It was eerily cold as Blink walked down the sidewalk, treading over flattened newspapers and cigarette butts. Homeless people eyed him from the alleys and from storefronts. They knew him. Of course, they didn't know his name—stage or otherwise. They just knew him as that "blonde, junkie model boy" who spent his money from shoots on a syringe-full of smack. He touched the skin beneath his left eye, remembering that night when he first started and thought it was a smart idea to try to shoot up into his eye. Now he only saw half of a world. Maybe that was a good thing. Blink tucked his hands into his pockets and lowered his head in the cold. From what he had heard, David had had to be rushed to the hospital. Everyone was going down there. He wasn't. He needed time to think…or something.
"You look cold."
The voice startled Blink out of his reverie and he turned to see a silver car—real fancy—stopped next to him. The man poking his head out was one of those silver fox types. He was tanned with really white teeth and a great head of thick, white hair. Blink faked a smile. He hoped the guy wasn't confusing him with a callboy.
"I am," he replied.
"You look starved too. Do you want to something to eat? I have soup at my house."
The offer was brazen and uncalled for but Blink weighed his options. He could keep trudging up and down the sidewalks until he passed out from exhaustion on the street and was raped and murdered or try his chances with Silver Fox and maybe get a meal out of it. Besides, the guy was respectable-looking. Blink got in the car.
The guy's apartment was nice. It was a penthouse on Fifth Avenue filled with antiques and fancy art in mahogany from countries that Blink couldn't begin to start to try to pronounce, let alone spell. Blink had never been on Fifth Avenue and felt instantly inadequate the moment he stepped in.
"Rosie, my maid, is off for the night so I'll just go into the kitchen and make you some soup," the man smiled. "By the way, I'm Miles."
Blink smiled politely and took off his coat. He kept on the sweater he wore over his t-shirt. He didn't want Miles to see his track marks and kick him out, deeming a junkie like him unworthy of soup. He was about to mention something to start a conversation, when he noticed some non-fancy art on the walls. They looked like torn out sheets from magazines almost—all glossy and whatnot. Blink neared the wall and sucked in a deep breath. They pictures were of him. Mostly him and Mush, naked and bound together. Pressed up close and staring more at the camera than at each other. There were some of him only, stretched and languid-looking with his eyes looking dead and zombied out. Blink's body immediately tensed and he began to mentally kick himself.
"Are you surprised, Blink?" Miles stepped from the kitchen, soupless. "I've seen you. I see you every month. You've kept me warm on many a night."
"I, uh," Blink managed. "I thought…"
"What? That a rich gentleman was going to feed you and keep you warm and make you stop bruising up those pretty little arms? This isn't Pretty Woman," he grinned lasciviously. "Although you're certainly a step up from Julia Roberts."
He advanced towards Blink. Blink saw him go to the left and out of his line of sight. He was fast for an old guy. He felt the air get knocked out of him suddenly and he hit the couch, right under the pictures of himself and a frightening-looking, antique hook.
"You feel just how I thought," Miles purred.
"L-leave me alone!" Blink finally found his voice. "Get off of me!"
He saw a flash of metal and pictured a knife pressed to his throat. Pictured himself lying dead on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. This was how he was going to die. He was going to get killed by some pervert who got his kicks by looking at high-gloss pictures of him and jerking off.
The handcuffs were clicked onto his wrists and Miles flipped him over. With his arms above his head and clipped to the hook facing forward, his arms twisted painfully as he did so. Miles kept whispering into his ear as he did it too.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered hoarsely. "You feel so good in my arms. Almost like a kitten."
Blink kicked and screamed but it was no use. He was completely defenseless and had no use of his arms. He could only press his face into the leather of the couch and wait for it to be over.
Hours later, he was back on the street and back into the cold. His coat was up in the penthouse. He didn't want to go get it. He kept walking. This time, he went towards the hospital. It was strange, though. He had just been raped and yet he felt nothing. He thought that he should've felt fear or anxiety or a horrible, dirty feeling. But he didn't feel anything.
"What's wrong with me?" he called into the street.
All he got back was his own voice: what's wrong with me?
"You tell me!" Blink shouted back.
You tell me.
"Fuck you!"
Fuck you.
"Shut up, you drunk!" someone yelled in a hoity-toity voice from one of the fancy apartment buildings.
Blink lowered his head and kept walking. He rubbed his arm, aching for some junk. A needle-full would be all that he needed to get through the night. But he had to go to the hospital. But he needed the junk. But he had been raped. Funny, that was the least of his concerns. Blink pushed blonde hair from his eyes and kept walking. He had a long way to go to the hospital and a lot of time to think. He paused. He should've gone with the junk.