THIS IS YOUR CONTENT WARNING: DRUG ABUSE AND VIOLENCE ALONGSIDE TOPICS OF PROSTITUTION.

"I signed up because I used to sleep on benches..."

Cold Nights: P1

       Floors are cold, and metal benches are colder. The expression “hit rock bottom” didn’t begin to describe the desperation of the woman lying across the pavement of the dilapidated shack they’d been living in. Her chest hurt, sore from many nights of labor on a stomach long empty. Empty of what she needed. Full of everything else.

       Shame held her close. It was the only thing now that did. Her matted hair and dirty skin marred any hope of a respectable future. Memories of the man she’d loved ran down her cheeks like stinging pools of amber honey. Love had its thorns, undeniable at this point. She remembered the rain that night. The night she’d walked home, to find the TV on in the living room. The house was dark inside, save for that blaring fluorescent light, illuminating the couch in front of it. Standing from the hollow doorway, she had no way of knowing what had befallen her. What’d befallen them. The horrible thing lay sprawled across the couch. His mouth agape in some grotesque picture of inhuman selfishness. Sorrow was distant. How could it be any different? Anger took up the mantle. Was it wrong to defile him that way? To beat a dead horse? Her husband, the man who’d been raising her son? To say he was raising him was a stretch. His eyes were open, pupils dilated. An overdose, surely. An act of greed. Of gluttony and selfishness. Couldn’t he have taken her with him? She only stopped when her arms gave way, causing that great fall to the carpet below. Leon lay dead, the belt still tightened like some unholy adornment around his arm. His arms fell open in worship to a never-ending embrace. Death had left its mark, it's gallop long into the crowded streets.

       It cried from the other room—that bastard.

       The second arrived during that sleepless night. The horsemen bellowed, “What now?” Torturous, reminders of the horrible scene that befell her. “It’s over.” The voice rang out, beckoning her. “What of him?” Her desolation was unknowable. Desperation leads to choices of haste. Hatred, to choices of ruin. Her sorrow was her own; need she worry about him now? Worry about the child that lay in the room beside her? Darkness swept in, like a curtain. The fire alarm, long overdue for replacement, beeped as a bedside monitor.

          Two deaths, in one night.

          Time carries forward, the living, and the dead. None are left behind. The difference is choice. The dead have no choice, carried on past decisions and potentials unknown, unbothered. The living, steer their way through trials and hardship. Honor is far from either. Was it honorable? The way she sold herself to anyone willing to pay? Honorable the way she chose to beat him senselessly, simply because he reminded her so much of that man she’d loved? Was it his fault? Did he decide to have his eyes? Choose to have his nose or his lips? Choose to speak with a cadence that made her sick to her stomach, because every syllable left her standing back in that damned doorway?  Did he choose to carry the name of the man who’d left them both behind?

       The third horsemen, whispered when the men came and went. Sultry comforting words of gratitude, fake and hollow, like artificial sweetener. Cheap, and easy; her advertisements read. It kept the roof up. Pillars of sin, and death for the temple she couldn’t call a home.

       He didn’t call it one either.

       Laying awake at night was hard enough, laying awake at night hearing that twisted ritual from your mother's room? Disgusting. Knowing that it kept the roof you were staring at, up? The park was more comfortable anyway. Crickets sang lullabies he’d never heard. Cars sometimes sounded like ocean waves as they passed, if you were tired enough. He’d been robbed a few times. Only losing small coins or the occasional granola bar. He eventually learned just to leave his things at home. Winter was the worst. He didn’t have the clothes for it, and oftentimes his sleep deteriorated. The solace of being alone left nothing to be desired. It was paradise, to the tired mind. He often grew tired of voices, constant heckling, and insults, crossing the boy's road like stones to the wheels of a skateboard.

       “Tell your ma’ I said thanks.” They sneered. “I might even be back.”

       He wondered if words were worth the use. Sharper than a double-edged sword. He was never one for weapons. Live by it, die by it. Words cut both ways.

       The outstretched hand held a gun.

       “Look man, isn’t this what you wanted? To get your mom out of that shit?” The voice asked, in a hushed tone. “You pull this shit off, and we’ll both be set. Don’t be a bitch now kid.”

       The barrel was colder, heavier than he’d thought. He couldn’t help but feel some semblance of gratitude toward the man. He hadn’t been hungry for days. Didn’t he owe them this? He stepped forward into the street, his hand tucked inside the brown bomber jacket. The snub-nose was easy to conceal. Small, and short, the .38 fit comfortably within the jacket's inner lining. The man living in that house deserved it, didn’t he? He was hurting his friends, a roadblock to the people who’d shown him kindness. His legs felt weak as he made his way forward, knocking on the door.

       “Hey kid, what’s up?”

       The man in the doorway stood, staring down at him with a face of concern. Did he look so noticeably nervous? Had he already lost? The figure looked kind, his face mature and worn, his hair neatly pushed to one side. He wore a white button-up shirt and loose trousers. Darby saw a kid run by behind, in the house.

       “No- sorry to bother you.” He shook his head.

       He walked down the steps, back across the street, and handed the gun over.

       “He’s got a kid man.”

       “So? What the fuck is your problem? He’s been fucking with our operation, locking up our boys, and we needed you to take care of it. Food ain’t free Leon, we asked you to do a job, you do it, dig?”

       “Don’t- fucking call me that.” His mind had cut off as the name was spoken, turning to walk away. He wished he hadn’t, some nights.

       They took it out on his mom.

       The issue with prostitution is that oftentimes abuse goes unreported for fear of losing income. He heard as they did it though. They’d hire her, only to leave her bruised and bloodied, a mess on the floor.

       The fourth horseman.

       Lying on the park bench as he often did, the boy felt the wind, before hearing the trees rustle above him. It was closing in on winter. Solitude reached its paramount as a shiver invaded him. Footsteps broke the silence that had permeated the park. He glanced to groggily observe what appeared to be a group of four young men, clad in black. Another attempted robbery. Fantastic. Darby immediately, and slowly sat up, wiping the remnants of sleep from his eyes. But he was given no courtesy.

       A man’s fist came careening towards him, landing a cold blow to Darby’s cheek. It felt as if he’d been hit with a wooden bat, his eyes now blurry as the pain began to course through his body. The cold made wounds sting, and part of him wondered if he’d already started bleeding. As he doubled over, a foot lodged itself within his ribs, and then another cracked itself against his forehead.

        What was going on? He thought. Normally robbers would assume he was homeless, or leave when they realized he didn’t have anything on him. A beating like this was unheard of. He felt his consciousness slipping away. What would they do to him if he passed out?

         Anxiety was to the internals, what a kick to the mouth was to the externals. He felt a warm trickle down his face as his lip was split open by a boot sole. The men never spoke a word throughout the ordeal. It was as if fate itself had manifested into an infernal symphony of torment for Darby and Darby alone. When he’d stopped moving, the men decided enough had been done, and took their leave. He slipped, satisfied with their absence into a panicked sleep. It was likely his wounds would become infected, sure of his face's new deformities. He could hardly breathe nasally, likely broken. His jaw was sore and felt out of place, his eye hung loosely in its socket. Throughout his sleep, he recalled suppressed cracks and pops, as the beating occurred; reassuring him that he was certainly in less than fortunate circumstances.

       He woke up in a hospital. Slightly panicked, the bright lights showed like the sickly pale of an autopsy table. As he sat up, he was immediately met with a searing jolt of pain from his head. To call it a headache would have done the catastrophic reaction an injustice. His entire body felt bruised as if he’d been hit by a car. He tried to open his mouth, before feeling a painful tug as fresh wounds threatened to tear open. He’d been wired shut. His jaw had been broken as he’d thought. This didn’t feel right, he felt insecure, and unsafe, only now setting in how close he’d been to dying on that concrete. It was undeniable, that he wasn’t alright, as tears welled up in the boys' eyes. Damnit. How was he even going to pay for the hospital visit? His ma didn’t have money for this. Who’d taken him in the first place?

          A few moments later, as if on queue a police officer walked into the room, closing the door behind him. His shoes audibly tapped as he made his way inside slowly. He looked to be an older man, in his fifties or sixties. He took a few steps towards the bed, before glancing down with a slow nod. The old man’s face was tired; undeniably. Wrinkles and scars painted pictures of wisdom hard won. The gaze that fell upon Darby wasn’t one of a father; despite his inexperience with a father's gaze, that much was clear immediately. It was more distant. That of a grandfather. Some mixture of disapproval, resentment, and humorous entertainment. It was odd, the immediate sense of comfort he felt around the man. As if he wanted to know him, to be like him. None of this could be said, of course, with the wires restricting his jaw; and none of it would’ve been said regardless.

       “How you holdin’ up kid?” The man said, his voice matching his appearance. It was deep and gravel-y. He could’ve been a damn good blues singer, Darby thought. “Well, I guess you couldn’t answer me if you wanted to.”

       The man took a seat on the foot of the bed, gruffly grunting as he did so. “Those four men, I saw ‘em runnin’ off so I decided to have a walk over and see what was goin’ on.” He paused looking down toward the floor. “Found you layin’ on the concrete all busted up.” He paused, silence engulfing the room temporarily. “You get a good look at any of ‘em?”

       The boy shook his head, staring at the man in partial awe. The old man's hair was peppered with grey, and a badge sat tucked over his belt. He wore cowboy boots, under gray trousers, and a tucked-in button-up shirt.

       “Ah…” He paused, nodding slowly. That’s alright.” The man stood up, walking across the room to a small side table. He picked up a glass of water with a red and white straw and brought it over to the boy. Only then did he realize how dry his mouth felt, and was immediately grateful. He helped slip the straw through the various wires crossing the boy’s lips.

       “Any idea who’d want to do something like this?” The man asked, squinting.

       Did he have an idea? Yeah. Could he tell a cop? No.

       He shook his head.

DAAAARBYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY