assignment: a day in the life

Dante packs his bag, gathering all of the things he assumes he needs. Tonight is the night. He's thought ahead, reserving a room and an "entertainer", ensuring that he has a victim lined up, as opposed to blindly searching alleyways for unsuspecting college students and businesswomen. There is no way he will fail tonight. He has thought of everything.

--

He enters the club, thankful for the dark atmosphere. He is wearing a hooded sweatshirt, but the lack of lighting aids his attempt to be unrecognizable, should something go wrong. The large man at the door directs him to go up the stairs in the back, and Dante is thankful still for the removed nature of this end of the club's business. Following the man's instructions, he finds an attractive blonde standing at a podium, asking his name and confirming his appointment. He doesn't care who they set him up with, he just needs a warm body to spend the night with. The attractive blonde girl is flustered, embarrassed and doing a shoddy job of hiding it. She tells him that his room is down the hall, the employee he's reserved on the phone is not seeing clients tonight, but there is a single worker not booked, if he is okay with it. Dante barely listens, closing in on the fact that he is THIS CLOSE, and graciously accepts whoever they choose to throw away on him. He flashes the attractive blonde a rare and disarming smile before strolling down the hall to his appointed room.

--

Dante grips the shiny metal instrument in his hands, wishing to a god he barely believes in anymore that he could just rip it apart like he wants with the skin of the whore laying on the bed behind him. It isn't right. He wants, craves, can taste, the blood and life surging inside the waif-like creature  here to pleasure him for the next couple of hours, except he can't do what would truly please him. Too many friends, an actual family, a stable home, a real job, too many people to ask questions when the prostitute goes missing... He thought whores were supposed to be unattached, easy targets, but not this whore. This young man has a good life and Dante cannot take it away.

--

The coffee shop is becoming a safe place, a secluded bustling chaotic place, where he can go to clear his thoughts and get away from his constant failure. He muses over the benefit of just throwing caution aside and going straight for a kill, fuck the police, the law... The thought is tantalizing, intoxicating even... He could even do it RIGHT HERE. Just grab somebody, and drag them to the alley. He still has his bag, all of the toys he thought he could enjoy with the whore. He could do this.

Dante is stolen out of his reverie by a small hand on his arm. He turns and looks into the startled green eyes of a new blonde, less attractive than the attractive blonde at the podium back in the club, but nice to look at all the same. It seems his prayers have been answered, perhaps there is a god after all.

assignment: gathering

There was absolutely no way he needed to be here any longer. These people didn’t even know him, not really. It was just a bunch of old people his parents had invited in order to fill up the house on this “special occasion”. Sure, it wasn’t every day that he graduated high-school, but that didn’t make it any more special. It was just friggin’ high school… His mom kept saying something about it being important to have this sort of thing; it gave the adults in his life a chance to give him money and things as graduation gifts. The problem with that logic was that these adults were barely even in his life. There was perhaps a single uncle milling around somewhere, one he hadn’t seen since he was ten or so, and then the old neighbor couple, who had to about a hundred years old… There were a few of his dad’s business associates, people he’d remembered “impressing” when he was in kindergarten… There was absolutely no point to this, these people didn’t own him anything.

Musing over the injustice of having to stay inside on a beautiful sunny afternoon, to dance for his dinner (so to speak), Dante stared out at the spectacle of ancient old fogies ignoring him for the opportunity for more favourable company (namely themselves). His mother was holding court in the dining room, laughing loudly and pulling the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Even she seemed to have forgotten about the purpose of this little shindig, forgotten all about the fight they’d had that morning. Dante knew the truth. This party was about her. ‘Look what I made’, ‘look how well I raised my baby’, ‘look at what a nice college my boy is leaving us for’, ‘look, my son is finally leaving the house’, ‘look my husband and I finally get our lives back, I’m so happy’. It made him sick to his stomach.

A brief flash of intense sensation took over his awareness; it lasted only a moment, but the feeling was overwhelmingly satisfying. He shook his head violently, however, to rid his mouth of the taste of his mother’s blood, and he slouched deep in his chair to remove himself further from the din of ‘his’ party.

He needed to get out of there.

The voices had been growing louder, more insistent, as the years had passed. He found himself day-dreaming more and more, in the light of day, even. His intense feelings seemed to trigger his flashes, and he was feeling choked in that moment. Just as his fingers gripped the arm-rest, a foundation to pull his ragged body up from the chair so he could escape the cloistering air, a pair of shiny wing-tips entered his field of vision. He looked up into the face of a man he truly and honestly could not place.

“Dante, my boy, your mother has told me wonderful things about you. Congratulations on the college, son. I wanted to give you a little something to help you out.” He pressed a thin envelope into his hand, a check most likely, then turned immediately to walk away, no further conversation necessary.

Dante stood rooted to the spot. Somehow this tiny gesture, officially an act of kindness, was the breaking point. Tomorrow was his eighteenth birthday. It was time.

-

In his sparse room, at the top of the stairs and to the left, Dante found very few things he felt he actually wanted to bring with him. There were a few shirts, he only needed a single pair of jeans, and all of the money he’d earned over the years. He had very few interests to waste his funds on so he’d managed to save up a good cache…. enough to keep him going until he’d gotten a new job, at the very least. And besides, college was mere weeks away… He would make it.

assignment: specimen

The man stood with his back against the wall, a single knee bent and casually smoking a cigarette. There was no one else in the dimly-lit, and to be perfectly honest raunchy, hallway. The motel seemed to be ill-used, what with the rough carpeting and peeling paint-job. Of course, it might have had something to do with the clientele of this particular establishment, classy though they may be…

The man exhaled a long and smoke-filled lungful of air. The sounds from inside the room he stood guard against permeated the thin door and echoed off the walls around him. He didn’t like hearing them. He never liked hearing them. Not even in the beginning, before he figured out exactly how he felt. Of course, that’s not to say the feelings weren’t always there, just that he wasn’t always aware of them. Maybe that’s why he never liked hearing his best mate fucking some stranger in a seedy motel.

But facts were, he WAS the best mate, and that meant he had certain duties to see to. Certain duties which included going out to pubs and clubs, watching over his friend while he drank himself into a self-destructive state, following him to these fucking motels and seedy little apartment buildings, and then cleaning up the mess after.

It always went the same way. His mate would drink until he couldn’t see straight, possibly with the aid of some added chemical, spot some foxy young thing across the room and demand that if he didn’t have her that night, that instant, he’d positively shrivel up and die. He NEEDED her. And he would have to cross the room, avoiding all of those sweaty drunken bodies while he chatted her up, bringing her back to his friend to introduce them. They’d dance and drink, then he’d have to follow them to wherever would be that night’s fuck-pad.  He would wait patiently outside the door, or in the living room, while they had their fun. Then he would go in, avoiding the current conquest’s eyes, and clean his friend up, dragging him home, to a clean warm bed to sleep in

They’d been doing this for so long, it had gotten to the point where he could almost track his friends peaks and flows in his physical ecstasy. Given the particular pitch of groan resounding in the dank hallway, he knew they were almost done.

In the beginning, he’d chatted up girls alongside his friend. The first couple of times, they’d had adjoining rooms, the thin walls letting sounds through and inspiring a sort of contest between them. Who could do it louder, better, faster? It left him feeling hollow, however, and after a very short while, he’d begun to refuse his mate’s encouragement. Eventually his friend stopped encouraging altogether…

He’d waited the obligatory ten minutes, then knocked softly on the door, walking in without an invitation. He nodded politely to the women with her own stick in hand, circle of smoke surrounding them, all three of them. She nodded back, stretching and folding her arms behind her head, tits unabashedly on display. He did not stare. He moved directly for his friend, gently removing the covers and putting his clothes to rights. He leaned him against his shoulder as he pulled his pants up his legs and over his ass, pulling the zip up very carefully.

The slag raised an eyebrow and blew another stream of smoke out, “he always like this?”

His eyes flickered over to meet hers, but he said nothing. His mate’s shirt back on and shoes gathered in hand, he shouldered him deftly (loads of practice), and shuffled out of the room, kicking the door closed behind them.

The walk home was difficult, heavy with disapproving stairs from strangers, but it was blessedly short. Depositing his friend into his own bed, he set to pulling those pants off once more. He knew he’d be more comfortable upon waking if he didn’t have his legs all twisted up in his jeans. He decided to leave the shirt on, as it was only a t-shirt, as opposed to the fancy dress shirts he donned on occasion. He pulled the covers up to his chin, tucking him in gently. He hesitated, on the edge of turning and leaving the room. It made him sick to think he couldn’t resist, but it was part of his ritual. Every night that he had to sit outside a rundown room and listen to those sounds, and then drag the drunken ass home, he fought with himself. He should have this one thing. It was his payment, his mate’s atonement, whether he knew it or not.

He leaned down, gently lifting the fringe out of his mate’s eyes. A finger over those plump lips, and then he’d claim them as his own, if only for a moment. His world came down to these few seconds, stolen every so many days. If his friend were to ever wake during this stolen intimacy, he’d probably die. He didn’t think he could stand the questioning, or god forbid accusatory, stare.

As he steeled his nerves, he pulled away, regretting the loss of contact immediately, as always, and turned to leave the room without a backwards glance. He always missed the small smile that played on the just-kissed lips of the man he loved.

assignment: trauma

"What do you mean, you're cutting me off?!"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, your father feels very strongly about this. He doesn't hold with you running around with that... Man."

Cara closed her eyes, gripping the receiver tightly. Her deep breaths were obvious on the other end of the phone call, but she needed to be in control. This conversation was not going he way she needed it to.

"I've already told you, mom, here is nothing... Untoward... Going on with me and Dante. He's just a guy. I met him at the coffee shop, he's harmless!"

She knew it was a lie.

"I know you trust him sweetie, but you know your father. And I have to agree with him."

Cara knew that didn't mean anything. Just because she HAD to, didn't mean she wanted to. But that didn't change facts. Her father's word was law. She was screwed.

"Can't you just, I don't know, warm him up a little? I can try to talk to him after..."

"I'm sorry, dear. There's nothing to be done."

Cara held on desperately, trying not to cry, but feeling the tears slip through the cracks of her eyelids anyway. She could hear her mother hesitate, that small smack of her lips as she reluctantly opened her mouth and the small hum as air rushed through her nose. The words which eventually came out felt like a knife twisting in her gut.

"Dont call here again."

The air rushed out of Cara's lungs and the room grew cold. She couldn't possibly mean that. She was their daughter...

"Mommy...?"

The harsh click of the dial tone swelled and permeated her ear canal. Time had stopped. The world had stopped. Her parents had abandoned her. What was she going to do? Her stupid job at the coffee shop barely made her enough to pay the rent, let alone all the other stuff. And now she had Dante...
The first thing she could think of was her bank account. Maybe they hadn't closed it yet. Maybe if she went there now she could pull everything out and just keep it under the mattress or something.

The dial tone ended abruptly, as Cara slammed the receiver down onto the cradle and she grabbed her house key from the counter before running out of the tiny apartment, stopping only to step into her shoes. Her bank was around the corner, and she made it here in a matter of minutes. Heading straight for the ATM attached to the outside wall of the building, she shoved her card into the tiny slot, punching in her identification number with shaking digits. Her vision swam as tears welled up and over, down her cheeks. She was scared. What if they'd cancelled her account before her mother'd called? What if she was truly and honestly alone now?

Cara blinked and stared at the tiny display on the large machine. Something was wrong. Those weren't the number that stared back at her the last time she'd made a deposit and checked her balance. She was hoping, though not expecting, to see 546.32. That was the number written down in her deposit book. She'd had that number memorized. At least until she'd make her next purchase or another deposit. The number staring back at her was much longer. There was now around 10,000 dollars sitting in her account, the difference being suspiciously the same amount as the trust her father had set up for after she finished college. She wasn't supposed to see it until she'd gotten her degree in hand, but there it was. It was hers now.

She closed her eyes again, saying a silent and simple 'thank you' to her mother, for her compassion and for her bravery. She cleared the screen on the ATM display, and headed to the bank lobby. She had to pull this money out before her father realized what had happened.

assignment: last lap

This was it. He was here. It was going to happen. He held the knife to the other man’s throat. He wasn’t much of a man, really. He was almost still a boy. Some young thing picked from an alley between buildings on an increasingly dilapidated college  campus. But it didn’t matter how old he was, or what he looked like, what his own hopes and aspirations consisted of… He was going to die.

**

The boy had been walking alone down an alley, a stupid move, to be sure, shuffling steps and hands in his pockets. He had earphones in, and that was his biggest mistake. Dante had only to stand just behind him, hugging the decrepit brick wall, and wait for his opportunity. There was no special cue, no stooping to tie a shoe, or looking around suddenly to see who was watching him – Dante simply reached out… and GRABBED him. The young man went down with a struggle, but he was so weak and small compared to Dante’s imposing form, there was no contest. Dante slammed his head into the concrete beneath their feet, only hard enough to knock him out, and then stood straight, checking for witnesses before dragging the limp form away.

**

Once inside the room he’d selected, an unoccupied dorm room on the ground level of a now-unused building, he set the boy on the frame of one of the beds. He’d gotten blood on his hands, from the gushing wound near the boy’s temple. It was very distracting. The colour, the shape of the pattern over his fingers -- he could almost smell it. It was beautiful. He wanted more. So much more.

Turning toward the body, he pulled the long knife out of his pocket and stared at it. It was finally going to be able to taste its first drops, and it was ready.

Stepping closer to the boy, Dante placed the knife to his throat and took a steadying breath. This was it. He was going to finally kill someone. All this time, dealing with those voices, and those urges… This need that had been building for so long… His moment had finally come.

The boy’s eyes opened, just as the knife bit into his flesh. Shock filled his features, and Dante faltered. There was blood everywhere, not too much, not enough, but it was there and it was overwhelming. The boy’s hands flew out, scrabbling for a hold on Dante’s arms, pushing the knife away. The knife slipped and knicked Dante’s palm and he stepped back, gripping his hand in stunned surprise. The boy’s feet kicked out, landing their mark in Dante’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t breathe and he stumbled further back, bumping into deserted furniture, tripping and falling. The boy vaulted from the bed frame, looking wildly around before fleeing through the door, and out of Dante’s life forever.