Mercy

Elliot was a shameless trust fund kid, though my initial observation on the matter had much too quickly assumed a sympathetic outlook on his situation. Night after night, he would visit me on the streets that I dejectedly trolled both in desperation and disgust at the sheer possibility of finding a customer or three for the night. He seemed to sense a misery within me, and proceeded to wonder how easily it would be to prey on that misery, gradually suckling away at whatever livelihood I still possessed before I was even conscious of the dark afflictions he longed to impose upon me. Not once did he give me a sickening grin and ask how much a blow or a fuck would cost him. Instead, Elliot chose to hover by my side as I wandered the streets in clothing I’d have preferred to burn rather than have wrapped distastefully around my lanky frame. Often times he would offer me a smoke and ask a seemingly irrelevant question about my past, which eventually allowed my impressionable thoughts to be led astray like sheep flock before the shepherd. His gentle tones, soft gray eyes, and useless small-talk managed to bring back a minute flickering of hope deep within my mind before some desperate, horny bastard mercilessly slapped me in the face with my own pathetic existence by demanding how expensive I was. Elliot would then slink off into the comforts of streets with lights that weren’t broken or stolen, a disgruntled expression plastered across those paradoxically soft features.

It took him two weeks to finally ask of me why the hell I chose to sell my body for money. I distinctly remember giving him the finest bewildered expression I could assemble to demand, Wouldn’t you? At first, Elliot was appalled by my response as he adamantly assured me that he could never do such a thing, and it was then I realized the man had never gone hungry. He had never been faced with numerous eviction notices, nor had he ever had to grapple with staggering, endless amounts of college fees and street debts. Most importantly, he had never faced an emotional turmoil horrific enough to break him completely. Elliot was nothing more than a sheltered, pampered, well-to-do trust fund kid with nothing better to do than criticize a suicidal male prostitute.

Then he offered to pay off every single penny I owed, and immediately I thought he was my savior. All I had to do in return was promise to never whore myself again and to let him stay with me until I got my affairs in order. To the destitute, hopeless medical student I was, his offer sounded much too remarkable to pass up. Hell, the man had been a perfect gentleman in subtly courting me for three weeks, so I took a leap of faith and welcomed Elliot into my home, waiting eagerly for a new life of endless opportunities, happiness, and all that cliché, sentimental bullshit those goddamn Disney movies force-feed into our skulls with impossible happily-ever-afters and love stories.

How could I possibly have known that being debt-free would leave me feeling just as empty and used as I had been prior to meeting Elliot? I couldn’t feasibly have predicted that my savior would come home to me in a petrifying fit of rage the very night he had finished paying off the last of my bills. Not once did I imagine he would rape me that same night, screaming over and over at me to stop fighting back. It was what I was excelled in, wasn’t it? Giving depraved, decrepit men whatever the fuck they wanted?

Ever so slowly, that son of a bitch sucked out my soul through my dick and laughed as he refused to keep paying my college intuition. He was still laughing the night I stormed out of the apartment clad in clothes only appropriate to be seen by the hideous creatures of the night with the intent to, once again, sell myself for the money I no longer possessed.

When Elliot found me roaming the unlit streets, he didn’t ask me irrelevant questions. His cold, gray eyes held no sympathy, and his previously soft features morphed into those of a ravenous creature, foaming at the mouth in anticipation of ripping me apart. Not once did he attempt to take my mind off the task at hand or play the heart-melting gentleman façade. Instead, he asked in a voice so cruel, “How much for a fuck and a suck, Slut?”

It went on like that for nearly a year. Only when presented with sexual favors did Elliot bother to help in paying rent or my college bills, and even then his generosity would be rare. He seemed to enjoy degrading me and maiming my body within an inch of my life more than giving a shit about my well-being or financial woes. It grew to the point where I was so far beyond angry with myself and the world around me that I wanted vengeance. Revenge. Anything to give the sadistic bastard what he deserved and more and what better way to accomplish such a goal than to have him caught in his own twisted desires?

It was well worth the night I spent in jail on prostitution charges to witness Elliot being hauled away in handcuffs to a place where it was more than likely that he would find out firsthand what it was like to be someone’s bitch.

After the fiasco with Jakob Armstrong, however, I couldn’t help but regret tipping off those cops to arrest Elliot. His stay in prison made him more vicious than I remembered, and the simple act of his skin against mine made my body burn with the physical and emotional agony of one who would like nothing more than to drop dead to avoid further abuse. The way he forced his lips against mine and thrust his tongue into my mouth made my stomach crawl as if his open-mouthed assault permitted his demons entrance to my body, wriggling ruthlessly down my throat to nest and reproduce in the murky depths of my stomach. The hands that fervently roamed my exposed frame were just about as pleasurable as if Elliot had been skinning me alive, and the minute his filthy cock was forced into my opening without word or warning, I screamed. I screamed for how my genuinely good deed in saving Jakob from this monster simultaneously threw me right back into hell, I cried for how distastefully ironic it had been for Elliot to have been the monster I was supposed to rescue Jakob from, and I howled for how equally sadistic Billie fucking Joe was for putting me up to this. Even worse, instead of choosing to fuck me face down into my own pillow, Elliot preferred a much more emotionally crippling approach.

He raped me in my treasured, stained armchair and forced me to look him in the eye for the entirety of my assault.

When he was finished, Elliot fished a wad of cash from his pocket and threw it callously on my naked chest before wandering off into my bedroom to sleep it off. I didn’t move, and I certainly made no efforts to pick the money off my chest, for I knew exactly how much he’d given me. It was the price I never failed to offer to the countless men who brought me back to their dingy hotel rooms: $500 for a fuck and a suck.

For three hours, I remained in that armchair, fists clenching the fraying fabric and panting with rage and humiliation. Not only had he defiled me, but he had defiled the only object I had left to keep the sacred memory of my daughter alive. In a sense, he may as well have raped her. I was unable to remove myself from the tarnished beloved armchair until a faint, repetitive beeping could be heard somewhere within my bedroom, followed by a disgruntled, “The fuck is that?!”

Never in my life had I been more thankful to be paged into work in the dead of night.

The moment I arrived at the hospital, I was informed that the old Armstrong bastard had been ranting and raving about me the entire night, obstinately refusing any form of medical treatment from any of the other nurses or doctors. The receptionist who had notified me of my patient’s constant stubborn qualities was oddly mystified by Billie’s insistence upon calling me Fairy, and couldn’t refrain from blushing or giggling when it surfaced in her recount. Being in no mood for the socially acceptable, I cut the insensitive bitch off mid-sentence and made a beeline for Billie Joe’s room. I wasn’t about to face any further mindless chatter with overtly judgmental co-workers.

The old man was up and out of his bed when I entered his room, frantically pacing about as he chewed his lip in mounting anxiety. I couldn’t understand why the fuck he needed to see me so damn bad, or why he appeared so distraught over my having a day off. It wasn’t until I appreciated how close Jakob was with his father that it became clear that the young man had most likely called his father the moment Elliot dragged me out of his apartment.

“Fairy! Where the fuck have you been?! The other incompetent nurses were trying to page you for three hours!” he growled, advancing upon me. I subconsciously flinched, assuming Billie wanted to hit me.

“I’m…sorry. I guess I just…didn’t have my pager on is all,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the floor behind the old man.

“Fairy, you haven’t bullshitted me so far, so don’t you fucking dare start with the bullshit now. Jakob called, hysterical. What did you do?” Billie demanded, taking a step backward after noting my violent flinch.

“I did exactly what you asked, Mr. Armstrong. Elliot won’t be bothering your son anymore,” I spat coldly.

“Come here.”

“Pardon?” I inquired, at last bringing my eyes up to meet his piercing emerald stare.

“Come here,” Billie Joe repeated, pointing to the area directly in front of him. Ever so slowly, I limped to stand before a dying man, trembling with uncontrollable fear. I couldn’t tell if he was angry with me for unintentionally hurting his son, and in the aftermath of Elliot’s violent attack on me, I immediately supposed that the old bastard wanted a piece of me as well.

I was mistaken.

For a moment, all he did was gaze at me as if the mere act could bring light to the thoughts racing about in my mind. Then, he lifted a hand to gently hold my chin and turn my head so he could more effortlessly view my neck. As his eyes rested upon the already haunting bruise left by the coldblooded choke-hold which held me down while Elliot took advantage of me, he gasped. Billie brought his other hand up to run his fingertips over the bruise, and his eyes glazed over in a faraway expression that seemed to suggest he might pass out…or he had simply lost all grip on reality.

But as quickly as his consciousness drifted, his eyes once again flickered up to mine. They were brimming with tears.

“Jesus Christ…I’m so sorry,” he whispered before pulling me into an awkward embrace. “I didn’t mean for…I just…I’m sorry.”

Not once had I mentioned knowing Elliot or having been attacked, yet in the mournful way in which Billie sobbed for me, he knew.

“I ain’t an asshole, Fairy. I know you think I am, and you think I set you up, but I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll do anything to prove I ain’t an asshole,” he whimpered, finally unwrapping his arms from around my waist.

“Don’t bother,” I hissed, and without so much as another word, I left Billie Joe.

“Mike! Did you finally find out-” Dr. Shaw asked brightly, but I quickly cut her off.

“He’ll cooperate now.”