warnings: underage prostitution, implication and discussion of rape, and mentions of blood
Chapter 25: Wolfgang & Kala
In which Kala comforts Wolfgang
Wolfgang is a good whore.
He's good at catching the gaze of potential clients, good at standing out in a crowd. He's got pretty eyes and pretty lips and pretty blond hair, and he can pass for eighteen as easily as fifteen, depending on what one prefers.
He's good at not complaining. He can handle being called a bitch, being slapped around and shown who's boss. He never cries, never flinches, doesn't much care what you say to him as long as you pay him when you're done.
Not that he doesn't have rules, because he does: No kissing, no anal, no blowjobs without a condom. But clients mostly go along with them. And if they don't, he's good at making excuses and slipping away, or fighting them off, if it comes to that.
Besides, he's got a sixth sense for the bad ones, and usually manages to avoid them entirely. He's been doing this for years, after all.
But even good whores can have bad nights.
Even good whores can make mistakes, say yes to guys who set their teeth on edge.
Even good whores are sometimes left crumpled behind boarded-up buildings, pants around their ankles and bleeding from their asses.
Even Wolfgang.
o - o - o
He lies there in a heap for a while. Then, shakily, he stands up and pulls up his pants and begins to make his way to the church.
It's dark out, probably around midnight, and the late-July air is warm but Wolfgang just feels cold.
He picks the church's lock with shaking hands, dropping the bobby pin at least twice in the process, then pushes open the door as quietly as he can.
Everyone's asleep. Limping, he heads for the back of the church, maneuvering around the others' sleeping bags, and lowers himself onto the mattress.
He tries to ignore the smarting pain in his asshole, tries to focus on other things instead: how cold his fingers are, how sharply the springs of the mattress dig into his shoulders, how fast his heart is beating in his chest.
His breath catches in his throat, and somehow, he knows that he's supposed to be crying right now. Hell, he wants to be crying right now.
He sits up and presses on his eyes, hard, till all he can see are swirling yellow splotches. No tears come.
"Wolfgang?" A whisper, hesitant and confused. It's Kala.
Wolfgang freezes.
"Is that you?"
"Yes," he grunts.
"Are you alright?" comes Kala's whispered reply. "Why are you back here already?"
"I'm fine," hisses Wolfgang. "Wasn't feeling well." He lies back down.
"You mean you feel sick?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." There's a pause.
"I'm fine," Wolfgang repeats. "Just gonna get some rest and I'm sure I'll be good as new tomorrow."
"Alright. I— I hope you feel better," Kala says. She doesn't sound entirely convinced, but she shifts in her sleeping bag and her breathing evens out and soon Wolfgang is pretty sure she's asleep.
He waits for a few more minutes. Then he grabs his blanket, stands up, and limps to the corner of the church.
o - o - o
It's colder in the corner, and darker, and the ground is even less comfortable than the mattress, but Wolfgang finds that he can breathe easier here, alone, away from the others. He curls up as tightly as he can, his face tucked into his knees, his hands between his thighs. It's summer, he thinks. He shouldn't be this fucking cold.
"Hey."
Kala's voice comes to him like something from a dream.
He doesn't answer.
There was a community pool he used to go to with his mom sometimes. He wishes he could go there now, longs to be back in the water, to float in it. Maybe drown in it.
"Wolfgang," Kala whispers, "you aren't really sick, are you?"
"Yes I am," he snaps.
"You're not very good at lying," Kala says sympathetically as she sits down at his feet. "What's wrong? You can tell me."
Wolfgang snorts.
"Are you injured?" she prompts.
"No."
"Did something happen?"
"No."
"Alright," says Kala. Then, more quietly, "Do you want me to leave?" she asks.
Wolfgang pulls the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Swallows. "No," he mumbles finally. "You can stay."
So she does.
Silence falls, and it's Wolfgang who breaks it. "Why are people so bad at dealing with shit?" he asks grimly.
"I'm... not sure I know what you mean," says Kala.
"I mean how people react to things in the most useless fucking ways. Like freezing up."
"What, when they're scared?" asks Kala.
Wolfgang makes a noncommittal noise.
"That's not useless, though," Kala says. "It's instinctual. It's an acute stress response; fight, flight, or freeze."
"Fighting is much better," mutters Wolfgang. "Why would anyone freeze when they could just fight?"
"Sometimes fighting isn't an option," Kala says matter-of-factly. "Imagine that you're an animal, faced with a much bigger, faster animal. Neither fighting nor fleeing would be a viable choice. All you can do is freeze. For example, you might play dead."
"What if you're a whore and you agree to give some guy a blowjob, but then before you can react he's shoving you to the ground and sticking his dick up your ass?" Wolfgang asks sardonically, only half aware of what he's saying. "And instead of fighting him off or getting away you just freeze like a little fucking bitch."
The silence that follows is painfully, agonizingly long. Wolfgang curls up tighter. He feels like he's suffocating.
"Wolfgang," Kala whispers at last, "did that happen to you? Tonight?"
"Something like that, maybe," mumbles Wolfgang. "It's fine."
"Wolfgang, no, that's terrible. That's horrific. That's— I don't even know what to say."
"Don't say anything," Wolfgang mutters. "I told you, it's fine."
But Kala presses on. "Are you in pain? Are you bleeding?"
"What, from my asshole? Yeah, I'm pretty sure," he says ruefully. "Hurts like fuck."
"Wolfgang," breathes Kala, audibly on the verge of tears, and he's glad that it's dark, so he can't see whatever expression of pity or horror is no doubt on her face.
He doesn't want her to cry. Certainly not for his sake. "I'll be alright, okay?" he tells her. "I'll take a few days off. Go to a clinic tomorrow to get tested and shit."
If anything, this seems to make her more upset. "This has happened before, hasn't it?" she infers, sounding horrified.
"Once or twice," says Wolfgang tiredly. He closes his eyes and holds his breath, tries to imagine he's under water. Under water, where nothing hurts and reality is just a muffled hum in his ears.
But then Kala places her hand on his calf, and he's back on the floor of the church. "If you want to talk about it, I'm right here," she says. "Or if you don't. I'm still here."
Wolfgang doesn't respond right away. Part of him wishes he'd never told her anything. Because there's something about Kala that makes him want to be better than he is. And getting assaulted in some back alley while whoring himself out is not better.
"He paid me," he says finally. "So it's not like it was rape or something."
And suddenly Kala is crying.
"Shit, Kala." Wolfgang scrambles to sit up, which is painful as hell, but fuck it. He puts his hand on her shoulder. "Kala, please don't cry."
"I'm sorry," Kala sniffles, drawing a ragged breath.
And then, before he knows what's happening, she's got her arms around him, her tear-streaked cheek pressed against his.
He sits there stiffly for a moment. Then he melts into her.
"You're safe now," Kala whispers against his shoulder, holding him tightly.
And Wolfgang doesn't feel safe, can't remember the last time he felt safe.
But here in Kala's arms he feels better, at least.
And that's something.