Joe scoots his chair closer to the bed with a scraping sound, leaning in like an anxious mother.  "You awake?" He asks, and Rhys nods.  There is a clear plastic cup of water on a tray next to the hard bed, and Joe holds it out for him.  His lips look dry and cracked.  Rhys looks around sleepily, handing the water back to Joe, obviously drugged and confused.  The dreamy look in his eyes falls away as soon as he catches sight of the window set into the blank wall next to him, letting a scrap of natural light wash the room, and creating lively shadows.  He lifts a hand, pointing towards the window, his arm shaking slightly with the effort.  He mumbles some quiet words and Joe has to lean in closer to hear them, Rhys's expression intensifies with fear, "Close it!" He finally gets it out, his voice cracking, and his expression frantic.  Joe jumps up immediately and leaps to the window, closing the blinds carefully, so no one can see out or in.  This seems to please Rhys for now, and he calms down, his breathing slowing, and the beeping of the heart monitor settling back into a healthy rhythm.  Joe hurries back to his seat at the bedside, examining Rhys's face closely.  He looks half dead, drained and quivering  like a dead leaf.  He stares at Joe blankly for a few moments, eyes unseeing, and lips slack, and then his face begins to crumble; eyes filling with hot moisture.  Joe grabs his hand, stroking the back slowly,  the skin there is almost translucent.  "It's okay, your okay..." He tries to reassure him, but his words only seem to make Rhys cry harder, his breath shudders and he shakes his head back and forth.  "No..." He says..."No." He repeats it over and over, and Joe can only watch helplessly, unsure how to fix this.  "He..." Rhys's voice is so weak, and it shakes badly.  "I..." he yanks his hand free from Joe's grip, holding it up in front of his face and examining it, flexing the long, white fingers and turning it back and forth, obviously dumbfounded to be alive.  He tugs on the thick bandage around his wrist, scowling in disgust at it.  Joe watches apprehensively, but when he starts to really pull on it, like he's going to just tear the whole thing off, Joe grabs his hand and forces it back to his side.  His stick- thin bony arms are too weak to resist.  Rhys sighs, his eyes falling shut and he goes limp against the pillow. 

"What happened?" Joe's words leak out as a whisper.  

"I...I don't-" Rhys is still stuttering, but he sounds less hysterical.  "He can't know I'm alive, but he'll...he'll know, and then..." Rhys shivers.

"Who?" Joe asks, but Rhys just stares up at him with eyes like wide coins, and a nurse chooses this moment, of all other possible moments, to walk in and join them.  Lovely.  

"How are you feeling?" She asks, but he doesn't respond.  She checks the monitors and peers into each of Rhys's eyes with a little light.  When she clicks it off, she seems satisfied.  "You should be able to leave by tomorrow, we just want you here over night, just to be safe, okay?"  She smiles, and Joe notices she has a bit of dark red lipstick on one of her front teeth.  But he doesn't point it out.  She turns to him on her way out, "I need to ask you to leave." 

"It's funny, so do I," Joe replies, smiling, but she doesn't look amused.  She huffs out, most likely taking off to find someone of higher authority to kick him out for the night.  When he looks back at Rhys, he is almost smiling.  A woman wearing normal work clothes (no mask, or scrubs) enters, and Joe stands,  thinking they've come to get rid of him once and for all, but she just motions for Joe to follow her, "You're wanted at the front desk." she informs.  He follows her to the emergency room waiting area, and she hurries back around behind the fake wooden desk, grabbing a phone that has been set down off the hook, and handing it to him.  Joe looks at her questioningly, but she just shrugs.  He lifts it tentatively to his ear, 

"Hello?" 

"Meet me.  Tonight." A click, and the dead note of the dial tone drones through.  Faris.      

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3
            

        Rhys cannot seem to gain control of anything.  He can feel a spiral coming on, a great cyclone engulfing the world.  Or maybe it's just him.  He trembles against the wall, arms wrapped tight around himself, hair uncharacteristically disheveled.  fuck...FUCK. He doesn't quite know what else to think.  What to do.  There is a sticky moisture, dripping slick down his neck, but he doesn't want to think about it.  His vision is hazy, gray at the edges, sweat dripping down his cheeks and mingling with tears and blood.  It's like he's completely unraveling,  a human ball of yarn.  But he's feeling less human with every passing second.  Joe's blurry form appears down the street, galloping towards him from a distance.  Rhys observes this through fluttering eyelashes, at the same time not really comprehending it.  He cocks his head to the side slightly, watching as Joe gets closer and closer.  "Rhys!" He yells, waving his arms frantically, and it sounds like he's screaming through a tunnel.  He stops briefly on the sidewalk, bracing his hands on his knees, and bending forward slightly, panting, cheeks aflame, before turning his attention to his friend.  Rhys watches as Joe's eyes widen with shock, or horror upon taking in the sight of him.  He doens't have any idea what he looks like right now.  Most likely, not so good.  Joe crouches down in front of him, and Rhys pulls his knees into his chest, squirming away.  "Rhys,"Joe puts a hand on his shoulder, firmly, "It's just me." Rhys nods silently and Joe looks around them.  He obviously needs to get Rhys home, somewhere safe, but he has no idea where that is, and Rhys doesn't seem capable of informing him.  Even if he was, Joe doesn't think he could run another step.  He could call someone but who to call? Joe doesn't really have any real friends who would be willing to pick him up, besides Rhys.  There's  Faris but...no.  There aren't many people on the road, just a gardner working across the street, a lady hobbling home with her grocery bags.  A large black truck, splattered with mud, and sporting quite a few dents passes by like a godsend.  Joe senses an opportunity.  He jumps to the side of the road, waving an arm out and pouting his lips.  It reminds him of when he was 18, he had been so desperate to get out of his home town; find something better.  The truck pulls over, window rolling down simultaneously, and Joe bats his eyelashes up at the driver.  The man in the car looks mid-30s, and wannabe rugged with a baseball cap and stubble.  But he does smile back, and when he speaks it's with an Irish lilt. Strange.  "Whatcha need?" 

"Quick ride?" Joe replies, trying to keep his voice smooth, "It's not far."

"Sure, hop in." Joe gives him a beaming grin, before holding up one finger, signaling he would just be a second and jogging back to Rhys, who is still on the ground.  "Come on," He holds out a hand, and Rhys grabs it, climbing shakily to his feet.  Joe watches him, making sure he can walk, and then jogs back to the truck.  Rhys staggers once, but it's behind Joe's back, and he is grateful for that, regaining his balance before his friend can catch it.  They scurry into the back seats  and the man twists around to face them.  "Where to?" Joe turns to Rhys questioningly, but he doesn't say anything.  He just sits there, staring straight ahead, arms still clutched around his tiny frame.  He looks positively catatonic.  Joe softly touches the back of his hand and Rhys starts, looking at him like he's just poked him in the eye with a large stick.  "Address?" Joe tries to sound soothing, but the man is beginning to look impatient.  It's suddenly surprising that he doesn't know where Rhys lives himself, for some reason they've never gotten around to spending time together at home.  It takes Rhys a couple more seconds, and much stuttering before finally gets it out, and the driver rolls his eyes, "What happened to him?"  Joe just shakes his head, the man watching him through the front mirror of the truck.  They pull into a dingy building, smaller than Joe's, but with a lot more windows.  Rhys is still frozen, just sitting there, unblinking.  Joe leans across his lap, and opens the door, watching Rhys worriedly as he ambles out onto the drive.  He is about to jump out himself, thanking the anonymous driver as he does, when he feels a heavy fist clamp around his wrist.  "Hey, think you could just bum a free ride off me?" The man glares at him suggestively, but not without aggression.  "Look," Joe jerks his arm, trying to tug free but the man only grips tighter.  "I can give you my number, I'll make up to you later, but my friend is-"  The guy just stares, and there is no patience in his gaze. Whatever happened to being selfless to hitchhikers?  Joe sighs defeatedly, "Rhys, I'll be there in a second,"  He tells him and Rhys nods, shuffling away and through a gray door, that looks so old, Joe thinks it might rot and disassemble on the spot. 

About 15 minutes later, Joe is finally stepping out of the car, all the labor intensive styling his hair had gone through is decimated.  The man almost runs his foot over pulling away.  Joe scowls at the disappearing vehicle and heads for the door he had seen Rhys enter through.  The knob squeaks when he twists it, and there is a short set of steps on the other side, leading up to the main part of the abode.  The whole place wreaks distinctly of tar.  He turns into a tiny living area, some random couches, stuffing leaking, are scattered about.  "Rhys!" It seems like the millionth time he's had to yell that name today...There's no response.  He pokes his head in one door, which turns out to be the bedroom, but he's not there.  Just a queen sized four poster, a heavily stained carpet.  The door across from it is closed, and Joe turns to it, yanking on the knob, but it's locked.  He bangs on the door with the heel of his hand, "Can I come in?" There's still no response.  Shaking the handle angrily, he can feel the whole door quake.  He is about to step back and kick the thing in frustration, when he hears a strangled moan from the other side. "Rhys, open the fucking door!" No response.  He pulls on the knob harder, straining, and thinking the whole time, this is bloody pointless, but after twisting it hard enough, the knob just cracks.  That easily.  So rusted through, he guesses, that the lock really wasn't that much of an obstacle in the first place.  He slams the door open, bursting into a cramped bathroom, only to find Rhys, on the floor.  He's leaning against the bathtub, his arms and wrists covered in fresh, thick blood, flowing freely and creating a little ring, like a picture frame around him.  Joe spots the razor blades resting wantonly somewhere among the pools of body fluid before throwing himself to the ground near Rhys's crumpled body.  His skin is even more white than usual, neck slack and allowing his head to rest limply to the side, his eyes rolling back a bit.  Joe looks around frantically, knowing they probably don't have much time.  He jumps back to his feet, and clicks open the single mirrored cupboard.  It is mostly empty. Just toothpaste and and a little bottle of liquor.  He tears his shirt from his body, ripping the thin fabric into two pieces easily, and wrapping one strip around each of Rhys's wrists, securing it tightly with sloppy knots.  He probes Rhys's neck, searching for some sort of pulse.  Faint, but there.  Joe twists around, expecting to scoop up his jacket lying on the floor somewhere, ready to produce a phone from the pocket, but it's not there.  He left it in the truck. Fucking hell. He sprints, manically around Rhys's house, covered in his blood, searching for a goddamn phone.  By the time he finds the old fashioned, corded device, resting mockingly on one of the busted couches, Rhys is already falling completely unconscious, mumbling things through bruised lips, about evil laughter, and windows and bones. 

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2


           Joe is getting dressed, the news blaring on his static ridden television when he hears the word.  Thomethy Furse, found dead today...He jumps out of the bathroom, with only one leg into his jeans and tackles the bed, scrambling to find the remote and turning up the volume.  Cause of death appeared to be fatal laceration wounds, suffocation, and anything in between; basically murder.  Joe hadn't known the guy very well, seen him occasionally on the streets, but nothing more than that.  He has to hold back tears all the same.  He was gone now.  He would never see him lounging against someone else's car again.  Never pass by him with an idle wave or nod.  And however hard he tries to block out the thought, over and over again, it eventually breaks through the fire wall, That could have been me... 

But it also could have been anyone.    

He returns to his primping, and is busy applying a thick ring of black eyeliner when his phone vibrates obnoxiously in his back pocket.  It makes him jump and poke himself in the eye.  Involuntary tears are running down his face when he manages to answer the call.   

"You fucking imbecile,"  Faris spits, and Joe actually startles again on the other end of the line.  He patiently waits for Faris to continue, 

"Your client showed last night, and guess what?  You weren't there. But he wants to try and meet you again tonight," Joe breathes a sigh of relief, hearing some of the malice drain from Faris's tone.  Joe gulps. 

"Same place?" He asks, but Faris has already hung up, so he will just assume that that is a yes.  One has to do a lot of assuming when it comes to Faris.  

When Joe finishes applying makeup, cheap perfume, whatever else he can find scattered around, it is raining.  There is a plate of tin draped over his building as a roof, and it plummets down, creating something like music against the metal.  He hums a bit to himself, tracing melodies between the pounding of the drops, and for a second, peers into an innocent world, where the weather has a rhythm, and you never have to leave your apartment, everything you need is right. here.  But it's time to go.  And guess what, he has no umbrella.

He races outside, holding his jacket over his head as a makeshift cover, and makes a bolt for the bus stop.  A half bald man in a long, tan trench coat saunters by, "Hey kid," Joe glances over, expectantly, "Bus left 10 minutes ago."

"Oh."  He swivels the jacket in front of him, and begins digging into the pockets of it.  The next bus doesn't come for another half hour, and he will be late by then.  He would take his old car, only it's been broken for a month, and it's not like Faris leaves him enough to get it fixed...the estimate alone had made Joe feel faint.  He finally scoops out the phone, and dials, while trying to keep it as dry as possible. It rings once.  twice. Once again, and then there is a shuffling sound and a muffled "'ello?" The voice is distorted by labored breathing, coming out as gasps.  The rain begins to fall harder.  

"Rhys?" Joe has to yell a bit above the roaring wind.  Rhys lets out an anguished sob, and it sends Joe's pulse into double time.

"Rhys, what's going on?" He asks, somewhat more urgently.  

"It's just-I'm-" Rhys gulps, and Joe can hear him trying to get a hold of himself.

"Where are you?" he asks. 

"You don't need to-I'm-"

"Where. Are. You."  Rhys takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

"I'm on Beaumont, by the dumpster." 

"Right, that's only a couple blocks down from me, I'm coming," Joe hangs up before Rhys can protest.  In all actuality, the street is more than just a couple blocks down, but he can run... sort of.  He can try at least.  

Prologue

Part 1



"What exactly is it that you do?"  

"Well," Faris leans back, comfortably, letting his hands rest in his lap.  

"I run a personal business," he says, obviously bored.  The girl across from him rolls her eyes, and he just stares back blankly,  

"Really?"

"Really." he doesn't give a fuck what she thinks, really.  he doesn't even know how he ended up talking to her.  All he knows is that, normally, he can draw and doodle and people leave him alone, but it's working the opposite way with this irritating person.  

"I'll see you," he says, standing up, and leaving before she can say anything further, or point out that they have not exchanged numbers, so no, she will not see him, hopefully ever again.  Faris leaves the pub, grumbling under his breath, he can't even get a simple drink without being socially attacked.  He pulls out his mobile; about eight missed calls. Screw them.  He rings Joe through the speed dial, and when he picks up, he sounds about 3/4 asleep.  

"Hello..." He mumbles through a yawn.  

"Aye.  Couldn't catch up with you last night,  I need you to meet me at the bridge." Right. that.  Joe groans internally, and there is a long pause.  

"Look, Faris..." He begins. 

"What Joseph. What now?" Faris's voice is clipped and unforgiving. 

"The guy last night, he never showed, and I don't have the money, ok? I'm sorry.  Really, really sorry."

"What do you mean, 'never showed'?" 

"Well, I mean, I-"

"Oh shut up, you bloody useless, fucking crack whore..." Although it all comes out as a frustrated mumbling, Joe thinks Faris should take some anger management classes.  It isn't like he has trouble with money.  Not like this particular job was all that vital.  Joe hears him taking a deep breath, and waits for him to speak again. 

" Do you know, how much that was worth? How much you lost?"  Joe gulps.  He shakes his head, no. Then realizes Faris cannot see him at the moment, 

"N-no...I-" 

"No..." Faris sneers mockingly..."Well I'll call him, and see what happened.  If you fucked this up yourself..." Faris isn't so good at giving the threats, but he is pretty good at carrying them out.  Joe knows this. Faris hangs up.  
Up ahead, there is a huge crowd of people loitering in the street.  Faris strides towards them, not so much curious, but eager to pass through the throng.  It can't be that interesting...people are stupid...But as he gets closer, he can see a ring of police tape.  Tons of officers, and even a couple fbi agents gathered around.  In the middle of the hoopla, is a body, sprawled and bloody on the sidewalk.  It's missing a shirt, and wears blood as lipstick, dirt as blush and bruises are smattered across the skin as paint would be used on a canvas, stretched as far as it will go without breaking, and held with staples.  Faris inches in closer, behind the backs of the many police officers, and stares at the cadaver, eyes open to the sun, thin mouth wide in wonder at all the people who have come to see him.  Faris just tries to shake off the image.  

He has phone calls to make. 

-----

      
Prologue



        Joe doesn't do things like his parents, or most of his friends.  Or most normal people for that matter. He puts out his cigarettes on the backs of his own hands, to watch the skin fluctuate in color and texture.  He snorts his cocaine off the curb, inhaling bits of filth along with it.  He eats his meals out of back alley dumpsters, when indeed, he does eat.  He takes walks sometimes; not in the scenic park, with the pink and yellow tulips and the graffitied-on benches, but in the gravel roads between the abandoned factories, where all the shady 'ones' congregate.  All in all, Joe is a very brave little toaster. 

He lounges against a large wall of stained cement, head rocking back to watch the almost-night sky, recede into total blackness.  He sighs, running a hand through his shiny crow-colored hair, spiky with dirt, mussing it even more, in an attempt to look less homeless vagabond, and more deliciously rumpled.  His jeans are tight around his slender thighs, but loose at the waist, and his black and white striped tee shirt is plagued by fraying, and is a couple inches too short, allowing a chill to creep under it, even with the stolen black sport's coat that is too big and baggy over his diminished frame.

He checks his watch (also stolen), and it is half past eleven; maybe the client decided not to show...  But he is apprehensive on the idea of leaving, if the bloke were to arrive later and Joe wasn't there, Faris would beat the shite out of him.  What if the guy had already passed through, but hadn't recognized Joe as the boy he was looking for?  Joe's round, puppy eyes squeeze shut in contemplation.  This is exasperating.  He opens his eyes just in time to see a shadow near the end of the street, accompanied by a miniscule squeaking sound, so subtle, it could be the strain of old plumbing, air slipping out of a balloon.  He almost thinks he has imagined it, until he hears it again, louder, and somewhere between a sob and a chuckle.  He squints, but all he can decipher through the shrouds of darkness is a vague shadow.  One of the damn street lights is out again.  Joe starts to walk forward to investigate, but the figure is already darting back around the corner.  "Hello?" He cocks a hip out, trying to look seductive, and hears that sound again, the source lingering out of his range of vision, and it sends the hairs on the back of his neck on end, sends a shiver rippling through him.  There is something off about it; it reminds him of demons.  The kind that could almost be fairies, but you know their demons, because they're dark, and sinister with bat wings.  He strains his neck, trying to see, but doesn't dare move too far from his spot.  This is where he was told to wait.  This is where he shall stay. 
A light pressure on his shoulder causes him to jump about a foot in the air, but when he looks over, it is just Rhys.  He hadn't even noticed him approaching. "You okay?" He asks.  Joe relaxes a bit, breathing deeply. 
"Yeah..." 

"Working?" Rhys leans back, hands buried into the pockets of impossibly tight trousers. 
"Mhmm...guy was supposed to be here about two hours ago though..." 

"Maybe Faris told you wrong?" Rhys shrugs.  

"Are you?"

"Yeah..." Rhys sighs, taking out a cigarette, holding it up to light, before examining it and chucking it to the ground in anger.  He had been trying to quit for weeks.  Joe isn't sure why.  He just assumes that doing something as risky as prostitution for a means of income, calls for other health hazardous activities, such as smoking.  They wait there together for another 15 minutes, before Rhys is picked up by some guy in a really expensive looking car, he turns back to Joe before getting in, "Be careful," he says, looking horribly worried and Joe just gives him a weak smile, too exhausted to manage much more.  Then he's alone again. 
He waits for two more hours. Literally.  Not even exaggerating.  But then can't take it anymore and heads home.  He prays to God, or demons, or something that Faris will understand.  Most likely not. 

-----------

            Josh wanders from room to room of his old, old house.  Staring at his hands, and staring at his feet as they glide almost silently.  But not quite.  A chipped door, once painted entirely red, breathes open a crack with the screaming wind, the hinges moaning.  Piles of rubbish have formed in every corner, to include objects as far ranging as old candle holders, to spare car parts. Dirty syringes and red ribbons. 
Josh's favorite room is the bedroom.  Although, he rarely does anything on the actual bed.  The chamber includes an ornate dresser with brass handles, but it's empty.  An antique bed frame, with a mattress but no other bedding, no sheets or blankets, and a low gurgling sound from the shadow of the carpeted floor.  Josh steps into the room, kneels down, next to the sound.  It is emitting the type of heat one may expect of a human body, but only faintly.  Josh kisses a cold cheek, and gropes a fluttering chest. 
"Shh..." he comforts, brushing some hair off the clammy forehead.  He produces a 20 pound note from his pocket, holding it between two fingers, and showing it to the fading face below him, before slipping it between the cherry red lips.  And at the shape and expression of the pitiful eyes, Josh can't help but laugh.  Then he stands and retreats to the rusted sink to happily wash the blood from his hands. 

------