A well-dressed business man running away from a small corner was a foolish scene, but I absolutely refused to go within a mile of that boy. I strayed like that quarter of the city was the plague. I traveled the long way around the streets, even if I was a minute or two late, and when walking home I preferred to get mugged than catch a glance of that boy. No more of the doorman having to see me run home, but the quarries of curiosity in his eyes followed my back as I stepped into the lift. I guessed the constancy of looking-back-for-any-attacks wasn't as inconspicuous as I thought.

Months had turned into a year and a half, and I was happy, but Dutchess wasn't as she appeared in my dreams again.

Her frown marred deep into her wrinkly skin, "I held you when the mud coated you like a dense blanket," The words were slow and carefully enounced, "Repay the favor."

She haunted me, and I couldn't shake her, not that I ever wanted her gone. Those same words, carrying the burden that they always issued on me, caught me and strangled the will from my spirit.

The days blurred together with attempt after attempt to at least get a street closer. The aurora of death spilling from that alley crawled on the pavement and restricted me from moving. I stood there, frozen. The echo of slurping and grinding sent volts of electricity down my spine, and shattered my bones to dust and I prayed to God for the poor soul that became his next victim.

"I have to go," I chanted, "I have to…"

The light trickle of rain beat softly against the glass of my common room windows, and the air felt moist and dense. I really didn't find the reason why I had to; the idea itself was asking for a heart attack. His tainted appearance, I let get close to me and his filth stuck to me like leeches. My mind wandered to how the boy could've survived in weather conditions like the rain and snow, without a home.

Again, a strike of insanity hit me and I grabbed my coat and umbrella from the threshold, and jogged down the street. The path was painfully familiar and I scolded and hated myself for leaving the warmth of my very expensive apartment to come running for a boy. A dirty, animalistic boy.

But then I stopped, my shoes making wet sounds on the damp ground, and I turned on my heels. I had absolutely no reason why I should even be outside. Reason flooded my mind; I had taken the reoccurrence of a lost love in my dreams too seriously, and I simply acted on impulse. That stuck to me, and it became my bible.

Then, after that night of a taunt revelation, I walked past that alley every day. I glared at the hunched over form, and a few walking pedestrians looked on with approval. I fit in; no more of the supernatural behavior and letting me get carried away with childish beliefs. Dutchess continued to frown, but who needed sleep? I ran on the fuel of the economy, the money, the business, and the industrial growth.

I walked to and from home and work in comfort, and walked with pride in my steps. What was I proud of? I had no clue myself, but I walked with an apple in hand from the closest market, and lazily tossed it. Just as in myself, I was proud of this apple. Out of its siblings, it was the reddest, fattest, and most juicy looking fruit that could have ever fallen off of a tree. I thought Adam and Eve would have been jealous themselves.

The sun was out and children played in the streets, and women and men alike smiled and greeted each other with jubilance radiating off of them—more like oozing through their pores. I took a big bite through the fruit and nearly moaned at the crunchy deliciousness dancing on my taste buds.

To my left, as I was passing the- you know what- alley, and something stopped me in my tracks, once again. I looked over, and never in my thirty-five years of living on this planet build on cruelties, had I once cried of pity. This boy, this very poor boy, was huddled in on himself and crying trails that washed away some of the grime on his cheeks. The welts on his back and the purple patches of his skin blended with the frost burning red painted on him.

A grown man; a police offer; a man of the law; paid to do good in this society of crime, was bringing his police stick up, high into the air, and pounding it down onto the poor soul's back. Profanities were tossed and throw at him, and the whimpers and cries were ignored by the bystanders, the onlookers, and my jaw hung agape.

I lunged forward and grabbed the officer's arm, "Stop it!" I shouted.

"Huh," I was easily shooed from his arm and this very large man towered (glowered) over me, "Move along, sir," He tasted it like acid, "This has no business with you."

"A-Actually," I cursed myself for stuttering, "t-this boy b-belongs to me."

That moment instantly froze in my mind, and I felt a migraine tear apart my membrane, piece from slimy piece. Everyone watching, even the boy, looked at me like I had just grown a set of extra limbs and started screaming in tongues. But no time for stumbling over my own feet, I had to act fast. I was a businessman, and we are brought up to know how to sell our advances.

The officer looked back and then at me, "This filthy thing?"

Good lord up in heaven and any other beings looking down at my pathetic self, I beg of you, knock some sense into me.

I started, and I was hot on my own heels, "The dirt and mud is from being free! Let the boy be free!"

"He was defiling a corpse!"

Somehow, that did not surprise me.

"Do not insult his ignorance, he does not know better. A tragic accident left him useless and a retard; can you not have any pity for his mother?"

I was shocked by my own words. My nerves were numb and I stumbled to strip off my coat and drape it over the boy's shoulders. For once, and I was thinking it would be the first and only, I was grateful for his shrill screams and useless struggles. People parted like a wave to let us through and slowly, but with the hardest glare I could muster, I escorted both of us away from the crowd and through the throng of the city. I left the man and the crowd standing there with open mouths and shock slapped onto their faces.

He stumbled painfully and clung to my arm with sharp nails (claws), and I felt my heart weep at his whimpers. I was then thankful for my doorman for being nosy, and he helped me up to my apartment. Though, the boy did not know my doorman and sensed the need to kick him where it truly hurts for any man. After several apologies, he left with the excuse that my baby cousin got into a bad play accident, and I was left with a big problem on my hands. I had no clue on what to do next with a wild, bleeding boy.

Gently, with soft feather fingers, I lay him on my rug and cringed when I saw the dirt stains smothering on my floor, but those were selfish thoughts.

"Bath," I muttered.

His wounds were leaking onto my floor and I quickly filled the tub with water, warm but not too hot. I rushed to raise him in my arms, with as much care as I could muster, and lowered him into the water. He jolted upwards and grabbed my throat and flung himself out of the water, and the wails and screaming from the contact of the water on the wounds echoed and ricocheted through the entire building.

Just from that slight contact, his arms went wild and misfired with a hard slap to my cheek and I could feel the blood drip onto my chin. The large gulps of air he swallowed choked him and I searched for his eyes. They were running all over the place, making me dizzy, and I finally got him to maintain eye contact. His blue eyes met mine.

"I promise you," I whispered, "everything's alright. I won't hurt you."

I was unsure if he understood, but his screams deflated to whimpering through his bared teeth and digging his nails into my skin, which easily broke under his raw might. Everything softened into a calm atmosphere and the first thing that popped into my mind:

Clean the Wounds

Digging through the dirt to get to skin was harder than I had imagined, and he hated me with his eyes as I left his skin red and raw. He refused with all of his might to get in the tub, so I settled for hand washing him with a rag and dipping it in the soapy water. My floor was sopping wet and I had no choice but to rinse him off by dumping water on him. I poured soap on his head and rolled up my sleeves to plow through the bugs and whatever gobble-de-gook built up over the years. After all the back breaking and excessive elbow greasing applying, my bath tub was a swamp. I drained it and gagged at the ruined marble.

Now, the boy sat on a towel in my common room, with my pajama pants on, and his raw back exposed to the crisp night air. I quickly dressed his wounds with the bandages I kept in the kitchen, and I smoothed them over with the palm of my hand. I was generous with the wraps and I continuously slapped away the hands that reached up to tear them away. At least, it was just one hand that clawed at the skin. Something occupied the clutches of his right one, and he held it to his chest like a mother gorilla would carry her baby. Very intimate, very protective and a very clever way to peak someone's curiosity.

I was stationed near my window with the evening glowing in to shed scarlet rays on my furniture and shape out the form on the boy staring up at me. My eyes switched from him to his hand and he hugged his hand closer to his chest. I finally took the courage to crawl down to his level and search through the curtain of over-grown hair to hold him still while I reached up and touched his hand.

In significance, he slowly unfolded his fingers and I broke our eye contact to trail my eyes down to his hand in mine. There, lying blood encrusted and as beautiful as ever . . . was the spoon.

It took my breath away. There was no way of describing for anyone to truly understand, but when he looked at me and gripped at the handle, I could swear he spoke with his eyes. He told me that spoon was precious to him. Even through the harsh times, he kept it throughout the years I had ignored him. I felt something swell in my heart and thicken my throat, and I found myself choking to hold back tears.

The scar on his eye, the bruises on his back, and the malnourished stomach; I had the power to help it all.

Dutchess rang in my ears, "Life is ugly."

I saw myself in this boy, and felt like I was Dutchess.

"Life is ugly, and it bore the people that took you away from your real mother," I could remember her sitting me down, and the tattered blanket barely keeping my hands warm, "but you should never wish to stop living."

For Dutchess, I would do anything. And throughout all of this, and my stubbornness, she knew what was right and I chose the path of ignorance. The feelings overwhelmed and overflowed through my eyes, and I bowed my head forward and touched my forehead to the rug. Little droplets pebbled and gently dampened the color, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. I felt like I really needed a hug.

What was I doing with this unknown boy in my home? Why was I crying in front of him? Why is he holding the last possession of my mother?

My face met the carpet and my chest and legs followed. I let the darkness consume me. Slowly, my vision faded and blurred with the stinging tears, and I fell deep into the recesses of my subconscious.

Down. Below me. Wet eyes. Sun. Sun? Sun strings? No, they were not strings. Strands. Strands of sun above his eyes. Sit high and peaked. It was dark, but I was warm. He (maybe it was?) shook like leaves. Look around, find something. Warm.

Deep. Deeper. Further down the dark alley with weird things sticking out of the walls. Careful. I sniffed and he was everywhere. It was strong. A vast squishy- uh- thing had his scent soaked in. I poked it and jumped back- you could never be too careful. I reached out- squishy, indeed. It itched me. Pulled it, to the floor with him curled like a baby. I puffed and covered him with the dry squishy, and breathed when he grabbed it in fistfuls and coiled tightly like the itchy things he was wearing. Like the things he made me wear.

The lines in his head disappeared. I thought, that was good. He didn't look in pain anymore.

I woke up, but did not open my eyes. There was no source of light burning on my lids and in less than five minutes I was very aware of my surroundings. The delusional thoughts swam and knocked my train of thoughts back and forth, and slowly my nerves sting and roll from my fingers to my toes. I felt something weigh on my chest and my legs, but my arms were tucked under me. I must have rolled in my sleep.

This wasn't my bed I was waking up on; it was too stiff. And a scent of . . . I couldn't name it. Something sour and heavy in the air. It wafted around and struck hard in intervals, but I could not name it. To find the source, I finally decided to open my eyes. I was met with black, black, and more darkness. My eyes fuzzed and crinkled at the edges and I swore I saw some sparks of green and red. I was really hallucinating. How long had I been sleeping?

My eyes were heavy, my arms were heavy, my fingers were heavy, and my neck was like stone. But I instantly was on two feet when I saw a shadow moving at an abnormal speed from the corner of my eye. My eyes washed over and flipped to the back of my head; I stood too fast. I half-fell half-tipped to the nearest wall and smacked my entire torso onto the cool surface, and repelled the want to pound my fist against it. Whatever what was in my apartment, it already was aware of me.

What of the boy?

He was more than likely long gone; eaten or escaped. I did not mind both at the current situation for my head was a frenzy of thoughts and efforts to correct its own self.

My legs had gotten tangled in the thick cotton blanket that was supposed to be at the foot of my bed, but it had found its way on top of me during my sleep. I quickly unwrapped myself and picked up two corners of the blanket. A wild and crazy idea popped into my head: maybe I could catch the thing and then report it. But what if it was a wild animal? Carnivorous, at that.

My assumptions ceased when I heard a crash of probably one of my pots falling to the ground, and then a whole chorus of then following it. A loud and wild snarl with a background whine drawled out to make it sound like a dissatisfied cat. A very large cat. I tipped my head and focused so much it hurt my temples, but I saw something pace back and forth and reach to grab something. It brought whatever it grabbed above its head and slammed it hard onto my tile with a resounding crack!

Just then, at the moment of life or death, my phone rang.

The fashionable device vibrated on its receiver and I shaped out the ten holes in the round dialer, and the crisp ringing sliced through the air like it was a sharp sword through melted butter.

"Son of a bitch," I curse-whispered.

The ringing ceased and, with all the might I could muster, I looked in the pitch dark crevice of my kitchen and nearly gasped and cried when I saw eyes directed at me. Blue eyes. Before I could call anything out, the shadow boasted on its rear legs and bolted across my common room rug faster than I could count. 1, 2 . . . 3!

I brought the edge of the blanket up to my nose and lurched forward with my toes on the bottom edges and felt something hit my stomach. I choked on my saliva and coughed maniacally while keeling over and completely trapping the beast in the fabric. Hissing and spitting- sounding like an alley cat- struggled and beat against the cotton and many of the blows landed either on my gut or my jaw, and I struggled, myself, with keeping any escapes impeccably in vain.

"Stop," I grunted, "struggling."

At the sound of my voice, any and all movements lowered and soon ceased to the occasional but rare soft jab to my chest. When I had determined that it was tired of being suffocated, I slowly eased and unwrapped the thing from the hot cotton and gasped.

It was the boy.

He huffed and pawed at his own nose and I saw his chest rise and fall heavily. I was left sitting there with my eyes the size of saucers and looking down at him in the blanket in my lap. But, as soon as he could retain enough oxygen to function, he bucked his head forward and I hollered and howled in scrutinizing pain.

Payback, nonetheless, is a bitch.