In Hell We Dance

Shameful

I've done things I'm not proud of. Let's just get that out of the way. And don't give me that shit: so have we all! If you knew the things I'd done, the people I've screwed and hurt just to stay on my toes, you'd offer me no sympathy, darling.

The first night is easy. You think you're gonna make it. That's usually how it is for me. I rely on my natural good looks and charm. You'd be surprised how far that gets you in life. Especially when you're a good-for-nothing lowlife, trading favours in sex and blowing your money on coke and vodka. In that order.

That first night, man I was so optimistic. Before stumbling into Connor's sweet arms, that night was my last genuine smile. I was leaving behind that shithole of a city, carving my own path through that endless night. I was a free man before, but still, I felt the tug of strings. Now they were cut, and I was a wildfire let loose. There was no telling what I could do. Isn't that cute? I actually believed I was gonna go unscathed.

Yeah, I had strings; I was a familiar face at every pub, nightclub and seedy hovel in the dark corners of Brighton. I was a slippery bastard when it came to staying out of trouble, but I was also your loveable little brother, causing mayhem and winning you over with my—flashes teeth—trademark smile. I got through the shit thrown my way. I always do.

Mostly.

It all changes when you shoot a fucking cop and become public enemy number one. There was no time to focus on the vertigo, the bitterness. I just ran. Out of the city, I would no longer be his problem, his jurisdiction. He was tethered there, like the bitch he was. I was a free man. Say it enough times and you even delude yourself.

Just, had to lay low for a little while. Thought about changing my surname. Not my first name. Too damn complicated to remember. Plus it was one of the good things mum left me with before she fell off the end. One of my earliest memories is of her giving me a bath in some grungy motel tub as she explained to me why she chose my name. When everything around us was so decrepit and obviously broken, my mum kept me clean, kept me fed. Kept me smiling. Distracted. I couldn't keep running from the lie forever.

I'm this world's trash. No point in hiding that.

The world is a fucking nasty place—something I knew in the back of my head early on as mum kept up a brave smile, and she told me to laugh at it, not bow down. That lesson's stuck through more than all the others.

He will laugh. That's what Isaac means in Hebrew. If there was one thing you could guarantee, no matter how dire the situation, I'd find some reason to laugh my ass off.

Probably not the smartest move on my part telling Trevor's dad my name, but if I had any brains in this thick skull I wouldn't exactly be in this situation, would I?

Oh I suppose you're wondering. Yes, he's fine. More than fine. For a sickening second, in the space of a heartbeat, he lay back, still. I can't even begin to describe to you how that felt. Just picture falling, that sickening lurch, and scrap that entirely. You're still not close.

Then he gasped for air, and sat up, clutching as he leaked his life's essence into the carpet, leaving a dark stain that didn't seem quite real. I thought that kind of thing only happened in the movies. You don't... you don't shoot someone in real life. It just doesn't happen.

For that eternity between heartbeats, I felt in absolute control. I felt powerful. A fucking wild beast! It was disorientating, yet glorious. I had to quell it down. I was breathing way too heavily, or I forgot to breathe. I can't remember which. It doesn't matter. There was no time for inaction. He was alive. Trevor was already stumbling to his dad, weeping, pushing his hands against his old man's chest. You'd think our chances were over, yet I found myself wondering when was the best time to call him. When would things calm down? A few months? A year?