Him

His worn black doc's shuffle along the cracked sidewalk, kicking rocks and sticks out of his path as if he owns every bit of concrete his feet press on. Some random side street, anything to keep off of the main street -J Street- he'd noticed the marker before he'd taken a left and then a right, paying no mind to the markers since, just the look of the silent, dark homes at nearly two in the morning. Small cities like this, they're the ones who pay even more mind to teenagers wandering around after curfew. It is small too, in comparison to the likes of L.A., London, Rome, or Paris -though he's passed through smaller ones even surrounding this little place.

Some cop, on a bicycle no less, had nearly caught him as he passed in front of the movie theater not even an hour ago. The Brendon, funny name for a theater, something almost mundane about the name. It didn't seem to stop the flow of traffic when the final showing had ended, nor did the chill of the January night. He'd even noticed the way he could almost blend in amongst the youth -the pale, almost pasty leeches with their dark clothes and kohl painted eyes. He'd seen the others too, the ones in jeans so large he could have fit himself in a single leg, whole! The diversity of the appearances, it made it easier to blend in, to shift and move around them without being noticed for anything other than just another strange looking fifteen year old boy, dark wash jeans over worn Doc Martins, navy blue t-shirt, and pale blond curls that frame his face in a way almost too feminine for a teenage boy -even in this day and age.

It doesn't help that his skin is smoother, clearer than any of the pedestrian teenagers could ever dream of having, the color of ivory. The best part? The emotions dripping from every single one of them. He could have all but drowned in it, all but see the way it filled the smog and smoke caked air. They couldn't see it though, couldn't taste anything but the cloves or fags they smoked, or the random joint. The cops seemed too stupid to find them, but he could have told them each child who was lighting up the one thing considered more illegal then the ones smoking a Marlboro. It wasn't enough though, never enough.

Insatiable. That's the word best used to describe them, but then so is he. He can't help his thoughts drifting back to it, far better than where his thoughts will go before the dawn comes. And there it is, just as if on cue. His mind goes back to her.

He can feel it, the episode coming, the way it's already coursing through her psyche and pulling at what little sanity she has. It tears at his own, a concept that was all but non-existent even when they had first met. Then, tied together now, it bleeds into him and tears at what small shred of sanity he ever had. He doesn't mind, not really. It reminds him she's still with him, always. The distance, the absence doesn't matter. He welcomes the pain, the agony.

It's not long though, until it is more than he can bear like this, alone. Though as it began and his steps had never even faltered, he realizes now he's in a park that seems below street level. He missed whatever sign labeled it, signs of rules it seems he is not the only one to break. Chipped green picnic benches littered in graffiti, empty bottles, wrappers, and newspapers -barely illuminated by harsh, ugly yellow lights hung from poles near as tall as the trees. Not quite though, the trees older, fuller and threatening to encompass the light as it tries to shine on the almost deserted park. He can see an older style playground just a few yards away, still sunk in sand instead of the god-awful wood chips so many use now.

He can see him, clear as day, so to speak, crouched low near the dark bathrooms. The light pole beside the disgusting, light brown, brick building with the dark brown roof, out for the time being. He'd noticed a lot of that throughout the city, the way the lights seem to take turns in the effort to conserve power. The trees though, in this particular park, almost made the lights completely useless. The man, early thirties maybe, in a worn brown jacket and hole littered jeans, flip flops... The type parents warn their children away from, the kind they expect to trick children off somewhere to do things... Things no "grown up" wants to give name to. He's seen so many of those, though he would never understand what drove them to such depravities.

He approaches him, silent as he manages to avoid anything that might make even the smallest noise. His pale blue eyes, like the lightest, brightest spring sky, locked on the red cherry burning from the butt of the fag hanging from shaking fingertips. Overdue for a fix too, though the scent of urine, sweat, and other things too abhorrent to label overriding the smell of smoke and nicotine. Yet, he can smell the last traces of the chosen drug -crystal meth- flowing through him, leaving him wanting.

The moment the man looks up, his head ducks, making him seem the best sort of prey -a lost, unwanted child. Someone no one would miss. Peeking through pale lashes, curled and long enough to make any teenage girl envious, to watch as the man straightens and prepares for the game.

" Bit late for you to be out wandering around isn't it, kid? " The man's voice hoarse from too many years of smoking, drug abuse and completely lacking in honest sincerity.

" Best time to be out, no prying eyes to tell a kid no." His own voice quiet, feigning at being gruff and yet almost too sweet to be considered such. The accent that floods it, thick and British, cockney specifically.

" New here and a runaway. Picked the perfect place, cops rarely bother with anyone here. The river's great, though better in the summer months when it's warm, but there's enough wildlife to protect from a lot of the cold and makeshift tents people have left behind."

The offer, he'd anticipated it -hoped for it. "Lead the way, mate, could use a place for the night."

Foolish, for a fifteen year old boy to follow a strange man through the bushes, down the rough slope that follows, leading to the bank of a dark river where the only light is what little glow of the moon makes it through the canopy of trees. That is, until the man flicks on a flashlight. He offers a grateful smile, the smallest turning up of the corners of his cherry-red lips.

" You-" He doesn't get the chance to finish whatever thought was ready to be voice. Fingers, icy with the chill of the winter air, gripping the man's throat, just enough pressure to prevent sound but not stop the flow of air as he's shoved beneath the lowest trees to the sand below.

"My game now, my rules and not yours." The boy's voice is little more than a harsh whisper of cool, sweet breath against the man's stubbled cheek. He ignores the man's physical protests, the way his fingers claw at him desperate to escape. After all, this isn't want he had planned. He had planned to be the one on top, pinning the boy to the earth and making him "earn" his place in this cruel world. He can see that much, as clearly as he can see true horror in the man's eyes. Wouldn't you be terrified? The boy's pale eyes, seeming to glow in the utter lack of light they now find themselves in. The strangest thing, possibly more terrifying still, the way his irises flicker -like obsidian flames.

The boy's nails, too sharp, trailing down against his cheeks and leaving thin trails of crimson in their wake. His fingers move, down to the collar of the man's worn t-shirt, dirty white, and tears into the fabric -almost with ease. The man's torso exposed now, dirty and hardly worth it, but he needs the release. Each ounce of agony the boy must endure now, brings another moment of silent agony to the man beneath him.

First, his nails scrape from the man's collar bone to his naval, slowly, leaving shallow trails of crimson in their wake. Then, he moves too quickly for the man to follow the act. One minute the boy's hand is around his throat. In the next, his own shirt is in shreds and being used to gag him and bind him to the thickest tree root coming out of the side of the incline to his left, the right to a smallish tree jutting up from the path. Thus freeing up the boy's hands. The man hadn't thought the boy capable of such things, then who would suspect a child?

He watches, terrified, as the boy pulls out a small blade. It is too dark for him to make out the true size or make of the blade, though that might have frightened him more -to look upon a blade that is obviously older than the man himself by centuries. It is the sort of small dagger that women would have carried, tucked away in their bodices, in the dodgier parts of London, during that period of time so many love to relive -if not inaccurately at times, at fairs and the like. The man can only be certain of the blade's existence when the cold metal begins to cut into his dirty flesh. The fact he's not bathed in days, covered in dried dirt and sweat, causing the wounds to burn all the more.

The boy grins, an almost angelic expression upon too angelic features. " I wish I could truly hear your scream, beg for this to be over, like I am sure so many have begged and cried for you. Unfortunately, I cannot risk your cries drawing unwanted attention... But, I am sure they are quite beautiful sounds, no? Doesn't matter, you still bleed just the same."

He digs the blade deeper into the man's skin, watching him arch upwards, squirming beneath him as he straddles the man's hips. The coppery scent of the blood, tainted by the faint traces of drugs and the thicker scent of nicotine -all things that just seems to ruin the blood really. But, without intention to savor the taste, he can ignore the way its stench pollutes the already foul air.

Hours pass, the man lives, though he truly wishes he didn't. The boy cannot help licking his lips, inhaling deep the scent of fear and desperation, the way it almost takes out the acrid taint of the pollutants in the man's blood and the smell of burning flesh. The moment he had tired of the blade he had made wonderful use of the man's remaining fags and the lighter he carries to ignite them. "You will not see another dawn, only because I cannot afford the risk."

He can feel the dawn, less than an hour away. He had, again, lost track of time as he played with the man like a boy dissecting a frog -for fun. Only, instead of just cutting it open to learn how it works, what it has that he too has -he has tested just how much the pathetic excuse for a man could withstand without succumbing to unconsciousness (though not for lack of trying, just to avoid the pain) or death. He sighs, the sound is bittersweet, like a petulant child who does not wish to put away his toys. He tilts his head to the side, looking down into the man's silently pleading, dull eyes. " It is time to say good bye."

The boy slowly plunges the dagger into the man's chest, opening him up to expose his heart, the blade avoiding vital organs. He watches, mesmerized for a moment, by the way it beats frantically in the man's chest -bloody. He reaches out, nails dragging over the exposed organ for a split second before plucking it from the cavity and tossing it, without a glance, into the dark river.

He stands, untying the man and throwing him over his shoulder. Taking the body to the edge, wrinkling his nose in distaste as the man's polluted blood soaks through his shirt, making it unusable. He tosses the corpse into the water, kneeling down at the edge to wash himself in the river. The boy removes his own shirt, tossing it into the water as well, cleaning himself of any remains of blood. For the moment, his mind and sanity have returned to him, as he stands and starts to walk slowly along the empty riverbank, watching as the sun slowly starts to climb above the canopy of trees.