An insane, withdrawn boy who'll use any tool he can find


“Damned if he doesn’t look just like that guy on the cover of Rolling Stone—you know, the hair band guy. Sebastian somebody.”

I later saw the photo, and he was right. Sebastian Bach. I’m so glad I missed that little bit of history.

+ They say that you always hurt the ones you love. That’s so stupid.

You always hurt the ones that love you.

Before my memory begins, I was not an only child. That is, I do not remember having a brother, but I remember being told that I had one. He was younger than I but less beautiful, and that’s why my mother sold me instead. I cannot resent that. As soon as the bitch wanted more money or just plain got tired of having a toddler around without his six-year-old brother from another man to look after him, she likely sold him, too. For all I know, she sold him to a butcher shop.

As I said, he was less beautiful than I. I became a whore, but he probably became a Christmas ham.

The good thing about being a whore from the time you remember is that there’s nothing better to compare it to. It’s really not a bad life for a child. Your chores are straightforward, and if they beat you too badly you make less money – so they don’t beat you too badly all that often. I do still have a morbid fear of water, since my pimp found near-drowning an effective disciplinary tool that left no marks. The scars on my back didn’t happen until after I got sold to one owner, and being a toy is much much worse.

But that part was later.

I was a very expensive pleasure, and I had a round of regulars. My chores (No, I will not describe them for your titillation. Use your imagination, thank you, and get your jollies off on your own time.) changed significantly as I grew more physically suitable for them, and I matured rather early. As a ten-year-old, I passed for twelve. As a malnourished twelve-year old, I was the picture of a flourishing teen boy, the near-perfect kind that never has skin problems or a cracking voice. (My mismatched gold and blue eyes add a certain charm to an otherwise intimidating spotlessness.) If Vogue magazine editors had been transported to the slums of Belfast in my childhood, I would have spent the rest of my childhood days sprawled in half-dressed splendor in front of a camera. I can’t quite explain why I skipped the awkwardness.

It was probably the deluge of testosterone and the significant amounts of protein.


Night and Day succubinki