More Beautiful From A Distance
The music's loud and the air's sticky with the smell and taste of other bodies. When Pellaz leans in close to yell so that he can be heard over the hollow thrum of music, he's a heavy weight against Vaysh's body.
His breath is thick with alcohol and his eyes are glazed slightly. Pellaz is all in black and hovers like a wraith in front of Vaysh. The lights flash brightly on and off and illuminate Pell's heavily made up face in dips and hollows of shadow.
"Tell me, Vaysh, don't sulk. Why do you always dye your hair that colour?"
His question is punctuated by the press of his hand against Vaysh's chest. Pell hovers over him like some ghost, a memory that Vaysh doesn't want to recall.
His name was different then and when he's feeling particularly surly, Vaysh pretends he can no longer remember what it was at all.
It didn't matter anyway. Nobody called him by his name.
Instead they called him cunt; or fag, or fairy. They never used his name as they spat words out at him in hatred. Sometimes they didn't bother with words at all and instead used their fists to speak. Vaysh remembers it almost fondly; metallic taste of blood in his mouth from yet another split lip. So many lessons learnt the hard way it's almost impossible to believe he didn't seem to learn at all.
Vaysh pretends he can't remember his name because he doesn't want to remember who he once was.
Pellaz is moving in time to the music, supple twist of his hips and every now and then he brushes against Vaysh, who stands in place, sulking. The last thing Vaysh wants to do is encourage him.
The lights are dim and sudden flashes of colour burn his eyes. There's a lull in the music and Vaysh can almost taste the anticipation in the back of his throat. He hasn't felt like this in so long and he tries to convince himself it's the drink.
He can feel the burn of eyes on himself and he runs his hand through his hair unconsciously. Nobody here seems to have any shame and his fingers are slightly sweaty as they pull his hair into tight red spikes.
They've been drinking heavily since they arrived. Ferelithia almost makes Vaysh forget, but nothing can really erase those memories, even if he wants them to.
He'd been a gawky teenager then, hadn't really grown into his body and his overly long limbs were always enveloped tightly in black silk. Press of fabric against his skin. He loved the way he felt when he dressed up, free.
When he dressed like that, he found it so much easier to pretend he was somebody else.
Anybody else.
He'd been kicked out of home at the age of thirteen. Not that he was ever asked to leave in so many words but he was no idiot. Some things you don't need to be told.
He'd known he was different even then, the way they looked at him, whispered about him. They no longer even cared if he could hear what they said, the things they called him.
His mother no longer pretended that he wasn't what made her cry.
Disappointment. Freak.
He'd always thought that no matter what you did or who you were that your parents would always love you, but some things are apparently unforgivable.
Being himself was one.
He wonders if he should have known. Should have somehow seen what was coming. But the power to prophesise his own death has long eluded man.
In fact he's a little disappointed to recall it was a night like any other. Nothing out of the ordinary and maybe that's why he found himself where he was.
A normal night, nothing irregular.
The alleyway behind a bar. Surrounded by three men.
The tallest of the three, the one with the vicious mouth had been the first to catch his eye while he danced only moments before in the press and heat of the bar. He hadn't been subtle then, far from it and he'd taken every opportunity to press himself close. To ensure the man soon learnt his intent.
He remembers how he'd looped his fingers into the man's belt, pulled him close and pressed obscenely against him. Sinuous rhythm that began in the beat and stamp of the music and ended with the warm kiss of flesh.
The way the other man had looked at his friends, like he was hungry, a harsh twist to his mouth had only fuelled him on. The man he'd pressed so close to was large and brawny and it had never occurred to him that wasn't exactly what he was looking for; what he wanted.
Five minutes later and he led the three of them out through the back. Broken street light at one end of the alley and the ground was inky and punctuated by heavy shadow.
He hadn't even seen the first punch until it was too late.
On his knees, he could feel the dampness soak through the thin material of what he was wearing. Seep into his skin and mark his body, claimed by the cold.
He hadn't seen it.
He'd felt it. His vision clouded with small bursts of light as he felt the harsh slap of the back of a hand against his jaw. He'd been almost numb to it, beyond surprised and he almost didn't react until he was pushed onto his back in the damp cold debris of the alley.
Harsh tear of fabric and suddenly his body was even more exposed to the harsh cool night air.
He'd struggled, at first. Before he knew what was happening. Before he resigned himself to fate.
He'd struggled as they pressed his small body under the larger weight of their own. Three pressing him down when really only one was needed. He'd remained silent, for as long as he could.
A harsh scream escaped his mouth as they tore into him. The first time, almost a surprise and his voice ran hoarse, finally drowned out with their laughter. Hands pinned down his arms and pushed his face away. He recalled being told not to look, and he was happy to keep his eyes pulled tightly shut.
The thing he remembered most was how he hadn't cried.
They were rough.
He shouldn't have been surprised at all.
Fingers, more.
He couldn't really identify anything beyond that point, beside the grinning mask of the first man as he'd pulled his face close. Forced his mouth open and bit down on the screams that had escaped.
It no longer hurt. He was beyond that. The hurt removed the pain of living.
He'd probably have been found like that.
Pushed on his back, one leg twisted, possibly too far. He could feel a dull ache, one he didn't want to identify and everything below his waist felt heavy. Anaesthetised.
It only really hurt if he attempted to move, like life.
He could smell a thickness in the air, taste it in his mouth and when he opened his eyes, an explosion claimed his vision. He lay there and wondered how long he'd need to wait until the end.
He'd been waiting for so many years.
He'd always remember the red. Dark, the colour of blood.
Blood that ran thickly, he'd been able to feel it as it slowly escaped. Sticky and dripping through the long tendrils of his hair. Pooling around him, a grizzly halo of a tarnished saint.
It had been all he could smell, thick in the air and he'd been unable to move his body. He'd been thankful he could no longer really feel himself and it was almost like he was floating, surrounded in a rich sea of red.
His vision had blurred, fractured for a second as a flash of light illuminated the dark hidden patches of the broken edge of the roof above him. He'd known the end was close and he couldn't help but feel almost happy about that fact.
How then, he would finally be free.
A dull pain had sent spikes through his head in the dampness where he'd been lying; becoming more numb and they were so strong that he almost forgot what it had been like before them.
He'd caught movement out of his eye. He hadn't been entirely sure if he'd simply imagined it but after a moment his vision cleared slightly and he could see the form of a man kneel beside him.
He'd thought for a moment that maybe they'd decided to come back, to finish the job. To make him suffer like he deserved to.
But when his vision had cleared again he could see the new figure bore no resemblance to the shabby men from before. This man couldn't look anymore different if he'd tried.
Beatific smile, tightly coiled hair that flowed from atop his head. He thought for a moment that it was too late and he'd already died.
The voice he'd heard faintly alerted him otherwise.
"I'm Thiede, child. Are you thirsty?"
And he had been. More so than he could ever recall, his throat constricted at the mere mention of it and all he could taste was the faint metallic sting of blood in his throat.
There'd been movement and something was pressed to his mouth.
He'd drank.
Fade of consciousness, he wasn't sure what he'd felt anymore and once again his vision cleared and his sight was filled with the face of the man before him.
That had been when he'd noticed he wasn't drinking from a bottle or a cup. Instead the man who'd knelt above him held his own hand tight against his mouth. Cut, tear of flesh across the pristine skin and he'd drank more. Mouth full once again with blood, but this time it wasn't his own.
He'd looked up into those cherubic eyes, full and rich and unlike anything he had ever seen before. Then he'd seen it, something he never thought he would ever see.
Himself.