This is a work of fiction; all the resemblances are completely accidental. I am the one who owns all the ideas and characters in the story. Contains violence and descriptive sexual scenes between two males. If you are not supposed to read it, don't do so. Feel free to e-mail me with praises or insults (former preferred).
They smoked in silence for a while, and then Desmond asked suddenly:
"How many people have you killed?"
Gabriel looked at him, his expression almost the same, but his eyes got a little darker.
"Why?" he asked.
Desmond shrugged, cigarette resting between his fingers.
"Curious," he said. "Just wondering how much of a badass you really are."
"Right," Rayhe hemmed. "Okay, I'll answer... But I get to ask you a question as well."
"Sounds fair to me," Desmond shrugged again.
Gabriel dragged on his cigarette.
"Four," he said finally. "And as I said before, one was an accident. How much of a badass does this make me?"
Desmond moved his hand in a `Meh' gesture, and Gabriel laughed at that.
"My turn," he said, and the assassin nodded solemnly. "What was the name of your first sexual experience?"
Desmond stared at him, his cigarette forgotten. Gabriel shrugged.
"I answered your question," he said.
Desmond looked at his hand and blinked when he realized that his cigarette was about to die. He puffed on it, making it to come back to life with soft red glow of the tip. This was not the question he expected. Gabriel waited patiently.
"Tomah," Desmond said finally.
"Did you enjoy it?" Gabriel asked almost jokingly, as if he expected to hear `Well, duh!' answer.
Desmond almost said that this would be the second question.
"No," he said shortly instead and Gabriel fell silent. "I am glad I didn't," Desmond said after a minute. "Otherwise, I would never do it again."
Rayhe didn't say anything to that.
"Let's go find some food," he said after several minutes of silence. "I am hungry."
They were sitting in the back of some small diner, their handcuffed hands resting on the bench. Gabriel was working his plate thoroughly. Desmond, however, didn't feel hungry at all. He ate nevertheless, figuring that he'd rather eat now than get a hunger-induced headache later. Gabriel unknowingly has woken up the old nightmare; something that Desmond locked in the back of his mind somewhat successfully ever since it happened. He chewed on his food mechanically without even noticing the taste. He didn't even know what the hell he was eating. Gabriel glanced at him several times, but he never said anything. Desmond kept chewing his food and staring blindly outside through the dirty glass of the window.
It has been almost three weeks since he came to this city. Three weeks since he killed his Grandmother. Now he wouldn't call it an `accident' every time he thought about it. He killed her, plain and clear. He was surprised with himself. He thought it would torture him a lot more than it did and he felt no guilt whatsoever. None. He wasn't frozen anymore. He wasn't warm and fuzzy by any means, but he wasn't frozen anymore. That was a good thing. The bad thing was that he couldn't find a job. He would do pretty much anything to be able to get at least some money – he would help unload moving trucks; he would work on the docks whenever big cargo ships came into town; he would clean restrooms; he would even do someone's laundry once in a while. But he couldn't find a permanent job and it was driving him crazy.
One of those nights, when he was done with yet another cargo ship (he had to unload a hell of a lot of boxes, and those things were heavier than they looked), his back ached, he was hungry, and he was tired as hell. He was on his way to his usual sleeping spot (which was one of the benches in the nearby park; Desmond couldn't afford his own place, and the weather wasn't too bad right now, so he figured he'd crash on that bench until it starts getting cold), when he heard footsteps behind his back. He knew that he was walking rather slowly (try unloading those boxes for six hours and see how fast you'll be able to walk) so he stepped aside just a little, to let the person behind him to get ahead.
He was startled when whoever was behind him didn't get ahead but grubbed his elbow instead.
"It's dangerous for a kid like yourself to be out on the docks all alone when it's so dark," the man said, and Desmond tried to pull his elbow away but he couldn't. The man's grip was extremely tight.
"I..." Desmond stuttered. "I work here sometimes..."
"Oh really," the man said in a tone of voice that made Desmond extremely uneasy. "Just what kind of work do you usually do, precious?"
`Precious'? What the hell...
"I unload cargo ships," Desmond muttered, trying harder to pull away. He glanced at the man. He was tall, heavy-built, and he was bald. The thing that confused Desmond somewhat was the fact that the man was wearing a monocle. Desmond hasn't seen anyone wear a monocle before.
"Oh really," the man said again and gave him a toothy grin. "I would never guess... You are too pretty to unload cargo ships, precious..."
There was that word again. `Precious.' Desmond glanced around wildly, but there was nobody around except for Desmond and the creepy guy with the monocle.
"You look exhausted," the man continued. "How about a nice hot dinner, hmm?"
"I... I have to go home," Desmond said quickly, fear growing rapidly inside his chest. "My dad... He'll come looking for me..."
"Now, now," the man almost purred. "No need to tell lies... If you really had a father or home for that matter, you wouldn't have to unload cargo ships, would you?"
"Let me go," Desmond said, jerking backwards. "Let go!"
The arm on his elbow tightened its grip. Fear inside Desmond's chest started to transform into blind panic.
"No need to be rude," the man said with reproach when Desmond tried shoving him away. "Oh, you little brat!" he screamed when Desmond's teeth sunk into his hand. He slapped his face so hard that Desmond head flew back. He screamed out and the man immediately pressed his palm against his mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "Shut up or I'll break your neck!"
Desmond recognized a real threat when he heard one, and this was exactly it. He *would *break his neck in a heartbeat. All the panic started to make him nauseous. He forced himself to stop screaming.
"Good boy," the man whispered. "Now do what I say and everything will be just fine..."
"Please," Desmond almost said, but he clenched his teeth at the last second. He is not going to beg. He would not beg even if the bastard really decides to kill him. He would *never *beg.
The man was breathing hard now, the smell of his breath making Desmond even more nauseous. The gleam of the moonlight on the man's monocle somehow, made the whole scene seem almost surreal. The man pushed Desmond behind some barrels that smelled like old fish and burnt oil, and shoved him facedown on the old tarp-covered table that dock workers sometimes used to set their lunch boxes on. Desmond started to thrash violently when he felt his pants being yanked off. "No, no, no, oh hell, no..." he thought, his panic reaching its boiling point.
"Stop it," the man said in a strained raspy voice. "Stop or I swear, I will break your spine..."
Desmond was at the point when he couldn't even understand the meaning of words. It was pure animal fear that was driving him now, therefore, he thrashed even harder. The man grunted and slapped the back of his head so hard that Desmond's ears literally started to ring, and everything around him became duller somehow, as if the world was suddenly wrapped in a thin layer of cotton. He stopped moving (not because he was afraid that the son of a bitch would really break his spine – he didn't care right now, to be honest – but because he became so disoriented and half-unconscious that he simply couldn't move) and the man stroked one of his buttocks as if praising him.
"Good boy," he whispered. "Now relax and enjoy it..."
His thick, lust-filled laughter sounded as if it was coming from afar. The world immediately regained focus when Desmond was impaled by the bald monocled son of a bitch. The pain was so great that everything around him exploded into violent-red for a few seconds. Desmond screamed like he has never screamed before. This was much worse than whatever his Grandmother used to do to him. This felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside.
"Stop!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. "Oh God, stop! Please, stop!"
He didn't care about begging right now. He would do anything to make this stop. This was unbearable.
"Stop...!" His scream was muffled by a meaty palm pressing once more against his mouth.
"What a glorious ass you have, kid..." the man panted. "Oh, God, what an ass...!"
Desmond had no idea how his mind was able to handle this much pain. Why wouldn't it just turn off for a while? Why wouldn't it let him to black out into blissful nothingness? Why was everything so goddamn focused?
The man started to move faster, one of his hands still covering Desmond's mouth, while the other was digging its fingers into one of the slim hips. Right when Desmond thought that this couldn't get any worse, he was proven wrong. Now that the man's strokes became faster, they were also getting deeper inside him, and that hurt even more. He felt like he was about to choke on that dick; that it was about to emerge from his throat. He couldn't even moan anymore; he only whimpered, tears running down his face like water from a broken faucet.
Finally, the man groaned something unintelligible and Desmond could feel him erupt deep inside his body. Revulsion shot through him, making him shudder. The man immediately misinterpreted that.
"I knew you'd like this..." he muttered with weak laughter. "Oh, God, kid... What an ass..."
He pulled out with a wet slurping noise and the hand was gone from Desmond's mouth.
"I'll start coming to the docks more often now, precious," the man said in a low voice and stroked Desmond's thigh. "See you around, kid."
He left and Desmond just stayed on that table for an hour or so before he could move. Finally, he got up shakily, pulled up his pants, and limped towards the water. He took his clothes off and dove into the dirty water that was splashing lazily near the docks. He knew that the water here was filthy with all the waste and other crap, but he could care less. He stayed in that water until he was shaking from cold so bad that his teeth were clanking. He climbed out, put his clothes back on, and limped towards the park.
He made it there in forty-five minutes, give or take, because he couldn't walk without stopping every several steps he took, and sometimes, even collapsing on his knees. Finally, he made it to his usual sleeping bench and fell down on it. He couldn't even cry now; he felt blissfully numb. Sleep was more merciful to him than his own mind. After ten minutes, Desmond was asleep.