in wait for the beating I knew was coming, too inured to wonder at the fairness of it, too inured to do anything but bleed. He kicked me in the temple and my vision went blurry. I didn’t scream. I don’t think I had the strength.
Something about my silence seemed to get to him, and suddenly he was on my chest, his knees pinning me to the ground and his forearm pushed against my neck. “Faggot! Fucking faggot!”
From somewhere distant I heard my assailant’s comrades trying to call him off, but their protestations proved ineffective. I struggled briefly, but he struck me again across the face, terminating my halfhearted attempts at self-defense.
I lay on the ground with his elbow on my throat, the world swirling around me, blood thick on my tongue, and I thought—so this is death. It took a long enough time coming. But then She Who Waits Behind All Things must have been busy in Low Town that year, and I was a small boy. She could be forgiven for such a minor oversight, especially now that She had come to rectify her mistake.
The light started to fade.
A great rushing sound filled my ears like the roar of falling water.
Then my hand closed around something firm and heavy, and I brought a rock up against the side of the boy’s head, and the weight on my neck lessened and I brought my fist up again and then again until his grip was slack and I was on top of him now and the sound I was hearing were his screams and my own and still I kept at it and then I was the only one screaming.
Then silence and I was standing over the boy’s body and his friends weren’t laughing anymore but instead looking at me like no one had ever looked at me, and even though there were two of them and they were bigger than I was they backed off warily, then broke into a run. And as I watched them retreat I realized I liked the look Ihad seen in their eyes, liked not being the one to wear it. And if that meant getting my hands slick with little pieces of the boy’s brain, then so be it, that wasn’t much of a price to pay, not much of a price at all.
A wild spurt of laughter bubbled up from my gut, and I vomited it forth at the world.
• • •
When I awoke my chest was heavy and my breath short. I propped myself up and forced my heart into rhythm, counting the beats, one-two, one-two. It was nearly dawn. I slipped my clothes on and headed downstairs.
The bar was quiet—our patrons gone home to beat their wives or sleep off their buzz. I took a chair at a side table and sat in the dark for a few minutes, then headed toward the back.
The fire had died to its embers, and the room was cold. On the ground next to the furnace lay a wad of unused bedding. There was no trace of the boy.
I walked out the front door of the Earl and leaned against a wall, rolling a tab and shivering. Morning was still a few minutes off, and in the twilight the city was the color of smoke. My hacking cough, spurred on by the autumn chill, echoed loudly through the abandoned streets. I lit a cigarette to ease it. In the distance a cock announced the dawn.
When I found the motherfucker who did for that girl, I’d make what happened to Harelip look like the caress of a newfound lover. By everything holy, he’d be a slow time dying.
Eight hours and six ochres later and I was no closer to my goal. I’d been to every operation making or using a heavy solvent from Broad to Light Street without so much as a bite. A few coppers were usually enough to get me information—if that didn’t work I’d flash a paper that said I was a member of the guard and ask less affably. It was easy enough getting answers—it’s always easy to find answers that don’t lead anywhere.
Wren had caught up with me shortly after I’d set out from the Earl, not offering an explanation for his disappearance, not saying anything at all, just falling in line behind me. He was getting restless, presumably not anticipating that working for me would prove to be so boring. I wasn’t
Something about my silence seemed to get to him, and suddenly he was on my chest, his knees pinning me to the ground and his forearm pushed against my neck. “Faggot! Fucking faggot!”
From somewhere distant I heard my assailant’s comrades trying to call him off, but their protestations proved ineffective. I struggled briefly, but he struck me again across the face, terminating my halfhearted attempts at self-defense.
I lay on the ground with his elbow on my throat, the world swirling around me, blood thick on my tongue, and I thought—so this is death. It took a long enough time coming. But then She Who Waits Behind All Things must have been busy in Low Town that year, and I was a small boy. She could be forgiven for such a minor oversight, especially now that She had come to rectify her mistake.
The light started to fade.
A great rushing sound filled my ears like the roar of falling water.
Then my hand closed around something firm and heavy, and I brought a rock up against the side of the boy’s head, and the weight on my neck lessened and I brought my fist up again and then again until his grip was slack and I was on top of him now and the sound I was hearing were his screams and my own and still I kept at it and then I was the only one screaming.
Then silence and I was standing over the boy’s body and his friends weren’t laughing anymore but instead looking at me like no one had ever looked at me, and even though there were two of them and they were bigger than I was they backed off warily, then broke into a run. And as I watched them retreat I realized I liked the look Ihad seen in their eyes, liked not being the one to wear it. And if that meant getting my hands slick with little pieces of the boy’s brain, then so be it, that wasn’t much of a price to pay, not much of a price at all.
A wild spurt of laughter bubbled up from my gut, and I vomited it forth at the world.
• • •
When I awoke my chest was heavy and my breath short. I propped myself up and forced my heart into rhythm, counting the beats, one-two, one-two. It was nearly dawn. I slipped my clothes on and headed downstairs.
The bar was quiet—our patrons gone home to beat their wives or sleep off their buzz. I took a chair at a side table and sat in the dark for a few minutes, then headed toward the back.
The fire had died to its embers, and the room was cold. On the ground next to the furnace lay a wad of unused bedding. There was no trace of the boy.
I walked out the front door of the Earl and leaned against a wall, rolling a tab and shivering. Morning was still a few minutes off, and in the twilight the city was the color of smoke. My hacking cough, spurred on by the autumn chill, echoed loudly through the abandoned streets. I lit a cigarette to ease it. In the distance a cock announced the dawn.
When I found the motherfucker who did for that girl, I’d make what happened to Harelip look like the caress of a newfound lover. By everything holy, he’d be a slow time dying.
Eight hours and six ochres later and I was no closer to my goal. I’d been to every operation making or using a heavy solvent from Broad to Light Street without so much as a bite. A few coppers were usually enough to get me information—if that didn’t work I’d flash a paper that said I was a member of the guard and ask less affably. It was easy enough getting answers—it’s always easy to find answers that don’t lead anywhere.
Wren had caught up with me shortly after I’d set out from the Earl, not offering an explanation for his disappearance, not saying anything at all, just falling in line behind me. He was getting restless, presumably not anticipating that working for me would prove to be so boring. I wasn’t
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