LadyOfThieves – Wah, no chocolate fountain! Yes, you don't make sense a lot of the time, that's true, but you did that time. Remarkable! I love the ending for that chapter, I just wanted to hug Mike when I wrote that…yes, I know he's only a character, but let me dream? English essays suck…mine are always atrocious. I forget to quote most of the time, so my teacher writes in red pen 'have you actually read the text? Prove it!' Stupid bat…anyway, thanks for reviewing, and see you on the 17th (hopefully).
scarstar – Thanks for those prompts! I've already got some ideas for both of those prompts…watch this space! Yeah, this will be going for a while. I'd like to do a hundred, but I'd rather do ten good ones than a hundred mediocre ones, so I'll see how it goes. I'm so glad that you liked the chapters, I don't know why, but I really felt like I got Scott down in the first one in a way that I don't think I've managed before. Yay indeed for keeping this category alive – for some reason, I think this is my favourite category to write for, even though I don't get as many reviews as for something like Memento Mori. Oh well, quality not quantity, as you said! And I love hearing from MOPI fans…it proves that they have good taste and a certain liking for the surreal, which is good if you ever have to read my writing! Thanks for reviewing!
Warning; this chapter is utterly surreal. Seriously. More so than usual. I don't quite know where this came from, but I was listening to a lot of Brand New, and then it really was raining outside, so this chapter was always going to be manic depressive, but it turned out kinda bizarre. It's done from a random third person, but from the perspective of a random hustler. I hope it makes sense. I just wanted to experiment, and try to discover some of the darkness of the street life and the world of MOPI. If it doesn't work, tell me, and I'll edit it.
Random note – I saw Running On Empty (has anyone seen it?), the River Phoenix film for which he was nominated for an Oscar, and I totally adored it. If I could get a category added, would anyone review my fic?
Oh, I totally forgot to say, the title of this whole fic, Writing on the Wall, is from a song by Rage Against the Machine, in which some of the lyrics are 'read my writing on the wall, no-one's there to catch me as I fall'. Or something to that effect. Anyway, they seemed like good MOPI lyrics.
Chapter III: Rain
Concrete and water,
She's looking for her daughter,
At midnight in torrential downpour…
Brand New – Jaws Theme Swimming
The rain, the pathetic rain, kept on falling.
They sheltered out beneath the bridge. It was dark, but the outside world was curiously lit by street lighting, and the stark lights cast strange shadows on the water dripping from the edge of the bridge. The occasional car went past, roaring like thunder over the bridge, but for the most part, it was quiet. The cars didn't bother him as much as those who were walking. No-one was out walking in this sort of weather unless they had some form of agenda. They either came to take one of them by the hand or by the collar, and lead them out from under the bridge's strange comfort, or they came looking for a victim. Either way, they would select their sacrifice, and they would be led off into the night. Like a lamb to the slaughter. A scapegoat for sins. The street boys were at the bottom of society, no-one cared what would happen to them. Whenever he slept, under piles of newspaper, he never read it. He knew that somewhere between the cheap sheets he'll find a murder of someone like him. News several weeks old. He probably knew about it before the reporters did. Stuff like that travels fast among the sewers.
He took a drag on the cigarette, but the breath sticks in his throat as he hears footsteps overhead. They sound softly on the brick and concrete sidewalk, but as he steps onto the iron staircase that will lead him down, beneath the bridge, to the gang of boys waiting beneath. Each one of them knows what's going to happen. Each one of them, though he'd never admit it, doesn't want this.
You have to live though. And sometimes, just sometimes, it seems like a vaguely fair deal. It's survival. And for a little work, he can survive. Better than perhaps he deserves, some would say. But it's still a chance at life. He's not gay. But that doesn't mean he has so much dignity he won't sell his ass.
Then he's on his front, silently screaming into clenched teeth, and he quickly changes his mind. Life seems so far away as he watches himself in a stray motel mirror. This feels like hell, complete with torture.
The footsteps move back on the brick, descending into the distance, and he finally breathes, letting fear out and his chest loosen. He quickly stubs out the cigarette, scared someone will see his hand shaking.
The truth was, he was tired. Tired of this life, of spending his time outside and waiting for fate too come and take him on the next path of his life. Everything had faded, everything outside of this life, and now he was just a body without a mind. The mind was somewhere else, beyond these earthly trials. It was hard to believe that he could still have a philosophical view on this, after all that his body had endured. But there was a distinct lack of soul left in his body. That was probably the reason why.
Prostitution's as old as time itself. Carnal desire's something that never changes. But this, this, had to be a new low for society. A democratic country, a land of the free, and yet he knows that up and down and all over the nation, he'll find more boys doing this, waiting beneath a bridge, where the cold and rain will get them if nothing else does.
He watches them. There are two people he sees here he hasn't seen before. One, with dark hair, but unmistakable eyes, even in the gloom, talks. He can't hear what he's saying, but he knows that this is a newbie. Someone who doesn't know what they're in for.
They'll learn…
The other was different. He looked less eager, as though he knew this life. Maybe not consciously, his face seemed almost innocent, but on some level, he knew. He knew. It's written on his face, the truth of this life overlaid with naiveté. He wants to believe there's something else, that there's a reason behind this. Fat fucking chance.
As he lifted the cigarette to his lips, he watches them all, the blonde guy, the dark guy and everyone else. No words are said, because everyone knows that this could be the last time. This could be the time that they're chosen for the sacrifice. They could be the ones that are led off to be fucked to death in some dark alley, or who crack their skull against a brick wall as they are pushed against it, barely recovering before a blade is shoved into their abdomen, blood trickling down their legs like the remains of a merciless fuck.
No.
No-one's got any fucking idea.
The rain, the pathetic rain, kept on falling.
Please review! If you have an idea for a prompt, please tell me!