his mind out of his memories for a while.
Owen’s breath shuddered softly and Nick looked up in apprehension. Tears rolled down Owen’s cheeks, steady trickles from beautiful green eyes. Nick was breathless with wonder that someone he didn’t really know that well felt this depth of emotion for him. He reached up, tenderly wiping away the tears away with his thumb. Owen held onto his hands like a man falling off a cliff with only Nick to hold him back.
“It went on for about three and a half years. Then when I was thirteen I’d had enough. I’d already tried to cut my wrists once but my mother found me. I didn’t realise you should do vertical slashes so I didn’t get it right.” He still felt disgust for his inability to kill himself then.
“That time she had one of her friends take me to hospital, it was so bad. They called social services and wanted to take me away from her but her friends stole into the ward in the middle of the night and took me out, back home.” Nick’s voice was bitter. “She didn’t want to lose her cash cow. I was popular with her friends.” He winced as Own gripped his hand tighter. “So when she took me back, I decided the only way to die was to get someone to do it for me. Barb had a boyfriend—and I use that term loosely. He was more her pimp. He availed himself of my services too.”
Nick shifted in discomfort as he leaned back against the couch. Socks jumped onto the back and sat there watching them. Owen let go of Nick’s hands, moving closer to him, pulling him against his chest. Nick sank into the other man’s warmth, hearing the steady beat of Owen’s heart. Owen had positioned himself so that Nick’s left ear was against him and Nick was grateful to him for remembering his deafness.
“What did you do? You were thirteen years old. How could you have faced all that and stayed sane?” Owen’s voice was choked.
Nick gave a grim chuckle. “I was a basket case. A suicidal, angry, puberty-ridden ball of angst. I couldn’t see any way out of what I was going through other than dying. One night after Roger and his friends had finished using me I taunted him and really got his goat. We were at one of his flats in the middle of Manchester City. Roger had a knife obsession. He loved steel, loved cutting me. I thought it was only a matter of time before he pulled it out and finished off the job properly.” Nick smiled tiredly against Owen’s warm chest. “He just needed the right trigger. I told him he was a fucking queer, a fag and he loved sucking cock and sticking it to other men. He never saw himself that way. It was just young boys he liked and he hated anybody calling him any of those things. He got so angry he took out the hunting knife he had and sliced me open. That’s the scar down my right side. Then he beat me so badly I could hardly walk and left me to die in an alley.” His voice trickled to a whisper. “I just wanted to leave this world and go anywhere else. I couldn’t have done another day like that.”
He was covered in his own blood lying between two pieces of cardboard in an alleyway. The alley stank of urine and beer, of human waste and garbage. He couldn’t move. His arse burned after being raped by at least two men; he couldn’t remember anymore. His leg was twisted awkwardly beneath him and his head hurt. His right arm was as useless as a lump of meat and the pain in his side was agonising. His eyes were swollen shut, and all he could see were thin slivers of light from the street lamp. He vaguely heard a harsh breathing above him—above the pain in his body and in his soul. He was deadened, praying for death to claim him. It would be better than this existence. He felt a surge of triumph that his plan had worked.
Owen heaved a shuddering sigh. “My poor Nick,” he whispered, stroking Nick’s hair. He kissed the top of his head softly. “What happened then?”
“Don found me.” Nick’s voice softened as he thought of his
Owen’s breath shuddered softly and Nick looked up in apprehension. Tears rolled down Owen’s cheeks, steady trickles from beautiful green eyes. Nick was breathless with wonder that someone he didn’t really know that well felt this depth of emotion for him. He reached up, tenderly wiping away the tears away with his thumb. Owen held onto his hands like a man falling off a cliff with only Nick to hold him back.
“It went on for about three and a half years. Then when I was thirteen I’d had enough. I’d already tried to cut my wrists once but my mother found me. I didn’t realise you should do vertical slashes so I didn’t get it right.” He still felt disgust for his inability to kill himself then.
“That time she had one of her friends take me to hospital, it was so bad. They called social services and wanted to take me away from her but her friends stole into the ward in the middle of the night and took me out, back home.” Nick’s voice was bitter. “She didn’t want to lose her cash cow. I was popular with her friends.” He winced as Own gripped his hand tighter. “So when she took me back, I decided the only way to die was to get someone to do it for me. Barb had a boyfriend—and I use that term loosely. He was more her pimp. He availed himself of my services too.”
Nick shifted in discomfort as he leaned back against the couch. Socks jumped onto the back and sat there watching them. Owen let go of Nick’s hands, moving closer to him, pulling him against his chest. Nick sank into the other man’s warmth, hearing the steady beat of Owen’s heart. Owen had positioned himself so that Nick’s left ear was against him and Nick was grateful to him for remembering his deafness.
“What did you do? You were thirteen years old. How could you have faced all that and stayed sane?” Owen’s voice was choked.
Nick gave a grim chuckle. “I was a basket case. A suicidal, angry, puberty-ridden ball of angst. I couldn’t see any way out of what I was going through other than dying. One night after Roger and his friends had finished using me I taunted him and really got his goat. We were at one of his flats in the middle of Manchester City. Roger had a knife obsession. He loved steel, loved cutting me. I thought it was only a matter of time before he pulled it out and finished off the job properly.” Nick smiled tiredly against Owen’s warm chest. “He just needed the right trigger. I told him he was a fucking queer, a fag and he loved sucking cock and sticking it to other men. He never saw himself that way. It was just young boys he liked and he hated anybody calling him any of those things. He got so angry he took out the hunting knife he had and sliced me open. That’s the scar down my right side. Then he beat me so badly I could hardly walk and left me to die in an alley.” His voice trickled to a whisper. “I just wanted to leave this world and go anywhere else. I couldn’t have done another day like that.”
He was covered in his own blood lying between two pieces of cardboard in an alleyway. The alley stank of urine and beer, of human waste and garbage. He couldn’t move. His arse burned after being raped by at least two men; he couldn’t remember anymore. His leg was twisted awkwardly beneath him and his head hurt. His right arm was as useless as a lump of meat and the pain in his side was agonising. His eyes were swollen shut, and all he could see were thin slivers of light from the street lamp. He vaguely heard a harsh breathing above him—above the pain in his body and in his soul. He was deadened, praying for death to claim him. It would be better than this existence. He felt a surge of triumph that his plan had worked.
Owen heaved a shuddering sigh. “My poor Nick,” he whispered, stroking Nick’s hair. He kissed the top of his head softly. “What happened then?”
“Don found me.” Nick’s voice softened as he thought of his
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