HOUSE OF BROKEN SOULS Part 1, Prologue
Winter 2001
The car is sleek and expensive, out of place by this dingy alley with it’s burnt out dumpsters and debris that speaks of drug addictions and cheap thrills.
The boy flicks his gaze upwards and surveys the car, bright hazel eyes seem older than the painfully thin, rangy frame. The windows are tinted, no hint of it’s occupant. He’s not nearest but he senses hesitation in the others. Everything about this unexpected John screams “unsafe”. He steps forward into the glowing orange of the streetlamp and pauses, waiting for someone to object. As far as he has fallen, as many compromises as he has made, he will not make a deal to share these earnings, and he’s not prepared to ruffle any pimp’s feathers.
The car stops entirely now, a window rolls down a fraction and a voice speaks.
“Hey kiddo. Yes you. How old are you?”
“Old enough. If you’re lookin’ for a child you’ll have to move on.” He purses his lips, sulky and defiant.
“Not looking for trouble. You’ll do. Get in kid.”
The door opens and it’s hard to see into the shadows within. The boy looks briefly at the street-worker nearest to him, he doesn’t know him, has spoken maybe once or twice. The other hooker is looking him in the eyes and shaking his head in a faint expression of “No. Don’t!” but the boy’s stomach is empty, the knees of his torn jeans are muddied and he stopped feeling his toes hours earlier. His heart is empty and he thinks he’ll either end up dead or well paid. He figures either outcome is OK.
He gets into the car.
Continue to part 2: anniespinkhouse.livejournal.com/1235.html
The car is sleek and expensive, out of place by this dingy alley with it’s burnt out dumpsters and debris that speaks of drug addictions and cheap thrills.
The boy flicks his gaze upwards and surveys the car, bright hazel eyes seem older than the painfully thin, rangy frame. The windows are tinted, no hint of it’s occupant. He’s not nearest but he senses hesitation in the others. Everything about this unexpected John screams “unsafe”. He steps forward into the glowing orange of the streetlamp and pauses, waiting for someone to object. As far as he has fallen, as many compromises as he has made, he will not make a deal to share these earnings, and he’s not prepared to ruffle any pimp’s feathers.
The car stops entirely now, a window rolls down a fraction and a voice speaks.
“Hey kiddo. Yes you. How old are you?”
“Old enough. If you’re lookin’ for a child you’ll have to move on.” He purses his lips, sulky and defiant.
“Not looking for trouble. You’ll do. Get in kid.”
The door opens and it’s hard to see into the shadows within. The boy looks briefly at the street-worker nearest to him, he doesn’t know him, has spoken maybe once or twice. The other hooker is looking him in the eyes and shaking his head in a faint expression of “No. Don’t!” but the boy’s stomach is empty, the knees of his torn jeans are muddied and he stopped feeling his toes hours earlier. His heart is empty and he thinks he’ll either end up dead or well paid. He figures either outcome is OK.
He gets into the car.
Continue to part 2: anniespinkhouse.livejournal.com/1235.html