Taion

If I was at Warped, I would have calmed myself by getting lost for a few hours, but seeing as I wasn't, I fixed myself on exploring the day's venue. It was the last stop on the tour before we all went back to Maryland for a two weeks until they left again for the studio. I wasn't certain if I would accompany them there as well, or stay with Mona to finish up my last half of senior year.

But I don't want to think about any of that. I open the metal door. It's painted black, peeling and chipping into a gazillion dark little flakes all over my hands because after twisting the handle, I grab it's surface. I examine the flakes for a moment as I enter the building, picking them off with my short nails.

The hall is bright: white tiled floors (though dingy) and long fluorescent tube lights on the ceiling. It reminds me of a hospital, only with thinner halls and less doors. There air is filled with a slight aroma of smoke and I think back. Seventh of December. Four days until my birthday. It was easily one of the worse days of my life.

"Rise and shine, bitch." He tosses ice water on me, despite that I've already got a cold and disregarding the fact that I was, in fact, awake. Tremors rack my body, as if trying to shake my soul from its physical attribute. My teeth are chattering and he says, "Shut it up, whore. You've got a customer in twenty minutes."

Of course. When do I not have a customer?

I sit up, wondering where I'm supposed to 'host' now that my bed is soaked. I cough into my sleeve -an awful rattling sound. The taste of phlegm is in my mouth and I spit into the trash can before looking up at him. He knows my question- of course he does. He's, either way I look at it, my dad. He knows how I think and it's one of his prime advantages over me.

"I'm dropping you off at her house. She's on house arrest. Armed robbery. She wanted some company."

I don't object (not like I can, anyways). I don't usually get sold off to women, and when I have in the past, they aren't nearly as harsh and rough as the men. I almost sigh in relief.

As if I'm too slow, he grabs the scruff of my shirt, shoving me towards the closet. "Get changed. And be down in three." He is pointing a long narrow finger at me before he turns away. As soon as he's gone, I do what he's demanded, changing into clean clothes with my fingers shaking because of how weak I actually feel. I rush down the stairs, taking two at a time and almost crash into Christine on the way down.

She sighs hopelessly. I try not to take it to heart because it isn't my choice. I continue down the stairs. He's waiting, opens the door for me and I dash out and into the awaiting car.

"One- fifty." He says as he starts the car. "I should be pleased because I asked for three, but we both know you can make it in one-thirty if you focused."

I nod. "Yes, Sir."

Fifteen minutes we arrive at a crumbling house in the middle of a crack neighborhood. I'm judging it, but I say nothing. He gets out of the car and I follow, shutting my door behind me and listening to the dull thunk! the car door makes. He's grabbed onto my scruff of my shirt again, as if he was afraid I'd make a run for it.

A lady opens the door before he gets a chance to knock. She's old: her face is drooping with wrinkles and shes wearing to much make up for her age. Her eyes are dusted with purple eye shadow and her lips are coated in a dark, glittery pink. He hands are dark, and she's holding a cigarette loosely in between her fingers. She grins at seeing my dad.

"Stokes!" She laughs, throwing back her head. Her laugh - as well as her voice- is rough. No doubt due to the smokes. "This him, Parker?" She grabs my chin and studies my face. "A bit thin, don't you think?"

My father laughs. It's been a long time since I've heard him laugh in my presence and it be with a old friend or such. If I was under any other circumstances, it would've amused me. "Yeah, well everyone wants a skinny fuck. As far as I'm concerned, he's good sized: thin frame and small hips. Everyone always compliments on that about him."

She smiles lightly, watching my awkwardness as they talk about me as if. I'm not there. "He'll do." She slaps two hundred dollar bills into his palm and points at the money. "That's four hours, Parker, and nothing less."

He waves his hand away. "Yeah yeah, but I'm going to drink tonight. You can have him 'til two."

I blink, my mind calculating. It's four PM now. Four til two. That's ten hours. Two hundred divided by two is twenty, making me only worth twenty dollars an hour versus the fifty an hour she originally had planned to pay. I look down at the cracked sidewalk, trying not to think about him just abandoning me for six more hours at this place. Was he so desperate to be rid of me for a few hours?

She smiles. "Good. I'm not sure I'd be able to get done with what I'd had planned in just under four hours."

I try to ignore that comment as they bid there good byes and he retreats to his car. I turn to look at her, trying to hid my discomfort and fear.

She points inside. "Living room is to the right. Go watch TV."

The idea is absurd. I was sent here to fuck or be fucked, not watch CSI. ...though I'm not objecting to the idea...I'm just not fond of waiting and letting the paranoia build up. I go in the direction she's told me anyways.

"I'm fixing dinner," She calls, "And the guys will be here shortly. We'll all eat, and then..." She pauses. I know what she means. She doesn't have to say anything else.

I stop thinking. I don't want to remember that day. How she drugged my food. How the two guys showed up. How they restrained me before the drugs wore off, and how they took turns abusing my body. The way they found pleasure in my pain was sickening -how they even found the time to take photos of me and send them to people I didn't even know. Child pornography. Child abuse. Child everything-else-wrong.

That day was the first time I'd had a smoke. When dad picked me up at three- an hour late- I was shaking and could barely stand. My skin was cut up. My hands were rattling. I was a wreck. I was in. Worse state than I'd been in earlier with my common cold.

However dad was more interested in the photography. The vulgar photos that poised me as a complete fucking whore: some with my legs spread and others of me being forced to give head, but always in positions and taken from angles that hid my discomfort in a facade that screamed I was enjoying myself.

Truth was that I would go home that night, puke my guts out and chew on a tube of tooth paste. I spent three hours in a cold shower, scrubbing at the cuts they'd caused with knives and blades until my skin peeled back and the water was running off my body pink Christine was the one who came in and turned off the water. She had to help me out of the tub because I'd become too weak to stand back up and exit the shower. She was the one that assured me I was clean again, despite was my body was saying.

I force it all away. I don't need it nor want it. Instead I duck into the nearest room: a small bathroom, complete with showers. But that isn't what grabs my attention. What does is the pack of smokes, a lighter, and the ashtray. A lit fag is sitting on the edge of the plate, burned and ashes crumbling. Forgotten.

The last time I'd been offered a smoke was with Chris at Warped and I turned it down. But I need it now. I take the smoke, the lighter, light up, and take a drag.