Somewhere for this, death and guns

We are deaf, we are numb

Free and young and we can feel none of it

Sedated - Hozier

February 12, 2004

Edward looked down at his hands, then back up at the shelter. He felt disgusting, mud and filth caked onto his clothes and skin, tangled in his hair. He hadn't been able to shower for a week, and in the snow, that meant he was both soaking wet and freezing cold.

He had been running for a week. He hated living on the actual street the way he had been forced to. It reminded him too much of being a little kid, when he had been curling up under bridges or finding a cardboard box to lay under in some disgusting alley.

But he was used to it. He had run away from his foster home when he was nine, so he had been on his own for six years now, and he was doing a pretty damn good job.

It had been difficult at first, but he was a tough kid. He stole coats when he needed them, dumpster dived behind nice restaurants and grocery stores so he could feed himself. He was small enough and smart enough to figure out how to sneak into the middle school in the middle of the day to use the locker room to shower and clean his clothes off.

But he couldn't do that now. No, now he was shit out of luck and either had to stay the way he was, or go inside the warm, inviting shelter.

There was already a line of people, desperate to get a bed for the night. But Edward didn't want a bed. He was fine on the street, where he knew it wouldn't be as easy for someone to walk up to him in the middle of the night and stick a knife through his stomach.

At the thought of his stomach, it grumbled loudly, upset at being cavernously empty for days. That made his decision for him. Edward grabbed the taped together backpack that he had had since he was a kid and marched out of the shadows to join the crowd pushing to get inside, trying to blend in with the other desperate characters.

Everyone smelled. It was one of the worst parts about winter. In the summer, at least, he could go down to the lake, or hell, even the ocean, and take a swim to rinse off the sweat and grime.

But in the winter, the snow clung to clothes leaving them stiff and wet, and melted on the ground to make it sloshy and dirty. There was no place to clean up but the shelter, which is why it was so goddamn packed.

"We got no more beds," an older woman yelled outside to the groaning line. Edward shrugged, and some people got out of line and stumbled away. Edward really just wanted food and a shower, and the more people that left, the closer he was to his goal.

He was almost to the front of the building, so close to the heat radiating from inside, and the gentle aroma of some mass-cooked stew floating towards him made his stomach clench with the ache of hunger.

He had gotten too used to eating at least once a day, he wasn't as accustomed to going without anymore. Weak, he chastised himself.

"Hey, Eddie," a cool voice said from right behind him, warm breath tickling his ear and making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Just as Edward was about to spin around, he felt something cold and metallic pressed to his lower back. "Now, now. Don't wanna make a scene, now do we?"

His heart was pounding in his chest so hard he could feel the blood rushing through his head, a roaring vibration that made it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He shook his head no, terrified of what would happen if he didn't respond.

"Okay, good. Why don't we go somewhere more private to talk?" Edward swallowed and nodded, trying to keep his face blank.

The homeless were generally pretty good about staying out of other people's business, but he didn't want to find out what would happen if someone spotted a gun in the crowd. Edward kept his hands at his sides and let the man lead him out of the shuffle, one hand on his shoulder and a gun at his back. He could feel the cold metal through his torn shirt, the barrel right on his spine. If he was shot, he would die. Edward didn't know if he really cared.

He stumbled forward, pushed by the older boy he had once thought of as almost a friend. They were moving further from the safety of the pulsing crowd, down the street and then ducking into a dark alley that stank from an unattended dumpster.

The tense grip left his shoulder, and he was only nudged forward by the gun. He didn't think he could overpower Will. The boy was older, taller, stronger. Edward couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything, or slept more than a few minutes on some deserted stoop under a canopy, trying unsuccessfully to stay dry. And he had long since given up hope on anyone intervening. He knew no one would happen to round the corner or peak their head out a window and call the cops. No one would save him.

They stopped at a dilapidated apartment building, door papered in signs that marked the building as condemned.

"Open up," Will grunted, reaching around Edward to bang his fist on the wood. There was a clatter and someone opened the door, and Will shoved Edward inside. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, and immediately twisted around to face Will.

The door slammed shut, and the wide eyes of an even younger boy Edward didn't recognize stared back at him.

"Up," Will snarled, kicking Edward in the ribs. He sucked in a breath of pain, but didn't give him the satisfaction of yelling or crying out. Will gritted his teeth and pointed the gun at him purposefully, his finger sitting on the trigger with the safety switched off.

Edward pushed off the ground to stand, and trudged up the rickety wooden stairs, skipping the weak step halfway up that the younger boy tripped over as he followed behind.

Edward knew where he was going, and turned the first corner up the stairs down the first hallway, and opened up the broken door of Apartment 205. The room was musty and old. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls and exposing the rotting wood. The kitchen was disgusting and covered in mold. Grey and yellow-stained mattresses covered the living room, and Edward had to step cautiously to avoid the discarded needles on the floor. If there was one thing he would never do in his entire life, it was sticking a needle in his arm.

He wondered how much longer a life he would have to live anyways. Edward had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't be leaving this hellscape of a building. He almost tripped over one of the mattresses and lost his balance, stumbling forward so he had to catch himself on the jagged edge of the coffee table. "Easy, Grace," a lilting voice joked. Edward looked up, and he appeared.

He had shaggy dark hair and an easy smile, but there was something menacing about the white scar on his neck, and even more so in the knife he was twirling in his hand. Edward swallowed hard and steadied himself. His jaw clenched, and he rolled his shoulders back. It didn't matter that Will was still holding a gun, and he had used it before. It didn't even matter that there was a waif-thin girl strung out on the couch- she wouldn't interfere even if she could move anyways. He wasn't about to go down like some fucking coward, on his knees and begging like so many before him.

What did he have to beg for anyways? Everything was total shit, and he was tired. He couldn't remember the last time he had genuinely smiled, or enjoyed himself. Everything he had done had just been to numb himself from anything that could hurt him, and he realized he wasn't actually scared. The dim yellow light glinted off the sharp blade as it spun.

"Peter," Edward greeted coldly, trying to remain stoic. For some reason, his hand was shaking. Edward clenched it into a fist, trying to stop the telltale tremble. He wasn't scared, so why was his hand shaking?

"You stole my shit, Edward," Peter said shortly. Will huffed behind him, and Edward could hear him relax a little. In the back of his mind, Edward wondered where the gun had gone now that it wasn't pressed against his back.

"I needed money."

Peter sighed heavily, dramatically. "That's not why you took it."

Edward didn't say anything. He could hear Will breathing behind him, heavy and hot, and had a feeling that he was more than just tired. That was the thing about hanging around with junkies. They were unpredictable in their addictions- it was what made them so dangerous. But it was also a weakness. Will was high, and Edward knew so well what happened after. His eyes would go glassy and his body limp and he rode the soft, sweet high that came with the needle. It was what made all the kids he hung around with so transient. At some point, everyone he knew either ended up either in jail or dead. It was all he had ever known. He had gotten out of that foster home and ended up on the street, and every street kid got adopted into one of these little gangs.

It was fine for a while- for a few years even. He usually had some place warm to sleep, and there was almost always food to eat and drugs to indulge in.

But when Edward did drugs, it was to have fun, not to fade away. And, like almost everyone else, Will was heading down that path. He was reliant on the high, and not even holding a gun to someone he had haphazardly once called friend was going to stop him from that chase.

"Who cares why I took it?" Edward said haughtily.

"I do." Peter sounded earnest, but Edward knew he wasn't. He just knew. He just knew in the same way he knew that Will was no longer focused at all on the conversation in front of him, but was instead slumping down while gazing at the girl on the couch. And his grip on the gun had slackened.

"Why?" Edward asked, sounding genuinely curious even though he wasn't. He didn't care about Peter in the least. The older boy had always been cruel, and Edward had seen him play with his victims more than once.

"We were friends, Edward."

"We were? I was under the impression that you hated me."

"What gave you that impression?"

"Oh, I don't know, just you trying to kill me," Edward said casually. Peter threw his head back and laughed, his throat exposed and his mouth stretched into a wide-open grin. He was distracted. It was now or never. Edward knew what Peter liked to do. Whatever end he was planning on, it wouldn't be fast. Edward had seen the products of Peter's sociopathy, and he knew that would never be his fate. He wouldn't let it.

Without a second's pause, Edward spun around and slammed his knee into Will's crotch. The boy doubled over instantly in immense pain, groaning and screaming, but Edward didn't even register it. He wrenched the gun from his fingers, one of them cracking as he pulled it free.

Edward tried to turn around, pointing it at Will but before his finger could even brush the trigger there was a loud crack. He didn't have time to look down. His body was flung backwards, but there was something in him fighting to keep him standing. He wasn't going to die like this. His vision was blurry and he could hear his heart pounding in his head, but the barrel of the gun lined up and he squeezed down on the trigger. His arm fell away with the blowback, and he had to take a step back to steady himself. But he couldn't look up, not even to check that his aim was true. He would find out in seconds if he was successful or not, and waited for another shot that never came.

Something in his abdomen was burning, and it felt like his arm had been pulled off. But there was no ensuing shot, and Edward dared to crack his eyes open just a fraction. He didn't even have a chance to look up before he was tackled.

There was another body on him- Will- heavy and warm, with blunt fists pummeling at his sides. One connected with a certain spot that was already on fire, and Edward cried out and tried to recoil.

Tears were spilling from his eyes, hot and searing so he couldn't see the enraged face of the boy above him. Edward was trying desperately to force him off of him. It shouldn't have been so hard. He knew Will was high as a kite, and weak and tired from it.

But, for some reason, his movements were slow and it felt like his body was weighed down by lead. His vision was going dark, and he felt the connecting punches fading away.

No, something screaming inside of him, not letting him drift towards that state of painless unconsciousness. But why? he thought. Why did he want to live? He had never been happy. His parents had died long ago, and he had bounced from foster home to foster home before finally running away.

Life on the streets had been okay for a while, once he figured it out. Girls came easy, and so did the drugs that made everything else endurable. The guys he was hanging around were shady, though, and when he saw Peter cutting the heroin with enough fentanyl to kill a horse, he had had enough.

But this was enough, wasn't it? He had no one. He was completely alone, and no one would miss him. So why did he want to live? It was the last question on his mind as his hand patted the floor beside him, searching it out. He could feel his fingertips glimpse the edge of the cool metal, and grasped at it until the grip was tucked into his palm. He brought it up with every ounce of strength he had left, his arm limp with the pain of the blowback of his last shot and sore from the continuing beating.

It was just a quick squeeze of the trigger, and the pummeling stopped.

Edward couldn't even roll him off of him as he tried to catch his own breath, his darkened vision slowly coming back to him. Edward wasn't entirely sure what happened after. He was trying to collect the fragments of his memories.

Somehow, he knew he had managed to push Will off and get himself up. He had left the bodies there. It was doubtful anyone would ever find them in the condemned building before it was demolished, and if they did, who would really care? Drug-induced gang violence was a reality, and they didn't have anyone who cared about them enough to make sure the case was pursued.

But Edward at least had the forethought to at least take the gun. He didn't remember doing so, but he had somehow stumbled down the stairs and outside with the gun stuffed into his jeans.

He didn't know how he had gotten where he was, but he was standing at the waterfront, staring into the brackish water of the canal that connected Elliot Bay to the Duwamish River. His breath was coming in heavy pants, visibly misting in the frigid night air. His hands were shaking, too, and he could feel that horrible, anxious pressure pounding into his chest. He pulled the gun out of his pants with trembling fingers and managed to wipe the gun off, but instead found his shirt wet and red.

He didn't know what that was all about, but tripped forward while sliding his shoe off to grab at his sock. The ground was freezing on the bare sole of his foot, but the gun was wiped down, and he threw it as far as he could into the water. He wasn't quite rational. In fact, he had no idea what he was doing, nor what was driving him to do it. He didn't even bother with putting his shoe back on, instead managing to drag himself over to the public restroom in the park.

The door was left open, a small olive branch to the homeless community, and Edward realized that he technically belonged. He didn't look in the mirror. That wasn't why he was there.

He ran his hands under the tap, marveling at how the water was magically turning pink. He scrubbed at his skin with soap, digging under his fingernails and across every square centimeter of skin up to his elbows until it was raw and reddened.

His breaths were coming shallower.

He looked up finally, into the mirror. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight. He looked like he almost always did- high. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and the outside ringed with red. His nose was crooked, and he traced along the scar on his cheek that Peter had given him in a fit of rage once.

His gaze skimmed down, and his knees buckled at the sight as he sank to the floor. He put his hand on his abdomen, trying to hold back the pain, but he couldn't wait any longer. He pulled his hand back and looked down, trying to survey the damage.

It was everywhere. His hand was slick with hot blood, his entire shirt soaked with it. There was a hole in his side, just above his hipbone. He could see the open flesh of his own organs, inside his body. That wasn't right, right? People weren't supposed to see these kinds of things. Or, at least, that was what Edward thought. His head was light and fuzzy, and he found it kind of funny that it wasn't even painful. In fact, he couldn't really even feel anything.