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His Burning Body

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Pain. Burning. It hurt. It always hurt. Standing up, sitting, laying down; nothing relieved the terrible pain shooting like needles through his body. He wasn’t even sure what was hurting, exactly. It could be the bruise he got when his uncle slammed his head against the table, the cuts from when he just couldn’t take it anymore or the rawness of everything below the belt; there was simply no way of knowing. It was all the same to him now. It was all just pain. Hurt. Burning.

At least he didn’t have to go through the usual torture of simply washing his face today: his uncle had left his features more or less undamaged. He was meeting a new one. Wasn’t that great. He walked to a shop window and so did a scrawny, broken boy in the reflection. A boy whom he didn’t recognise anymore, who was wearing the same clothes as yesterday; clothes that loosely clung to his sharp figure, jeans that didn’t fit and a shirt which used to span tight across his chest. Clothes that hid all the bruises, the cuts, the shame. Clothes that his uncle had bought for him. Clothes that were supposed to make him more attractive, but ended up emphasising his young and boyish body.

Clothes. Clothes that they ripped of his body every now and again. Clothes that he sometimes had to take off himself so they could let their eyes wander. Clothes that he had loved, when his uncle had given them to him. Clothes that he had disgusted ever since he’d known the true purpose. Clothes that were full of stains, a story behind everyone of them like they were tattoos or scars instead. Stains of blood, saliva and... Well, he’d rather not think about the rest. Not unless he really had to.

But he did. It was all he ever thought about, all they allowed him to think about. Either that or the shots. Either the constant disgust or the constant need. One of the two was always wandering through his mind, even when he spared a moment of concern for his older brother. Where could he be? He would have finished his education by now. Or not. Only that he thought about it did he realise how little he knew about his family these days. His real family. Not his uncle, his uncle was nothing from him. He couldn't be, he didn’t want him to be; he simply wasn’t allowed to be.

A soft brush lips whispering in his ear woke him up. “Get on your feet and clean yourself up, you look knackered. And we don’t want that now, do we?” He recognised the light Irish lilt and it made him open his eyes, only to find himself looking straight into the cold eyes that belong to his uncle. Who was, apparently, having a good day. You wouldn’t think so but those were the worst, he’d act as if he loved you and all but when he got what he wanted he’d be even worse than before. Not yet though: two bejeweled hands took his own and helped him off the ground. “Let’s get you presentable. Your new client is a fine thing and really rich, so I don’t want you legging it again, alright?” The tiny shake of his head almost went unnoticed. “There’s a good lad.” His uncle swung an arm around him and lowered his hand just that bit too low on his back, navigating them him to the car. It was one of those long limousines; the first time he’d seen it he’d felt famous. Now he just felt disgusted.

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