Pretty street boy

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A/N - Okay... I just couldn\'t leave this well enough alone. I guess there is a story that must be told, it keeps whispering in my proverbial ear. \"I didn\'t want to make this a story; I\'ve got other things going on right now,\" I argued back. But that incessant voice keeps hounding me. So here you go... ~sigh~ lol ~Best Left Exposed

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Time never had any meaning for me. The rising and setting of the sun. The passing of seasons. It meant nothing other than I was still alive. And that didn\'t hold any meaning for me, either. Even the time at His house blurred from one day to the next. I still existed. Living was a concept that refused to gel in my mind. At that point, I wasn\'t sure why I was there. I spent a lot of time alone. That, I was used to, but I also was frequently in His company. We never spoke much for a long time. It was mostly silent company. If He ever asked a question of me, I could only stare blankly at Him. One time:

\"How old are you?\"

A blank stare. I figured I was still 19, but couldn\'t get my mind to tell my voice to speak it. It hurt too much to try and figure how long I had been on the street, anyway. I can remember things now, if I choose to, but back then, the horrors of it all were shoved forcefully out of my mind as soon as they happened.

It was the year I was to turn 10. I was dumped like so much garbage. Just left standing on the corner in the middle of a strange town. My parents were long gone and the only other family I ever had had just tossed me out. Left to fend for myself. What the hell is a nine year old boy supposed to do in the middle of what looked like slumville? The shock never quite wore off. I stood there for a long time staring out into the street. Just stood there, dumbfounded. I wasn\'t a dumb child, by any stretch, but had no clue what had just happened or where I was or where to go. That day was when I joined the sub-race of walking dead. Another body to join their ranks. Truly horrifying that one such as I, so young, so full of potential, was shoved into that world with no choice. But as I was to find out, the world spawned such cruelty daily and we were the ones to reap the fruits of that maliciousness. Easy targets. No one to give a shit what happened to us. If we died, one less rat on the street. We were the dirty, filthy underbelly of society and no one wanted to acknowledge our existence except to take out whatever rage or perversions their rampant imaginations could conjure.

I was erased. Wiped clean off the world. Forgotten. The gut tells you these things and then you can begin to shuffle forward in a jerking parody of living. And some things you never can pull to remembrance with much detail, just because the horrifying, vile, cruelty of the experience is too much. I shudder even now when the memory wants to jump up and fling me back to that time, against my will. I can still see those hateful faces in a blur. I had turned ten, finally. It took forever on those streets, the days were so slow. The first year or so, I still noted things like birthdays and holidays. The nights were growing cold and the days couldn\'t quite warm themselves up all the way. I had snuck behind a store where people dropped off donations and nipped a coat that was too big for my small frame. It hung down to my knees and past my hands, but it was warm and I was grateful to have it. Huddling within the confines of my prize and tearing into a semi-fresh, partially eaten sandwich, I was seated under a tree in one of those \'beautification\' parks they put smack dab in the middle of the worst neighborhoods, like any of us would give a damn about the beauty of nature. It was just another place to sleep, find food and try not to get the shit beat out of you by one of the many gangs that seemed to want to kill loners like me.

I should\'ve been paying more attention, but I was so proud of my new coat and the food was settling my empty stomach, I never heard them coming. And that evening, I knew the pure, unadulterated agony that could be inflicted on a body. Nothing in my imagination could\'ve prepared me for such brutality as that onslaught. I still have nightmares about that first time. The very first time I truly tasted pain and saw the bridge to death. There were five of them. Drunk and high on whatever the current flavor of the week was. I was sitting alone, the evening sun was putting sparks of fire in my hair. I\'m sure I was just too much of a temptation. I had no idea of my beauty. No one had told me and I didn\'t understand that I was any different than anyone else.

All of a sudden, I was surrounded and their shadows blocked the last rays of the sun and I looked up into the circle of cruel, leering faces. They spoke and I couldn\'t understand what they were saying. The gang language foreign to me. And I was jerked upward to my feet and punched in the stomach so hard I puked my sandwich back up. My new coat was ripped off my body and I was shoved down to my hands and knees. The coat, spread out on the ground padding my landing somewhat. Those older boys were laughing and leering and their evil smiles burned right through me to the bone. I was still gasping from pain around the bitter taste of vomit in my mouth and my pants were jerked down, the chill evening wind biting cruelly into my flesh. I still wasn\'t sure what was happening, even at that point. I sobbed at the humiliation of my bared ass, exposed before them and then the exploding rush of pain that seared up from my asshole. I screamed and screamed as I was split in two. So intense the sheer agony that I passed out after two minutes of it. Eternity can be felt in two minutes. Can be and was.

I figured all of them must\'ve had a go at me, because when I came to, I was blinded by the excruciating pain that shook through my entire body. I was still partially nude, curled on my ruined coat, shivering uncontrollable with the cold. Lightheaded just by pulling my pants back up. Trying not to look at the blood that seemed to cover everything. I had to turn because I was gagging and nothing but the burning bitterness of bile was coming up and I coughed as I puked it up. The pain that jolted through me was all consuming. Finally, I just rolled over enough to wrap up in my blood and semen stained coat and keened into the night. I passed out for a second time and dreamed that I was dead and I could see my mother and father again. They were sad for me, but told me I needed to stay. I cried in anguished sorrow for the first time since being dumped and the last time even up \'til now. I wish I could say that after being gang raped, it was any easier. It wasn\'t. I felt like dying every time for a long time. And then, finally, using it as a means for self-preservation. Expecting to get fucked from any man who even glanced my way. Curious when some didn\'t, like Him.

\"What\'s your name?\" He asked.

I stared at Him expressionlessly and then furrowed my brow. Thinking hurt. I was almost ten, once. I had a name once. Lifetimes ago. I tried to remember, but I wasn\'t that boy anymore. I didn\'t have a right to wear that name, whatever it was. I shrugged my shoulders. I wanted to communicate with Him, even if my voice refused to work most of the time. I wanted to hear Him speak. I wondered, what was His name? The curiosity about things was giving me another bump. That was happening quite frequently in His house. Warmth and food, clean clothes and solid sleep. I suppose that would give the brain something else to think about when those needs are met. I looked imploringly at Him. He was amazingly adept at reading my looks. He chuckled with gentle, good humor.

\"My name is Michael. Should we give you a name then, since you seemed to have misplaced yours?\"

I shrugged my shoulders, again. Names were just labels men put on things so they could possess them. But I was secretly glad I had His name, now. Michael. I liked it. I tasted the sound of it in my mind. And He had spoken to me. That rich, luxurious voice that made me want to melt every time I heard it. Made me want to climb onto His lap and grind my ass into His groin. I hadn\'t felt a cock up my ass in forever and a hunger that couldn\'t be explained was eating away at my guts. For someone who was so ill used for as many years as I was, it was a wonder I still wanted anyone invading my body now that I was somewhere safe. But I wanted it. Yearned for it. Needed it like a cocaine addict needed their next high. My saviour with the smooth skin, piercing eyes and most lovely speaking voice I\'d ever heard. I still never tire of listening to it. Even after years of quiet conversation, mostly one way on His side. I did find my voice again in that house, though. Still can\'t quite get used to hearing it rasp out of my throat - my voice box was ruined from screaming. I would never possess a voice like Him, so mostly keep silent. Ugly sounds out of a beautiful package such as myself. But company like mine wasn\'t generally sought out for the conversation any way, I figured.

\"How about Andrew?\"

I screwed my face up tight in distaste and shook my head vigorously. Musical laughter bubbled up from across the intimate room where we lounged.

\"Okay. David?\"

I shook my head again. I don\'t know why I cared what He called me. But those names just sounded off in my head. They belonged to another man, not me. And I wanted it to be MY name He spoke when addressing me. He was staring at me, but thinking. His eyes were slightly out of focus, but locked on my face. It was a strangely chilling feeling. Under scrutiny but not. I wondered if He could really see right into my fragile soul. I swallowed hard and studied my hands carefully, not really seeing them as they were....

11 year old hands were smaller and bony thin. Long, graceful fingers cupped over each other as I blew into them. A feeble attempt at trying to keep them warm. I had taken to smoking cigarettes my second winter just to have something to warm my fingers around. And the buzz would make everything soft around the edges. I saw enough right away to know not to touch any of the number of illicit drugs that were freely available to me. I wanted to be stronger than that. I knew of much faster ways to die than the slow torturous death that came with taking those chemicals. I had seen a couple corpses that were obviously dead from drugs. It still made me a bit ill whenever those emaciated, white, bruised faces with unseeing eyes peered through me. They would ghost before my eyes sometimes, haunting me. I knew all about death, but some kinds were worse than others.

\"Nathan, then?\"

I rolled it around. Nathan. I lifted my shoulders minutely. I felt my lips press together and pull slightly upwards. It kind of hurt, but I had managed the tiniest, thinnest of smiles. Nathan. That sounded alright. I could be a Nathan, I thought. Michael was pleased as well. I later found out he had a liking for biblical and historical names.

\"Alright, Nathan.\" He smiled as He said it.

I liked the way He said it, too. My name. There was a tingling that buzzed around behind my eyes and my face felt very tight. The spot in my chest, below my collar bone, felt like it was constricting. I squinted my eyes and my mouth was pulling upward again. It was very strange to feel these things. I wondered what I must\'ve looked like. A bizarre grimacing, I\'m sure. Michael seemed to know that I was trying to smile. He patted the seat beside Him and I couldn\'t scramble over there fast enough. He wrapped His arms around me and I snuggled into His embrace. A coughing sound came out of from my chest and my body was shaking. Michael laughed softly as He hugged me tightly, kissing the top of my head. He knew the sound to be laughter.

\"I\'m glad you like it. Nathan was a prophet and it means \'giver\' in Hebrew,\" He stroked my hair. \"I think it suits you nicely.\" I was melting into His arms and leaning into the hand that touched me, not caring what He said. Just basking in the sound of the words and the vibration from His chest.

In my scattered memories, I had never felt that way before. It was happiness. I know that now, of course. But at that time, all I knew was that I was going to burst with it, so held tightly to the only other person in my universe. I wonder now if He could\'ve predicted how I would react to abstracts like kindness, love, joy, compassion. There were many times I thought I was going to die from the barrage of those foreign emotions filling me so full I didn\'t think my brain would hold it all. But it did and I didn\'t die. Even after some weeks, I still never took my good fortunate for granted. I didn\'t know what to think about it and surely He would toss me out sooner or later, just as my own family had. But as weeks stretched into months, I was never put back out on the street and my frail frame was starting to fill out to something less skeletal. I kept wondering why He wanted me here. He never asked for anything, except the occasional questions about me and my life. He never touched me except in the most platonic way, (much to my extreme frustration!). I never saw anyone else in the house, either, even though I knew there must be others there. My clothes were always clean, my food always prepared.... all my needs were met as if by magic. And magic did not exist, except in a place I figured should be called Heaven.

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Thank you, thank you for reading with me! I\'m STILL arguing with the muses, (or whomever is pushing me forward with this), about continuing. It\'s not that I don\'t want to, but just not sure how it\'s being received, so let me know! THANK YOU to those who did take the time to review... I love reading the feedback! All my best to you! ~BLE
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