Warning: This post contains strong language and some graphic imagery. Please take that into consideration. My goal was not to offend but to get something out of my head. This has been shared from my blog. Thanks. Daemon
It was supposed to be a beautiful night.
The sun was going down over Boystown in Chicago and the air was alive with a breeze that promised a fun filled night of smiles, good tunes and some great dancing. He could hardly wait to get out there and see what was going down in this city. Three days had already rushed by and it seemed like in a moment he would be due back to his life.
He left Nick's brownstone at Belmont and Halstead around 7 pm and beat feet down to the already packed strip that was clearly marked by those friendly rainbows on each light post. It was a little cool and his new sneaks and tshirt felt awesome.He knew his lucky jeans were just the thing for this night. Can't beat a good pair of broken in button flies. He met up with his friends down at Spin and they spent their time going from club to club, making new friends, getting their moves on and generally having a great time being young guys in the prime of their life.
After a few hours of clubbing, his friends decided to call it a night but he wanted to go shoot some pool. Too much Redbull and excitement had his pulse throbbing and his feet tapping. He said goodnight and let them know he'd be back in a few hours. They hugged and set off on their separate ways, him to the pool hall and his friends back to Nick's place.
It was supposed to be a beautiful night.
Hey Faggot! Yeah, you...you fucking Faggot! Where the hell do you think you are going? Got some dick to suck you fucking Queer?!
He tried to ignore the guys and keep walking, his shoulders hunched against their words and his pace quickening. He had endured worse before and stood up to most, but knew against three guys his size, there was not a chance. Plus, he could not afford to get into trouble. Who knows what that would cost him?
Why are you running Faggot? Slow down! We just want to talk to you! What the fuck are you looking at Faggot?!
The street seemed even more desolate. Where had everyone gone? How had he got so turned around? This wasn't Boystown anymore. The welcoming rainbows and packed restaurants, shops and clubs had given way to industrial buildings with the occasional gated apartment building. Why the hell did he leave his phone at home? What was he going to do?
He heard the shouts stop and the quickened pace of feet running faster behind him. It was fight or flight time now and he chose the latter as his first option. He broke into a hard spring, but he had waited too late.
The first blow took him hard upside his head above the ear, stunning him. It spun him around as his feet tangled and he got his first look at the guys who were attacking him. His eyes registered their faces and an idle thought that they were young and attractive, not criminals at all, faded past his mind as a second punch knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over hard. He stood up as best as he could, shook his head to clear it and stood to. If they wanted a fight then he wasn't going to go down quietly.
How could this be happening to me? This happens in those other places, to those other people...his mind was racing as his eyes darted back and forth to the three guys faces. Who would rush first? Who is the one to keep an eye on? Which one is the fastest, the strongest? Their mouths were running out an endless stream of hateful epithets but they had dulled to a roar against the pounding in his head and crash of adrenaline thumping through his veins.
That's when he saw the knife.
Everything rushed in with blinding clarity and seemed to stop time as soon as the street lights glare flashed along that gleaming edge. It hypnotized him and he could not take his eyes away from it. It seemed to promise death and his entire being cringed at the visceral thought of being carved up.
He froze rigid.
His hands dropped.
His face fell.
Knees grinding hard into the dirt and gravel. His glasses knocked off somewhere to be crushed. Rough hands grabbing his head and neck. The sounds of belts being unclasped, zippers dropped.
Choking. Can't breathe. Eyes closed. Gasping. Throat hurting. Gagging. Trying to find air.
Neck held cruelly. Head being forced so hard his nose is close to breaking.
Just do what they say. That knife's edge always in the back of his mind when not being held to his neck.
It will be over soon. He starts shutting down. Nothing but reaction, obedience and silence.
Hot tears. Knuckles taut white. Fingernails biting into his palms. He is deaf and blind to the world.
I am not here. I am not here. I am not here.
Being yanked to his feet. What is happening? Fear. More blows to his head and back. With his glasses gone, everything is a blur. His belt zings into the air like a leather whip and he feels his favorite jeans being cut at the waist and coarsely shoved done with his boxers to his ankles. The belt is wrapped cruelly around his neck. So tight...so very tight. Arms and hands are bending him over so hard that it feels like muscle is tearing. Can't breathe. What are they doing. Oh, God...
Please, dear God, no.
It seemed to go on forever. Pain, white hot, tearing at his insides. The hot trickle of blood as it ran down the back of his legs. Still choking. Still afraid of the knife. Assaulted brutally at both ends. They take turns. No longer a boy. No longer a human. Just a thing being used to be discarded. Trash. Their hate driving them to degrade and destroy something they did not understand, or understood all too well.
Thrown on the ground. Kicked and beaten. Covered in the evidence of their use and abuse. Spat upon, urinated on and still feeling and tasting all the bitter hate filled rape that they had poured out on and in him. He felt the knife. He heard the words. Silently crying, he promised. Not a word. Not a word, ever. They had his license. They knew where he lived. I promise. I swear. I swear. Holy fuck, I swear. Please, just don't kill me. Please don't kill me.
They put themselves back together with cocky swaggers, laughing and talking about him as if he had left. Congratulating each other on showing the Faggot who was boss and had the swag. With a few last curses and a well placed kick that split open his nose and lips, and blacked both eyes, they sauntered off into the night, hooting and hollering. Just three college guys out on the town, enjoying their social privilege and spending their parents money. The guy they had just savaged had already left their minds. He never existed in the first place.
He laid there for what seemed like hours, days...lifetimes.
The tears flooded his face along with blood. Was he dying? How bad was he hurt? His fingers probed his face and jaw. Each movement brought horrible pain from everything down there. He hunted around for his glasses, tapping blindly on the sidewalk, crawling like a child and found them, crushed and mangled but with one lens still intact. Using a dumpster as a ladder he manages to claw and pull his way to his feet and stood there trembling and swaying, trying to breath. His legs are not broken at least. His arms still work. He starts searching for his wallet and missing shoe and almost falls to the ground. The pain all over is making him gasp and shudder. He feels so cold, so very cold.
He finds his shoe and manages to get it back on. He removes his belt from his neck, gasping at the welt and marring it has left and gingerly pulls his torn boxers and jeans up, refusing to look down at the mess he knows is there. He can still feel hard, strong hands pulling at him and squeezing his genitals till he tried to scream. He gets his pants up around his waist and uses his belt to hold them as best he can. He tries to clear his eyes. He feels the familiar stab of a broken rib with every shallow breath.
Where is he? His eyes cast around for a landmark. The skyline, that is it. I can take a bearing off of that and go East towards the water. What am I going to tell my friends? What am I going to tell the Navy?
I can't tell anyone. Ever. This never happened. It never happened. It never happened.
He takes off walking, one step at a time. Just one more step. One more..
It was supposed to be a beautiful night.
Supposed to be.
We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another. ~Luciano de Crescenzo