Sharp emeralds fractured with slivers of jet opened to the morning light. On the table besides him, a digital clock mutely glowed a dull angry red. A feeling of resigned frustration bubbled in his stomach as the clock blinked and the display changed to read ten am. Ian turned over onto his belly, scrunching the pillow into the hollow of his throat. He could hear his mother banging at the cabinets in the kitchen - probably still up from the night before - and a dull honking snore coming from across the hall, more than likely her current boyfriend, Larry.
The street outside was quiet and a chilly breeze sent shivers around his pale body. Missing school today would mean going without a hot meal and although he had walked the three miles before just to eat and come back, he wasn't sure that he wanted to do it in the cold. Wrapping the sheet around himself, Ian stared up at the ceiling, making pictures out of the bumps in the ceiling puffs. Through the thin apartment walls, he could barely hear the television blaring in the old man's living room - Bob Barker's voice congratulating a woman over her screams. Sighing, he contemplated getting up and closing the window but decided that it was too much work. Closing his eyes, he drifted back to sleep.
~ ~ ~
At the bus stop, he slouched, trying not to chatter his teeth in the icy brisk wind slicing through his grey sweatshirt. Ian stood apart, ignoring the others' sly giggles and veiled glances as much as he ignored the wind.
He knew the whispers well - they followed him from school to school - commenting on the faded blue Aztec lizard tattoo on the back of his hand; the long blonde hair wisping into his face and most often beneath their breaths, the muttering about his clothes or the dark purple smears of pain on his face.
The tattoo he could do nothing about - a whim of his mother's during his toddler years. The hair was a necessity - the back of his neck got cold very quickly and cutting it cost money; he learned a quick lesson asking his mom to cut it and ended up looking like a girl with a pageboy. As for the clothes, money was not something they had much of and what they did went to other things. A few swiped items from the Laundromat usually helped his wardrobe and as long as he was careful, he could tuck them into the towels he pulled from the dryer. The bruises...they were as much a part of him as his eyes.
Stepping onto the bus, he felt a shove from behind and stumbling up the stairs, he caught the edge of the top step on the palm of his hand, tearing it open. Swearing, he brought the cut up to his hand blowing on the slice as he walked to the back of the bus. Sliding to the very end of the seat, he cradled the bruised abrasion and picked pieces of dirt from the bloodied folds.
Ian heard a errant giggle ripple through the crowded bus - small patches of treachery and malice. A familiar heavy weight settled in his chest and his eyes stung from the salt. Sucking on his own blood, he peered through the curtain of golden strands and stared blankly down the aisle. Several of the older boys - more than likely seniors - muttered among themselves before working their way back to where he sat.
The bus driver glanced up once and caught Ian's face in the mirror - a pale ghost of a child hidden behind bruises and filth. Raising his voice over the crowd, he shouted for the boys to sit down while the bus was in motion but his words were lost in the clamor of the teenagers' talking.
Ian tensed as the larger boy's weight shifted the green vinyl seat and he fought not to slide towards the created dimple. The senior paid the slight weight besides him no mind as he settled for the ride to school and Ian inwardly sighed, sliding his canvas backpack to the floor. "You new?" The boy's voice was man-rough and the nudge at his shoulder practically unseated him. Ian looked up from his injured hand. Nodding once, he snarled slightly - backing himself farther into the corner. The older boy laughed, putting his arm around the back of the seat. For the rest of the bus ride, Ian let the scenery scream past him and rocked with the movement of the bus.
~ ~ ~
The teacher's voice droned and echoed. Ian tried to focus on the older man's face but was being drawn to the white spot of reflected light on his forehead. Going on about something concerning evolution, Ian tucked his sunglasses back down over his eyes. The grey tint of the glass turned everyone in the room a pale shade of undead.
The girl sitting in front of him, a bleached blonde echo of an auto parts calendar shot, giggled wildly as he stretched out his legs, banging his feet into her chair. She turned and giggled at him again, futility brushing her hand against his boots. He responded with a small uplift of his mouth, a comma of amusement. The teacher's voice cut through the girl's giggles and a sharp reprimand tore at his ears. Lowering the shades, Ian glared at the man over them - imitating a look he learned from one of his mother's boyfriends.
The boy's dead gaze stopped Mr. Winston in mid-sentence. The reptilian nature in the set of Ian's mouth and the steady boring stare began to unnerve him. Ian brushed the strands of silver-gold from his face and titled his head in challenge, daring the man to continue his tirade. Winston inhaled sharply before gathering his authority and dismissed the boy from his class.
Ian's answering laugh - as venomous as his gaze - poisoned the air. Picking up his backpack, the teenager walked out of the classroom, down the steps of the hall and onto the street.
~ ~ ~
Ian winced, ducking his head to the right - a hair too late as the glass shattered on the wall next to his head, slivers of fake crystal embedding into his cheek and drops of whiskey stinging in the cuts. She began shrieking at him - angry at him leaving the milk carton out even though the container was still ice cold. Her words, blurred from the alcohol, no longer stung as much as they used to - his tired heart finally building up an immunity to her self-hatred.
He stood against the cabinet, not moving or saying anything - knowing that she would continue her outburst until she felt enough of her anger had been purged. He threw a quick glance around the battered kitchen, beer cans strewn over the counters and unwashed dishes piled past the lip of the sink. He slowly detached himself from her screaming, keeping a wary eye on her frenetic hand gestures in case she decided a quick slap across his face would get his attention.
Picking up the carton of milk, she flung it at him - a white stream of liquid pouring from its spout and onto the floor. He stepped away from the counter, over the river of milk and towards the back door as she wildly grabbed at small objects to throw at him. The toaster caught him on the small of his back before Ian could catch the latch on the door.
The cheap knife set block shattered through the small window of the back door and he could hear her scrambling through the kitchen behind him. Finally flicking the small metal hook, he threw the door open and bolted down the small flight of wooden stairs. Sliding past a pair of women sitting on the stoop, Ian panted to catch his breath, rubbing at the sore spot on his back.
Briefly contemplating going back into the apartment after his jacket, Ian turned to walk down the street to the pool hall on the corner. A group of people he knew from school hung there on the weekends - and with any luck Brandy would be there.
He heard her before he saw her - a small girl giggle blended with neon. She smiled when he walked in - something he returned gladly. Several of the other skaters called out to him, one of them Brandy's ex, Mark, and Ian slowly worked through the crowd to get to them. He felt a kindred with these misfits - their clothes as dirty and torn as his, their smiles as sharp. Mark slipped him a can of Coke, its pungent sweet liquid fiery with swirls of Jack Daniels. Sitting down, Ian sipped at the edge, sliding its sharp mouth into a dangerous kiss across his lower lip to mix his blood with the drink.
Brandy curved around Dalia, her best friend, as the two girls flirted with each other on the murky dance area. He could see her smiling as she jerked past the group of boys lounging against the wall - the swaying light from the florescent bleeding the colour from her face. Her dark hair glistened purple from the temporary rinse she stole from the beauty supply shop, and her upturned eyes were almost black with eyeliner. The dancing finished long before the song and the two girls lurched over to where Ian sat.
Brandy's smile grew wider as she caught sight of the blond boy leaning back against the wooden chair. A brief whisper in Dalia's ear and the seat next to Ian became vacant as her friend dragged an unwilling Mark to dance.
Sliding onto the chair, Brandy lightly bit Ian's earlobe, playing with the tiny gold hoop piercing it. Ian's ghost smile flitted across his face, resting lightly in his eyes before fading into the darkness again. He sat watching the crowd dance and play pool, aloof to Brandy's overtures. Her hand slid up the inside of his T-shirt, catching a finger in the matching hoop in his navel. Tugging gently, she pulled Ian towards her, running the tip of her tongue along his mouth and tasting the sweetness of the soda, alcohol and his blood.
"Let's get out of here." Her whisper was brandy-sweet and JD sharp in his ear. Nodding once, he slid his hand into hers and walked outside into the cold air.
~ ~ ~
Brandy's house stood empty...a temple to suburbia. Ian played with the photos of her parents sitting on the table behind the couch, trying to see the face of his own mother in their saccharine smiles. The house was ice cold, its perfect white walls iced with prints and knickknacks while a shiver ran through Ian as he walked around the living room. He could smell the taint of something in the air but could not identify it. He heard Brandy coming down the hallway from the kitchen, her thick heels pounding a beat that echoed through the front of the house.
Handing him a drink, she sipped at her own tumbler and watching him work his way around the room. He stood in front of the photos again, fascinated by the captured images of a family at play, at holiday, at birthdays. Brandy sighed and stood up, walking over to the enraptured blond. Tugging at his shirt, she turned him around and traced the light scratches on his face. A sliver of glass caught on her finger, a single drop of blood welling up to fall like a tear on Ian's face. He winced as the glass splinter fell free from his cheek and smiled at her baby-sucking her fingertip.
Wrapping her free hand in his light blond hair, she lowered his face to hers until their mouths met...whiskey, blood and spit flavoured kisses.
~ ~ ~
He was nervous. He wasn't sure. The whispers and caress now meant something...a bittersweet taste of life captured between two mouths...two bodies...two souls. Her fingers moving along his back spoke of things he never knew of, an intimacy that spoke nothing of pain but lightness and sugar.
Ian shuddered...losing control before even touching her, so sweet was the experience of being touched without fear...without hurt. Her soft words comforted him, telling him that it would be all right, holding him close until he felt that strangeness taking him once more.
He began to return her butterfly wing kisses against her skin, the soft rise of her cheek, the hollow of her throat a valley his tongue slid into. An intense rocking...the movement of the world spinning caught him up and he could feel the universe open before him, captured in the dark depths of her eyes.
He didn't want this to end.
~ ~ ~
The club shook with the volume of the band playing near the edge of the small stage. Dark children, draped in colours of mourning, wandered through corridors of people, their faces lost in gender and sorrow. A few of the Hunters were cruising, looking for a child more lost that the others. Ian shook his head at one as the man placed his hand over Ian's elbow. The words that the man whispered in Ian's ear excited him, words of sex and musky delights, but Brandy waited for him in the corner along with a present for his birthday.
Sliding into the booth besides her, Ian smiled at the other boy sitting with them. Sammy nodded once and cupped his hand over Ian's, dropping a small clear cellophane package into his open palm. The slightly brownish powder shifted with every movement of Ian's fingers and his mouth watered at the remembered sting of the heroin entering his blood stream. Kissing Brandy once on the mouth, he tucked the bag into his jacket.
~ ~ ~
The day started off badly...waking up too late again. Something about the apartment unnerved him and as Ian lay on his back, he realized what it was. The house was quiet. The whole world was quiet. There were no snores coming from across the hall...no screaming from the living room...no tirades rolling down the hall from the kitchen. Everything was very quiet.
Pulling on the pair of sweats at the end of the bed, Ian tugged to get them over his buttocks as he walked down the hall. A strange smell stopped him cold as he passed his mother's room. The almost too sweet scent overpowered him as he opened the door.
Her broken body lay sprawled half on the bed and partially draped on the floor. Her face was almost unrecognizable from the mass of bruises and tangled, bloodied hair. Next to her, Larry lay on his back, his stomach rising with every breath. His hands, swollen and bloody, were tucked under his chin - the hands of a child on a man.
Closing the door quietly, Ian leaned against the cool, flat surface and began to weep.
~ ~ ~
The police left the apartment as they arrived, a noisy crowd of blue and chrome. The door to his mother's bedroom was taped off with a yellow ribbon - as if she were a prisoner of war that was expected home. He sat in the living room, watching the men as they moved about the tiny apartment, answering their questions with short grunts or monosyllables.
The world was a hazy film over the intangible existence that he led. Several of the officers placed their hands on his shoulder, trying to comfort the lost, fey child sitting on a faded ottoman as he watched the coroner take the body of his mother away.
After a few attempts, they began to ask about relatives...anyone who could come and stay with him while they sorted things out. The wave of blond silk as he shook his head was more final than a death shroud. He knew of no one...no more family other than her. He had never asked about a father or grandparents...he knew they would not care.
The sea of blue eventually subsided to be replaced by the sugary tones of a woman from Social Services. Ian tried to listen to the flood of advice and comfort but found himself drifting the sight of his mother lying on her bed.
He never thought about what his life would be like without her. It had never occurred to him that he would be left alone. Leaning back to fall into the chair, he watched with a detached interest as the woman began to talk about foster homes and shelters. He nodded, mutely wondering where the woman lived and if she had ever woken up to find her world broken.
"Can you leave me alone for a few minutes?" His voice, raspy with pain, was surprisingly light. She nodded, patting his leg like one would a dog's head and left the apartment to speak with the police officers on the front balcony.
Walking over to his room, he scooped up his mother's purse and began to stuff clothes into trash bags, tossing them from the back window of the apartment. Flinging himself behind them, he grabbed the purse, the two sacks, and his backpack before running.
~ ~ ~
At first the tension around his arm was nothing more than pain. It soon became the grip of a lover or a brother, hard in need and want. Ian could feel the pulse of his blood pounding to get past the strip of thin rubber around his upper arm. Heating the powder in a spoon, Brandy licked the roof of her mouth at the sight of the blond boy lying on the bed next to her.
The kiss of the needle came slowly and she pulled the plunger barely back, sending a stream of blood through the dirty clear liquid. Leaning over, she captured Ian's tongue in her mouth as she worked the drug forward into his arm then kissing the drops of blood and clear liquid resin from his arm.
Ian dully watched his girlfriend, her tongue moving up an down his arm in a languid dance. He could barely feel the moistness of her mouth on his flesh, tickling him with scorpion tails. Ian remembered wanting her wrapped around his body but could barely gather the energy to move his hand forward to rest on the small of her back.
The tattoo on his hand reared back its head, hissing at him as he rubbed his fingers along the dimple of Brandy's spine. The noise barely startled him as his headache began to fade. The small apartment that they crashed in only had one bedroom in it, the bed actually belonging to Mark who had more often than not, fell asleep besides them in the middle of the night.
Mark stumbled into the room, his dark hair a curtain of velvet against the pale grey walls of the bedroom. Falling on Ian's prone body, the other boy grabbed the edge of the mattress before he slid off. Brandy's laughter echoed continuously in Ian's mind...and he wondered how she could keep giggling for as long as she did.
The darkness swiftly overwhelmed him.
~ ~ ~
Someone stained the world red. Ian shook his head once before accepting that its colour would not change. Brandy lay on her side next to him, snoring softly in a small poodle way. A long hand rested on his hip, its nails blunt and chewed raw. Trying to shift and get comfortable, Ian moved away from the hand only to have it close over his hip. Being pulled back, Ian fought the movement as he felt another tongue on the back of his neck.
Mark began to whisper soft threats...slivers of steel cloaked in friendship, reminding Ian that he had no where else to go...no other means to get high...no one else to turn to. Falling back against the older boy, Ian closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.
~ ~ ~
The stash had a slight yellow tinge this time but Sammy swore that it was as good as what he had gotten in the past. Ian began to wrap his arm with the rubber tubing, feeling the bite of the tourniquet and catching a whiff of the acrid white powder of a new strip. The needle already glistened with the promise of the drug, its sharp point bending a reflection of a light on its length. The linens stank of Mark's seed and Brandy's flowery perfume, crinkling fine folds into his flesh as he struggled with the strip. Catching the syringe in his hand, Ian bit his lower lip as the needle bit down, plunging past his skin and into his blood.
The release of the drug brought Ian to a spiritual orgasm as he felt the saliva in his mouth thicken with need. Slowly releasing the tourniquet, he lay back on the pillows and waited for the numbness to take him over.
As the powdered death crept through his system, he saw the face of a woman before him...a smiling blonde woman wearing a short flowered dress, her face unlined by worry and alcohol. She beckoned to him, a sweet promise of light in the dark depths of the bedroom. A shushed whisper...a promise of comfort...a hand floating before him formed around him, filling his small world with images.
A feeling of detachment began to fill him - as Mark filled him in the dead of night - the current of the emotion a foulness in his body. Fighting the feeling, Ian found himself losing strength and will to hold onto consciousness. Slowly, his body began to twitch, jerking upwards with spasms. Brief bursts of pain echoed by longer and longer lengths of peace over took him...making him long for those periods of darkness where nothing existed.
Finally, after his innards clenched once more from the onslaught of anguish, he lay still...his body cooling in the warm summer heat.
~ ~ ~
"I need to go back." Emerald and black glistened behind the long wisps of blond hair. The angel's face, resolute and determined, focused on the essence of lives beyond him. A soft murmur rippled his wings, their downy white feathers framing his powerful body.
"It is futile, Gabriel." The dark whisper of his friend, Michael, angered the avatar. Turning to his infinite companion, Gabriel shook his head.
"It is not futile. They have to be shown that it is possible to succeed. That life is not hopeless." Gabriel's insistent timbre shook the air around them and Michael grinned at the vehemence in his friend's voice.
"They would give you anything...but are you sure you really want to go through with that again? Why not choose a child with some sort of talent?" Michael shifted the sword at his side, untangling the hilt from his feathers.
"Because I need to survive through will and hope. I need to show them that it is possible." Gabriel turned his face to his friend and Michael's heart ached at the tears streaming down its perfection.
"I understand." Michael smiled, placing a hand on his companion's shoulder.
~ ~ ~
Brandy stood in front of the clear partition, looking down at the infants squirming in their cribs behind it. She ran a soft hand over her stomach, now flat after nine months of queasiness and pain. The young woman could feel the taut ribbons of scar across her abdomen where her flesh stretched to bear the shape of her child.
Standing alone in the cold hallway of the hospital, she strained to see her name on one of the incubator's charts. A nurse walked among the infants, checking for dampness and discomfort. Catching sight of the girl, the woman smiled and mouthed a question to the wane form in the window. Brandy smiled, hesitant and shy, walking past the viewing window as the nurse brought her son out of his incubator and into the sitting room on the maternity ward.
The small room, blush pink and wood, glowed warmly from the sun drenching the world outside. Small panes of glass, set high in the wall, scattered patches of white squares through the room. Brandy eased her tired body into one of the stuffed armchairs, rubbing at the worn velvet napping on its arms. The hospital robe hiked up over her thin arms, still pocked with upraised purple scars. The constellation of heroin cicatrix ran an ugly universe around her pale flesh, their puckers drawing the skin tight around old needle marks. The nurse frowned imperceptibly at the small pitting on the girl's skin but wordlessly handed the tiny infant over.
Brandy gently took the sleeping child, tucking her arm under his head as he suckled on his clenched fist. A single tear, wet with sorrow, fell onto the baby's face. Traveling over the folds of newly formed cheeks and nose, the crystal of salt poised for a moment before rolling onto its pink mouth.
The infant's mouth quested open, searching for sustenance as Brandy folded her robe back from her body, the light touching the blue Aztec lizard tattoo on her breast. Cooing at her son, she rocked him as he nursed, saddened that the first taste of the world was a tear from her eyes. Holding the baby close, she tightened her grip on the piece of Ian that was left to her and sobbed while in her child's face, sharp emeralds fractured with slivers of jet opened to the morning light.
CatZachrid (C) 1996