𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 ❞

four ; bitter mulberries

Steve's ::

The young man sat curled up on his bed. He hugged his knees close to him and had his arms around them. His head was bent down into his arms, as he cried pitiably. He wore blue shorts, leaving his legs part bare. There were several bruises on his legs, marks of being hit with a cane or belt, or whatever his parents got their hands on. His plain white t-shirt left bruises and cuts on his arm open. He had several of them; some were fresh, while other injuries were blackening. But all had scarred his heart equally. He sobbed uncontrollably, wetting his shirt and shorts with his tears. He shivered with fear and brought his body closer.

He wanted to resist. He wished to get rid of it. But it seemed like destiny wasn't willing for the same. His life didn't show any interest in playing safe but rather urged him to push himself a little further on the edge. He tried hard to hold up, but the thoughts of his torment and the torture inflicted upon him continually in his mind. He felt like he was back in the living room once again, begging his dad to stop canning him. His mother's curses replayed in his mind. He heard his father yell at him, over and over. His body convulsed as the memory of the evening played on his mind. He knew what would go on next, and he had to stop his mind from recalling his worst memory and playing it over again. He couldn't go through the torture of that night again; not if he could help it; and he knew how he could help him, and was prepared to pay the cost for it.

He had been nothing more than a desperate teen who knew his survival was difficult unless he had a source of income. He had tried several jobs, but the best one had been at the nightclub. He had found something which suited him the best. Creating mixes and handling drinks, and watching people come by and enjoy themselves selfishly; he loved his work. The first three weeks had been heaven to him, with the continuous escapades from the house for the excuse of working finally exposing him to the unknown and unexplored feeling of peace; he was around his parents for almost no time due to the late working hours and the early time of the college, and it saved him the trouble of constantly protecting himself from his parents' wrath, and at times, from that of his own. It was all going well; until things went downhill when a certain group of people entered through the black doors, streamed in the violet light of the club - entered into Steve's life and turned it upside down.

He got up in a hurry; his eyes were red and puffy, and he could barely breathe. He opened his closet and shuffled through something to obtain a small packet filled with white tablets. He took out two tablets, kept them on the nightstand beside his bed, and thrust the packet back into the closet. He took a wooden pistil and ground the hard substance to a fine powder. He formed these into four lines and snotted them with the help of a rolled paper.

He got to the bed within the time he knew he had before his senses dulled. His dull room was lit with a blue fluorescent bulb that turned to a violent violet in his eyes. He couldn't feel anything around him nor could he feel anything inside him. All he could experience was the old feeling of his senses being mulled, and he saw dark stars dance around his sight. He lay on the bed, unable to decipher the why or what of everything happening around him. He could almost feel himself floating, his body felt as light as a feather. His breath fastened, his heartbeat quickened, and his legs lost all their sense. He was happy, and all he could process was a soft sense of satisfaction settling over himself. He pulled the sheets over himself with an effort, and lay there; a mind devoid of all negative emotions imparted to him by his parents; and tried to lie there quietly till the dusky noises of the dawn awoke his parents and brought them screaming to his door.

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