So, new story guys...

This is going to be really long, like seriously, It's not going to be any of my sort of 'six chapter' stuff I usually do. Also, this is probably the story I've put most though and work into- I can already tell this is probably going to be my favourite piece of work, so I will literally worship you like a God if you spend a minute just typing up a quick review.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the storyline, which is completely fictional.


The sky is sick. Apparently it's summer, but the grey vomit of rain oozing its way from the New Jersey backdrop is telling Frank otherwise. Not that Frank cares all too much.

The side walk doesn't tell him much different either- the cement is chipped and cracked, blistering like skin over-exposed to the harsh weather, chapped and crumbling and worn to death. The buildings are old, past their best. You can literally taste the pungent flavour of disease and crawling flesh from them. They scream for help. The scream for a cure, yet not a soul is willing to give it to them, so those rundown brick walls are left to decay and fester much like the people is inside.

This city is sick, and Frank fears he may be catching it too.

He happens to be sitting under a bus shelter- plastic and vandalised to the point of no return- that particular morning, not that it's particularly eventful. He finds himself under this exact same shelter most mornings in fact- to wait on the school bus- so it has become almost like a ritual, just another part of the daily routine. And that terrifies him. The idea that every day for God knows how long is going to be the exact same and he's just adjusting to it. His body is just taking in the illness of not caring and rotting like it is completely healthy.

He shuffles slightly on the metal bus shelter bench, ruffling his hood to give him better protection from the cold. The rain still continues to fall in the world around him- it's that really horrible type of rain. Y'know, the type of rain where it's just kind of raining, the type that's more or less just a blur on the horizon, a sort of smudge?. It isn't the heavy stuff. The good stuff. The stuff you can dance in. No one would dare dance here.

He looks at the others by his side- school kids mainly, with the occasional elder or young mum wearing a synthetic track suit and with a pram by her side. They're all the same as him- either heading for or had hit disaster.

Already he could hear the metallic chug of the bus heading towards the stop. He couldn't see it yet, but he knew it was coming, coming to take him away to another lifeless day of school, a day of slaving away at a classroom desk, of pretending to be interested in the square root of 'x', of faking smiles to the friends he supposedly cared about, of wishing every bloody second of his life away with the ticking of a clock hand. And then what would he do? He would go home, get changed, do his homework like the good student he was, have dinner with his family, maybe watch some television and then go to bed. Just like he did every single other day.

And then he would keep repeating this until one day he would maybe go to college to study a subject he probably wouldn't give two shits about. Then he would go find a job- a job that made good money yet bored him out of his skull. Something safe. And then would come the house- a nice one, preferably in a highly regarded area- and a partner- probably some girl who he may or may not love- and settle down with her, have a couple of kids, maybe get a dog, and then they would rot. They would sit together in their three bedroomed semi-detached house and rot their days away, surviving but not quite living. They would be respectable. They would mow their lawn and dress accordingly and have barbeques with the neighbours and attend meetings with the parents' council, but they would never really do anything. They would do what they had to do, not what they wanted to do, not what the needed to do. And before they knew it, they would be old and forgotten, sitting in their rocking chairs waiting for death to greet them, never really having done anything with their lives. Not anything significant, at least. Not anything that anyone would remember them for.

And he would die.

And no one would care.

As the bus began to come into view, Frank began to panic. There it was, his whole life planned out for him, step by step, second by second, and by stepping on that bus he was basically submitting to it. He didn't want to live a life without ambition, a life where he wouldn't mean anything or change anyone. He didn't want to lie on his death bed with a mile long list of things he wished he'd done or seen. He wanted to actually do something. He wanted to make some sort of impact, and the sickness of the city was simply holding him back.

So he ran.

He didn't really know where he was going- to be perfectly honest, he didn't really care- but he ran anyway, taking off and letting his feet carry him away from the bus shelter, away from the bus and away from the life it would inevitably take him to. He could feel the smack of the oxygen on the back of his throat as he ran; gagging him on the illness and sickness it carried. His thighs ached, his head span, but it didn't matter all too much to him. He just needed to get away from it all. The rational part of his brain was telling him to turn back, go home, return to safety, but it was drowned out by the ringing of the contaminated air slapping against his ear. He had no plan, no way to live, but that didn't matter too much- panic had taken over him, you see, provided him with a thirst to seek out and devour something, something that broke the cycle, something different, something free from illness, something pure.

A couple of blocks down the road, he takes his phone from his jacket pocket and drops it into a dust bin. He doesn't look back.


Night falls with a thick mist of uncertainty- the uncertainty of where he is, the uncertainty of how he got there and the uncertainty of where he is heading.

The hours seemed to pass within the blink of an eye. It was like the day of wandering around the streets of Newark, helplessly lost, simply hadn't happened. They were nothing but a myth. Time itself appeared to be a concept that had melted like butter and seeped away down the drain with the sheets of falling rain.

A droplet of water ran down the bridge of his nose, catching at the tip, hanging for a brief moment before plummeting down to his upper lip to trace the contours of his cheek and jawline before being wiped away by a woollen glove. Lost, he sat down on a nearby bench. He didn't know this part of the city- in fact, he hadn't known the part of the city he was in for a while now- but by the looks of it, it wasn't the sort of area he wanted to spend the night. It wasn't screaming danger- there were no gangs or sex shops or drug dealers within sight- but something about it just looked off. Something was just a little bit dodgy. Maybe it was the lighting, low lit and under budget, or maybe it was that it was eerily quiet for a Friday night, despite the fact there were several shops and bars lining the road.

But that bench would have to do. He lay down, pulled his hood up over his face as much as he could, tried to find the most comfortable position on the splintering wood and braced it. Right there at that very moment, he didn't care if he got fucking kidnapped or found by the police or caught pneumonia- he just wanted to sleep. He didn't care too much if he didn't wake up.

He wondered if his parents would miss him if he died out there that night. They had never really been the type to show much emotion, but would the loss of their only son be a different story? He guessed they would have to be upset, that they would have to cry and mourn and possibly even fall into a deep dark depression. That was the rules when you lost a child.

He wondered if they had sent the cops out looking for him yet. They may not have realised he was missing until only a few hours earlier, due to working late hours. Maybe they caused a commotion, screaming down the phone as they begged the police to find their 'sweetest little baby' or maybe they assumed he would just turn up before morning.

The sky was inky black, like looking deep into the eyes of a beast- the unblinking, unchanging abyss that only wanted to devour you whole. The sky devoured him that night, the starless shadowy mass taking him away from the terrifying thoughts of dying out there, all alone, of being completely lost, and more prominently, the fear of having to go back home.

The police cars, the helicopter search lights, the faces on milk cartons; they were what he feared most. It worried him slightly that they scared him more than death itself. That continuing his life scared him more than ending it. All he wanted to do was begin it again.

But how could he? He had no plan, nowhere to live, and nothing to eat… He didn't even have any goddamn money! Why he had run away in the first place bemused him completely. It was one of the stupidest, most ruthless and possibly most enthralling things he had ever done.

"Hey, are you okay over there?"

He was woken from his trance God only knows how many hours later, by a voice. It was high-pitched, wheezy, almost ugly amongst the smooth, silky silence of the night. Turning his body slightly in the direction of the voice, Frank pulled back his hood slightly to see who it belonged to.

"Are you alright?"

A figure lingers in the distance, a smudge of grey in the dreary street light. Frank can't see much, but the figure is slim, a halo of smoke smouldering around its face, shoulders draped in what appears to be a long, fur trimmed leather coat.

"Kid, what are you doing out here? You're going to catch your death!"

The figure comes closer yet until it is standing what could be less than a meter from the bench, bent over slightly at the hips to get a closer look at the half-dead teenager, cigarette dangling between its lips limply.

The figure is male- despite the soft, rather feminine features and the dress it is wearing- with long tendrils of sticky black hair falling over its face like a shroud. He once sported make up, but now it is smeared and worn, smudges of black eye shadow and liner coating his cheeks like fog, mixing with the yellowing smoke from the cigarette.

"I- I'm sleeping."

The man looks almost shocked by this discovery. Delicately, seamlessly, almost like it's rehearsed, he takes the cigarette from his lips and drops it to the ground like a leaf falling in the heart of October. He crushes out the remnants of the heat using his shoe- high heeled shoe- and Frank watches as the last sparks smoulder away in the damp.

"Sleeping? Out here is the street? Why are you doing that? You're going to get ill! Or God knows what else; you know what this area's like, right?"

Frank wonders why the man is still there, crowding round him, making a fuss out of him. He could have just moved on by now and continued with his life. But instead he decides to coo over him like he's a fucking baby making all of these obscene hand gestures like he's putting on a fucking speech.

"C'mon, you should go back home… You have a home to go back to, right?"

Frank bites his lip. He seriously wishes this guy would fuck off and just let him sleep.

"Fuck… What age are you? Did you- Did you get kicked out? No? Did you run away from home? Shit! You did, didn't you? Aw, c'mon, don't just sit there and look at me like that, please, speak to me honey, I want to help you…"

Frank sighs. He doesn't want to talk to this guy- by the looks of it he's some sort of prostitute and he really doesn't want to be mixing with him- but he guesses he's going to have to eventually.

"I'm sixteen…"

"Oh, good! That's a start! Here, you must be freezing, take my jacket…"

The mysterious stranger drags the leather coat off his own body and wraps it round Frank's. The sudden surge of heat is undeniably gorgeous and all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and snuggle into it, the soft curls of fur tickling at his skin. But he can't. He has to keep talking to this guy.

"Did you run away?"

Frank gives a solemn nod.

"Right, okay… Fuck! Right, I know that you probably know all about stranger danger and stuff, but seriously, I can't leave you out here, not with the weather like this and all the fucking trouble there is around here… Right, you can come home and stay with me for the night, we can get you warmed up, get you some clean clothes, I should have some stuff about your size… Then we'll get this all sorted out in the morning, okay? Please, just trust me sweetie, I just want to help you, honestly…"

Frank looks cautiously at the offer he has been presented with. For a start, he shouldn't trust the man- he could easily drug him and rape him and murder him- and he really doesn't want to have to make contact with anyone right now, he just wants to sleep, and then of course there is the worry that he might call the police and get taken home…

He really doesn't want to go home.

But then there's the promise of warmth. There's the promise of food and water and clean clothes and a proper bed to lie on. There's the promise of safety and shelter for even just one night. And that's an offer Frank can't refuse at that moment in time.

"Umm… Okay. If you say so."

The man's face lights up; fucking explodes into a shining beacon of joy. Everything about him- the way he dresses, his voice, his every action or hand gesture- is so goddamn extroverted, and Frank isn't one hundred per cent sure if this is going to intrigue him or just fucking irritating him as time goes by. He's betting more on irritation.

"That's great! Okay honey, c'mere… Right let's get you back to my flat, can't have you out in the cold like this for any longer, can we? We'll get everything sorted out in the morning, okay?"

Frank's face crumbles and the man pauses.

"You're not going to phone the cops, are you? You're not going to make me go back home, are you?"

The man sighs, wraps his arm around the boy's shoulders. Frank can feel the vibration of him shivering, shaking right through him, rattling his bones with his own convulsions. He must be freezing, Frank thinks, standing out there in nothing but a flimsy dress and stockings while he steals his coat.

"For now, let's rest. We can think about stressful things like that once we are both in a more suitable condition."

The man pulls him closer, the heat from his body soaking through the layers of clothing separating them, as they make their way down the street.