Summary: The bells were tolling, so beautiful. The house was dark, not possible. Something cold and metallic; protection, eh?
Pairing(s): As surprising as this can sound to those that know my stuff, none. Nope, no pairings this time.
Warning(s): Mentions prostitution, drug abuse and murder. Contains physical abuse and something that might be considered schizophrenia. Was supposed to contain non-con but Cross refused.
Rating: M
Inspiration: Mr. Jones by Counting Crows, Monster by Meg & Dia, Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy and Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven
Disclaimer: I do not own DGM or any of the songs used as inspiration and mood-setters.
A/N: You know, I've always wanted to start a story with "Birds were chirping." or something similar. It gives a certain satisfaction with its clichédness(if that even is a word). But moving along… (one more thing on the beginning though, I always crack up during the first three sentences.. -.-')
I love the English language. Why, you ask? Because of the confusion when one uses "uncle", it can mean father's brother or mother's brother, unlike in Finnish and Swedish for example (I can't be bothered to remember more languages), where they have two separate terms. I know which one I mean but you can only guess… I'll give you a hint though, everything's not quite as it seems, i.e. don't care what I imply; it might be misdirection in the end. ;) Emphasis on the might… *evillaugh*
You know, you shouldn't ever decide that you use a certain amount of space for some particular feeling in a story. Seriously, it only ends with that feeling spitting in your face and running away to get hitched with the next feeling before you're even halfway there to begin with…
I seriously have no idea how I ended up here with this though. I swear this started as a happy story. The idea, that is, was of a happy story and the only things I knew were: whore!Allen, Amsterdam & Cross seeking company and this sort of happy feeling that could've been romance if it weren't for Cross. I let that float around in my head for a while 'till it turned into words and then I noticed the whole idea had turned around on its head and became one of the darkest things I've ever written.
If you don't understand my reasoning behind the title, you can find it on wiki. I know it's a song, it means also something else.
I did actually notice how one sentence in there makes Allen seem ADD at the very least, but blaah, I don't wanna change it. I like it with its bit of mental instability :D
And one more thing, I have nothing against Amsterdam. I've been there and it's a lovely place. Lovely pancakes, too, even if I ended up being called Gdansk by the end of the trip. Don't ask; it has a somewhat long story behind it.
Okay, two more… I love my baby even when I think it's not what I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be darker and just something more but I couldn't get that and this, if nothing else, shows how I fail as a writer. This also makes me really anxious as to how people will react to this as it is quite far from what I usually write but, I suppose, there's nothing I can do anymore, so whatever and try to enjoy :)
(and my apologies for the awfully long A/N, it seems I needed to rant)
xxx
House of the Rising Sun
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Birds were chirping. The Sun was rising. People had been killed. Mind you, these were people that wouldn't be missed by anyone. Still, they were lives lost and their fate maybe even more awful than those who would be remembered. For who wanted to be totally forgotten?
There were things said about the city by those who knew nothing, priests, mothers, fathers, even the Pope himself. It was claimed the mouth of Hell, the home of Lucifer and the one to give birth to the sins of the world, the one place to turn sweet girls into dirty sluts and honest boys to criminals. Then there were those who knew better, the ones who lived in the town, the ones who had seen the underbelly of Amsterdam, had been there and knew the sweet girls were raped during their first night and the honest boys killed or blackmailed and threatened into working for someone they would never even know. Those were the ones that had hardened their soul and heart. Those were the ones whose only wish was to get away, maybe to London or Paris or, as silly as it sounded, even to Copenhagen. They were the ones who had learned that caring was not to be had in their home. But they were also the ones that no-one cared about anymore...
He was one of the few, too badly in need of cash, that actually sold his body, didn't just put it on display for those lowly deprived minds. And it wasn't like that was enough, no of course not; the money he earned went straight from his hands to his uncle's. His uncle was a man who liked his pleasures and he didn't like them cheap. So, of course, it was his fault, if the money wasn't enough to pay for whatever it was his uncle wanted this time, be it wine, women or live music. Or practically anything else that had anything at all to do with the higher echelons of the city and their parties that were more filled with politics and schemes than the actual House of Parliament was.
But. There were good times, too. There were the times when he could meet the few friends he had made and it was almost like the weight of the world wasn't on his shoulders and they were just like everyone else, laughing, talking and eating at diners by the canals of the city watching the swans float by like the royalty of birds. But...those times were few and far apart.
It wasn't really even a surprise to find his first client, if you could call them that, already there when he arrived. They loved his pure looks. The first ones were the hardest, each and every time. They reminded him of what he was, why he was doing it and whose fault it was in the end. Still he had a job to do and money to earn to indulge a drunken old man. A man that hadn't always been like that, a man that had learned the ways of the underworld and now was the master of them. He wiped his mind clear and smiled at the man in front of him. So young and nervous and fair-haired, he wondered what had driven him here. "This your first time, sir?"
He knew something was going to happen the minute he allowed rational thought back into his mind. Tonight had been awful and by the feel of it, it was only going to get worse. It was like a premonition, a feeling that he had learned to trust. It had saved his life on a few occasions. The night had been filled with the lowliest, dirtiest kind of men, and even a few women, those wanting to be raped, those wanting to rape someone, those wanting for him to call them daddy or sister or something else of a deranged nature he remembered a man that wanted to be called Pope and of course those who just wanted to fuck the beautiful, pure-looking boy so much like a virgin into the mattress.
He stayed at the brothel The Night's Pleasure it was called as long as he could, talking to some of the other workers and even some of their clients, the ones who were there only to watch and maybe touch just a little bit but a snapped comment from his employer had him out the door faster than you could say "Amsterdam's Red Light District". He sighed and began the treaded walk to his uncle's home. A place he couldn't and especially wouldn't call a home, not even if his life depended on it, like it had that one time.
He had always liked the city with its lights and canals and almost never-ending nightlife filled with laughter and talk. He smiled at the lovers cooing to each other, whispering sweet nothings to each other's ears. The giggles from the girls made his heart ache for that kind of purity. The shrieks of laughter from the few children still up at this hour he smiled a little at them when they ran past him made his heart break for the child that died so long ago. His soul had hardened in years long past and the child in him had been lost for eternity, he supposed. All because of one cruel woman and her antics coupled with a horse carriage.
The Dom's bells were tolling. They sounded so beautiful in the dark night air, like they carried a message of hope from Heaven and the angels laughter could almost be heard...or that's what he thought. He'd have to get moving, if he wanted to be home for his curfew or his uncle wouldn't give him enough food, again. The chimes reminded him of his mother but more of his father. His kind father who had only wanted the best for him but had died in an accident that involved a horse carriage and a Portuguese nobleman who had an odd fascination with butterflies for some strange reason.
The house was dark when he arrived and that raised the hairs in the back of his neck. It never was dark. There were always parties going on. It never was. The music was always heard on the streets. It never, ever was dark. The fake laughter of all of those women was the first thing that told him he was nearing his so-called home. He couldn't fathom a reason for this oddness. It meant he was in trouble. He was sure of it, even without any previous instances to convince him of the fact. It was a feeling, an instinct possibly, but it made him sure.
Inside it was even darker than it had seemed from the outside. Inside there was an atmosphere pushing on him, almost making him choke and gasp for air. Too tense, so very tense and without laughter, without music or talk, there wasn't anyone here, so unlike all the other times, all the balls and parties. But it was too tense for the house to be completely empty. There had to be someone inside, just had to be, be it a corpse or a person. He stumbled through the darkness, too afraid to even call out. Maybe it was a murderer, one of those monsters that killed for cash or opium.
Then a click. A flickering flame that went out almost as quickly as it was born. He stopped at the entrance to the sitting room trying to find the source of the noise. A breath inhaled then let out, smoke carried with it. Slowly, oh so slowly, he turned and saw the tell-tale signs of a cigarette being smoked in the corner. It wasn't the heat of the cigarette he feared, it wasn't the darkness shrouding the room that scared his heart into an endless dash, it was the man swirling wine (only that one bottle had cost two busy days worth) in a crystal glass (his father's it had been originally) sitting on a comfortable so fluffy and soft (only one time he'd had the permission to sit on it) armchair that gave him the urge to just turn around and flee and never turn back again.
He did the first part of what his instincts told him but then a cold voice stopped him.
"Where do you think you're going, brat?" It was a voice colder than ice, yet burning with some inner fire. It was a voice reminiscent of his mother's before she had burned his whole arm with buckets of scalding hot water. That had been when he was five and didn't know to run away when his mother got that certain glint in her eyes.
He forced a smile to his lips before answering. "I just remembered I forgot something at Night, sir, and thought I'd go get it before it would be a bother to anyone." He was praying to the almighty Lord above that the man would believe him.
A sinister laugh escaped the man. "You can't lie to me, Allen; I taught you everything you know about deceiving people."
He wetted his suddenly dry lips. He was trembling. If I could just get to the door, then I could run. If I'll get away, I'll find help.
The man rose from the chair and started walking towards him. He could only stand there, rooted to the spot by his fear and something the man called training. The slap resounded in the silence.
"I'll repeat and this time, don't try and lie to me. Where were you going?" The fire was there. He knew he'd see sanity flowing or was it running away from the man's eyes, if they'd be visible.
"Out." and it wasn't even a lie, just the truth twisted a bit to fit his needs.
"Out?" a cocked eyebrow, a smirk and smoke blown out.
"Yes, sir." he kept telling himself, if he just was polite enough, if he was just submissive enough, then maybe, just maybe the man would leave him be.
"And then what, brat! Run away so you can whore yourself to your heart's delight and laugh at the thought of your poor uncle withering away in some ditch by the road, eh?"
The man was delusional. It pained him so deeply to admit it but at the moment Cross was so much like his mother had been during her last years. It tore him apart and maybe it was fear for himself, maybe pity for the man but he just couldn't bear to see it happen again.
So, he did the biggest mistake he could. He turned and started running for the door. And the cackling, the cackling that was meant to be heard from inside the walls of an asylum, not a home, and the cackling was awful and what spurred him into running faster but the door was so far away. How had he gotten so far into the house already?
This wasn't good, though. He didn't even want to know what his uncle would come up with when even his mother, who really wasn't that imaginative of a woman (may her soul rot in Hell) had thought of so many things to torture him with. His uncle had told him a new bedtime story every night, had always come up with a new way to make him believe the boogieman wasn't real and that his mother wasn't going to hurt him anymore. His kind, laidback uncle had laughed with him and held him until the tears stopped and everyone had left the grave. His uncle had given him gifts, everything from books to toys and that one time he'd even gotten a real silver crucifix to wear around his neck. Protection from God, if anyone needs it, you do, kid. It was so awful to hear that laughter, it was so horrible to think what the man would do to him but most of all it was terrible to think that the kind man he'd known had been destroyed by the death of his father.
"Well, how much did you get this time?" He was left gaping. His uncle just did an almost 180 in his mood, and well, sanity as well. This was a man he could deal with instead of the monster he'd been facing only moments before.
"A bit more than usual, sir." his voice wasn't trembling he assured himself; he just wasn't sure what had happened and that was making it a bit more difficult than usual to catch onto what the man was saying. Yes, that was it.
"Well, hand it over then." Cross was an impatient man, he should've never taken that time to mentally sigh in relief.
He was sure there was a reason for the emptiness of the house, so he (damn, his curiosity, damn it to hell) just had to ask. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking, why isn't anyone here?" It never hurt to be polite with his uncle.
He knew he shouldn't have asked that when the man stopped counting the bills. He swore he could see fire sparking in his uncle's eyes despite the lack of lighting. He could do nothing but gulp.
But it really wasn't his fault that they always ran out of money!
He wasn't sure... A punch to his already stinging cheek.
what happened… There was something cold about it.
He had to get up! An almost maniacal laugh: "Where are you running to, little sheep?"
Hadn't expected this from Cross… He was running, right?
Maybe from Leverrier or even Link. Something hard hit him.
Blood relatives of his mother's they were. "Can't find an escape, can you?"
Never from Cross, not from his laidback uncle. He stumbled from the force and fell in the darkness.
This wasn't supposed to…his father had…but it wasn't like it, was it? The hard wood forced all air from his lungs.
He had thought that maybe…just maybe… The steps were ominous, echoing in his lightless surroundings
Just someone to love him. A kick to the ribs.
Someone to love. Being pulled up by his collar.
A scream from the depths of his soul, LOVE ME! A backhand so powerful it threw blood across the glass.
and that was the irony, right? He was in the sitting room again.
What goes around comes around…
No-one cared. He knew. They heard but didn't do anything. Too scared, maybe. Too indifferent, probably. There was blood on the windows, he was sure. No-one saw it, no-one wanted to. This town killed people. This town he loved killed people, made them into shells of their former glory and no-one was safe from it. No-one had the strength. No-one would remember. In a few weeks he would be just a statistic, maybe an urban legend, not even news-worthy, the boy killed by his uncle. The uncle in question maybe in prison, most likely not. Too influential, too powerful, too much in debt to too many interested parties to be any good to anyone dead.
He shouldn't care anymore, not when there was blissful unconsciousness around the corner. His fingers curled around something cold and metallic… Protection, wasn't it?
xxx
A/N: To those wondering, I'm not sure either, if Allen died or not. Maybe help arrived in time, maybe it didn't. Maybe Cross grew (emphasis on the "grew") a conscience and took Allen to a hospital. Maybe someone got the balls to knock on the door. Maybe someone gathered the courage to call a police or something. Most likely not, humans are cowards after all.
You'll never know and I'll never know and everyone should be happy with that. I'm not going to poke in that part of my brain for some time; I need a vacation from it, nervous breakdown around the corner or something.
So, yes, I'm leaving you hanging like a five-days-old body at the gallows. Hmm, my apologies for the darker than bleak metaphor, I've been reading Neil Gaiman and writing this story on a daily basis, go figure what that does to a person's mental health...
(pst, there might be an epilogueish thingy coming. MUCH emphasis on the "might" Thank you ^^)