Sitting Up There

So Far From Here

Making ends meet had never been a real problem for Anthony. They simply never really did. They came close, but when they were just about to touch he would usually do something that would yank them in opposite directions. Those things usually involved either sex or drugs.

It stopped bothering him when he shot back down to the bottom for the hundredth time. Or maybe it wasn't so much that it had stopped bothering him, but that once he got hurt in the same spot so many times, the scar tissue build up was so thick he didn't really feel anything about it anymore.

Every day was the same. He walked the streets, hunger gnarling at his stomach and bones, arms around his chest and ribcage as he looked for someone to buy him for a few hours or threw himself at Valentino's feet for a hit or a hint of theatrical affection. He hated his routine, but since he got to hell that had been his life. What else could he do? There was nothing else he was good at or needed.

His spine was tight and rigid like a metal pole and sweat was pricking the nape of his neck. His forehead also started to be covered in beads of cold sweat. Every time a gust of wind blew through the corridors of cement and hit him, he felt his brain freeze inside his skull. You'd think hell was always burning hot, turned out that was a fairy tale. Or maybe it was in a different ring, the one he was in very much looked like a dirtier version of the New York he had walked when he was alive.

It was not yet night, the air was still stale with the afternoon dust and smell of trash even in the heap of the city. He looked up at the tall, crumbling buildings and kept putting a foot in front of the other with a sigh. He turned a corner or the main square, aimlessly wondering and hoping that someone who worked in one of those tall corporation building would come down and fancy picking him up from the street for a couple of hours of entertainment. Then he'd have money, then he'd be able to afford to stop the hunger in the pit of his stomach. Not real hunger, not looking for food but something to fill himself up with, just something to stop this hollowing feeling like someone digging a hole in the middle of his chest and making it bigger and bigger until he would be more hole than whore.

Soon people would stop working.

Nobody could resist Angel Dust: he knew his worth. No matter how pitiful and empty he looked to himself, he knew what other people saw. He was a great actor, a professional performer. He could play the role without thinking about it, exposing what he had to offer and making excellent use of it. Most of the time, really, he didn't want to think about anything at all.

Despite the sweat he smoothed his hair, checked his face in the reflection of a shop's window and patted down his clothes.

Someone honked at him from a passing by car and he winked a them. If they thought that would degrade him, they were so wrong. They wanted him? There he was. They could come get him - for a good price of course - and he would give them their money worth. He was good. He knew how good he was. Valentino praised him often, but he would have known anyway. He had been good when he was alive too.

Hunger was growing from the centre of his brain, he really needed to find someone to screw him fast.

Demons of all shapes and colours started polluting the streets once work was done. The roads suddenly pregnant with noises and bodies. Crazy to think how cold and deserted they had been until a few minutes before.

"Hey, baby!" Anthony put on his most lustful and charming smile, making his sharp face into all curves and luring eyes. He approached a few groups, showing off his assets, voice like dripping honey, and most of them curved their lips into grins uncovering their sharp fangs. Some demons gathered around him, all wearing their fancy tailored clothes. Their voices were dark and guttural, Anthony knew they wanted to blow off some steam. He could fill himself with all of it.