"Thinking"
"Speaking"
Doing/Narrative
I had just been raped for the first time when I was fifteen years old. I had been on the street for five years. When he finished someone walked into the alleyway and shot him. Then they threw a trench coat over my bare body, where I was curled on the ground, crying. They told me if I wanted help protecting myself that they would help me learn, so I looked up at him - because what girl wears military boots? - and found myself staring at a girl with all black on, with a gun in hand.
" Well are you going to help yourself or stay there crying like a child?" She snapped, in answer I got off the ground holding the coat close to myself, to help cover the fact that I was a boy.
"My name to you is Sir Hellsing, got it?" She asked. I nodded. "Do you not know how to give a verbal answer?" She asked. I shook my head. She sighed.
I look down, ashamed and disappointed that I couldn't answer her properly. I would have loved to be able to speak again, however I was ashamed to admit that my father, a doctor, had cut my vocal cords in my sleep when I was six years old, he said I cried to much. He was an alcoholic who was not all that good when he was drunk. He hated me to put it lightly, said I was the reason mom had died (despite the fact that he killed her in a drunken rage and had spent a ton of money to stay out of jail). He had left me here in London when he went to a conference on the job.
When I looked up, thrown out of my reverie by Sir Hellsing clearing her throat, I was thrown for a loop when I saw a guard look-a-like staring at me, he bends down and says something in her ear, which makes her grin for a moment then frown. Her gaze turns to me with a slight glare.
"When were you going to tell me you were a boy?" She asks it calmly but I can tell she's mad. I try and say something to defend myself but I forget about the scar tissue that sometimes opens when I try and speak. And I blood gushes out of my mouth with a garbled word, immediately the man is there, hushing my cries and glaring at her, while trying to get me to close my mouth - which I do, grudgingly.
"You didn't tell me he was hurt!" The man growls - like a werewolf or vampire or something. He starts to search me with his hands - he is much more gentle than anyone who I've ever seen on the street. When he gets to my bottom I start to whimper, not knowing it only made him more determined to see what was wrong. He gently starts to rock me as he gently slides a hand down my back to my entrance that still has dried blood around it, and is still leaking blood and semen. I cry out in pain and fear as he gently pushes a finger inside of my entrance. He dries my tears as he coos to me, continues rocking me and softly starts to sing a lullaby. I fall asleep slowly but surely, gripping the lapels of his trench coat in my small hands.