Black Heaven
folder
Angst › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,962
Reviews:
20
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Angst › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,962
Reviews:
20
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Prologue
He stared at the wall as he heard the sounds of gun fire outside of his small room. Shouts and curses, more fire, and high pitched screams of the helpless boys caught in the midst of the fighting. It didn’t matter, he didn’t even care anymore what happened to him; to die, to be used by another one of the countless clients. He had given up on running long ago, now he just couldn’t find the strength to care. Dimly he realized the drugs they had been giving him lately had done something to him, had taken something important from him, yet he couldn’t seem to grasp what it was. He wasn’t sure if it even really mattered.
It became eerily quiet as he looked at the painted scarlet wall, unconcerned as the door to his room was flung open to admit an older, overweight, gray haired man in an expensive suit that seemed vaguely familiar. He stared up at the man that reached out to him, coaxing him to get up. He rose from the narrow bed and the man impatiently grabbed his hand, pulling him out into the corridor, the once grey walls as crimson as those of his room with blood. He stepped over the bodies of boys and men, detached, knowing that he should be feeling something at the ghastly sight but unable to pull anything from his drug clouded mind.
He found himself bundled into a black car with, his kidnapper, the man that he began to remember as one of his countless clients, one that was very skilled with knives. Thin, bright things that sliced delicately over his skin, bringing a quivering of strange emotions through him. Yes, this man was one that brought back memories soaked in his own blood. He shuddered a little as he felt the man tenderly wrap him in a warm blanket, and the car drove on.
The man wrapped his arms around him and he felt a soothing hand on his head as he leaned against the warm body next to him, his mind drifting off into sleep. When he awoke he found himself in an opulent bed covered in silken sheets.
"He’s a whore! You fucking buy him for an hour, not keep him. Do you know what you have done? Not only that, there are rumors about the boy. No matter how many times someone steal him from that brothel, they always retrieve him," came a loud male voice from the other side of the door.
"He’s special, I have never seen a boy respond the way he does. Ryusuke refused to sell him, there was no other way," came a deeper voice of yet another man.
"He’s trash and you have ruined us. They will come, and soon."
"Let them, they have become way to full of themselves."
"If you wanted a boy I could have bought you a dozen, just as pretty and willing."
"No."
"Sir, they are coming," came a low, calm voice.
"How soon?" asked the man that had kidnapped him.
"Any minute."
"Get him out of here," said his kidnapper.
"Father, you can’t mean to..."
"Enough Kenichi, do as I say and get him out of here," the voice commanded.
Suddenly the door was thrown open to reveal a young version of the man who had taken him. He felt the man roughly pull him off the bed and usher him out the door. He saw the older man looking at him longingly as he loaded his gun, his face grim. He felt a hard hand in the middle of his back pushing him, and he once again found himself in a car, this time alone in the backseat.
They drove; as the darkened city sped past he could hear the man on his cell, talking angrily as he drove. Time slipped by and he wondered what would happen next. They would come for him, they always did. This wasn’t the first time he had been stolen, although it was the first time his brothel had been annihilated so thoroughly.
Suddenly a cell phone rang, its chipper tone a strange counterpart to the mood of the car.
"Damn, what should I do with the boy? Right, I’ll be back soon."
The man snapped the phone shut, throwing it against the wall of the car, cursing as the car came to a screeching halt. The man got out and opened the door to the backseat.
"Get out slut, my father’s dead," the man snarled.
He got out, standing on the sidewalk, his feet bare as the rain poured down on him. He watched as the man curled his fist, knowing what was coming, and the fist connected against his head, sending him crashing to wet pavement. By the time he got up the car was speeding away, its wheels splashing cool dirty water on him.
He stood up looking into the sky as the rain fell. Memories of a boy twirling in the rain flooded him. The boy laughed, splashing through the water puddles, singing. A memory of the past. He used to love the rain, he thought. Holding the dim memory in his mind, he began to walk down the darkened street alone.
It became eerily quiet as he looked at the painted scarlet wall, unconcerned as the door to his room was flung open to admit an older, overweight, gray haired man in an expensive suit that seemed vaguely familiar. He stared up at the man that reached out to him, coaxing him to get up. He rose from the narrow bed and the man impatiently grabbed his hand, pulling him out into the corridor, the once grey walls as crimson as those of his room with blood. He stepped over the bodies of boys and men, detached, knowing that he should be feeling something at the ghastly sight but unable to pull anything from his drug clouded mind.
He found himself bundled into a black car with, his kidnapper, the man that he began to remember as one of his countless clients, one that was very skilled with knives. Thin, bright things that sliced delicately over his skin, bringing a quivering of strange emotions through him. Yes, this man was one that brought back memories soaked in his own blood. He shuddered a little as he felt the man tenderly wrap him in a warm blanket, and the car drove on.
The man wrapped his arms around him and he felt a soothing hand on his head as he leaned against the warm body next to him, his mind drifting off into sleep. When he awoke he found himself in an opulent bed covered in silken sheets.
"He’s a whore! You fucking buy him for an hour, not keep him. Do you know what you have done? Not only that, there are rumors about the boy. No matter how many times someone steal him from that brothel, they always retrieve him," came a loud male voice from the other side of the door.
"He’s special, I have never seen a boy respond the way he does. Ryusuke refused to sell him, there was no other way," came a deeper voice of yet another man.
"He’s trash and you have ruined us. They will come, and soon."
"Let them, they have become way to full of themselves."
"If you wanted a boy I could have bought you a dozen, just as pretty and willing."
"No."
"Sir, they are coming," came a low, calm voice.
"How soon?" asked the man that had kidnapped him.
"Any minute."
"Get him out of here," said his kidnapper.
"Father, you can’t mean to..."
"Enough Kenichi, do as I say and get him out of here," the voice commanded.
Suddenly the door was thrown open to reveal a young version of the man who had taken him. He felt the man roughly pull him off the bed and usher him out the door. He saw the older man looking at him longingly as he loaded his gun, his face grim. He felt a hard hand in the middle of his back pushing him, and he once again found himself in a car, this time alone in the backseat.
They drove; as the darkened city sped past he could hear the man on his cell, talking angrily as he drove. Time slipped by and he wondered what would happen next. They would come for him, they always did. This wasn’t the first time he had been stolen, although it was the first time his brothel had been annihilated so thoroughly.
Suddenly a cell phone rang, its chipper tone a strange counterpart to the mood of the car.
"Damn, what should I do with the boy? Right, I’ll be back soon."
The man snapped the phone shut, throwing it against the wall of the car, cursing as the car came to a screeching halt. The man got out and opened the door to the backseat.
"Get out slut, my father’s dead," the man snarled.
He got out, standing on the sidewalk, his feet bare as the rain poured down on him. He watched as the man curled his fist, knowing what was coming, and the fist connected against his head, sending him crashing to wet pavement. By the time he got up the car was speeding away, its wheels splashing cool dirty water on him.
He stood up looking into the sky as the rain fell. Memories of a boy twirling in the rain flooded him. The boy laughed, splashing through the water puddles, singing. A memory of the past. He used to love the rain, he thought. Holding the dim memory in his mind, he began to walk down the darkened street alone.