We Prick You

"Duke’s what you’d call an older man. I’m what you’d call under-age, only he doesn’t know. He thinks I’m 17."

A cautionary tale about a young runaway and the evils of older men.


10. Fall

Laughter. Sharp, braying, drunken laughter. A girl. 

    Fucking Charlie.

    So many questions. What the fuck? Why? How? Where the fuck am I? 

    First things first. I’m in the spare bedroom. Mattress and filthy sheets. I slip into a jogging suit and trainers. This is my chance to get out. Let Charlie get chewed on, slapped about. 

    Open the door, creep across the landing. He’s playing Changes. Bastard. Creep down the stairs, back to the wall, stay in the shadows. Creak. Slip. Falling, banging elbows and shins. Smack head, hard. Splinter of pain, right through my skull. Room spinning. Blood. 

    Screaming. Me? Her?

    He takes me in his arms, wipes the hair from my face.

    “Fuck,” he says.

    Carries me. Down, down, down. Lays me down, whispers to me.

    “Sorry,” he says. Kisses my forehead. Pain is flatter, duller now. 

    My Thin White Duke, a stickman shadow, withdrawing into a tiny rectangle of light. Leaving me. The rectangle shrinks and is gone.

    It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

    No more tears. Just pain, loss and darkness.

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