Matt threw himself down onto the stiff plastic mattress, ignoring the pain that traveled up his back. The marks the Director left still needed time to heal, but Matt didn't care. This was practically routine after all.
Instead the ginger haired boy leaned over and dug around under the bed for his last pack of cigarettes. If one of the nurses caught him he'd receive more than just a few blows, but it seemed worth it; the relief the nicotine brought to his tired muscles seemed more than worth the risk.
Matt watched through orange-tinted eyes as the smoke curled up towards the dank and sinking celiling. If only he could turn into smoke; maybe he'd stand a chance of getting out of this dump. But only one person had ever made it out, and that boy was long gone by now.
Yes, his old roommate, a particularly stubborn boy named Mello, had made an escape worthy of the papers a few months back. Matt still felt a hint of betrayl every time the fiery blonde crossed his mind, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. If Mello had tried to take him with, they both would've been caught.
Still, Matt thought, with a smoke-filled sigh, this asylum was evil. But what could he do? He was only one boy, one sick, crazy boy, as the Director constantly reminded him. What could he possibly do? His fate was out of his hands.
He wasn't like Mello. Mello was a force to be reckoned with. Anything that boy put his mind to, he could accomplish. Mello was special. Matt was just…just Matt. Useless, unwanted, Matt.
Back on the street, Mello was getting ready to meet his latest client. It was raining as he trudged toward the usual club, and his leather pants were clinging to his skinny frame. He suppressed a shiver as he opened the door, the cool club air engulfing him. He had to keep his head tonight. His next meal depended on this.
The music blared around him, but he hardly noticed. He had already gone to the safe place within himself. It was his last defense from what he was about to do. He found his client at the bar, already half drunk. Mello hoped to a god he no longer believed in that he wasn't a mean drunk. He still had scars from his last bad experience…
With a curt nod, he lead the middle-aged man to the back room reserved for this purpose, for sins this unforgivable. The cross his mother had given him, the only thing she had ever given him, felt hot against his chest as if it were burning a hole through him. Maybe it was. Maybe that was his punishment. Still, he refused to take it off.
Mello shed his clothes slowly, his attention on his client. He had to be good or he wouldn't be paid. Mello pleased the man as best he could, but in the end he was left on a dirty mattress, with dirty money, feeling tainted.