muse: more Between the Walls
Jun. 15th, 2003 12:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coronaviridae"It was one of the stupider things I've ever done, but then, most of my life was a series of really, unthinkably stupid mistakes. And somehow, I managed to survive all of them. Right up until the last one, and wouldn't you believe that I'd actually had that planned somewhat in advance?"
I wish, I wish, he'd notice me. Twelve years of dedicated haunting, interrupted only as I watch over my other few dear ones, and he's too blind to see.
Whatever shall I do?
---
Carry on, presumably. I always had in life, and it would be a damn shame to abandon the habit in death to mope around pitying myself. It's detestable. I did tell you I was a goth, but never the kind to sit in the corner writing bad doggerel and muttering, 'woe, woe, life is pain.'
Scratch that. Life is pain, and that was the camp I fell firmly into since the age of fourteen. But the 'woe' attitude, no, I never quite bought into that.
In fact, many suspected of me--and I eventually agreed--that being a goth was just an excuse for me to play dress-up in public. And why the hell not? I look cute in black, and I've always had a fascination with make-up.
Well, not quite 'always'--there Adrian goes again, getting carried away and exaggerating. It was actually less than half my life, from fourteen on.
---
Fourteen, yes. That's a rather significant number, and not because it's twice seven. I was fourteen when my brother died, leaving me alone in the great wide world. Not only was I fourteen and a complete orphan, I was also a total idiot, because the first thing I did when I realized Misha was never coming home was, yes, run away from that home.
It was one of the stupider things I've ever done, but then, most of my life was a series of really, unthinkably stupid mistakes. And somehow, I managed to survive all of them. Right up until the last one, and wouldn't you believe that I'd actually had that planned somewhat in advance?
---
So, at the age of fourteen, I was out on the streets.
How did I survive? They always say that fortune favors fools--and my own dear Fool's awful luck notwithstanding, fortune seemed to smile on me. I fell in with one of the numerous little street gangs in the city, making my way for a while with my skills as a pickpocket. Less frequently as a beggar--the whole 'albinism' bit notwithstanding, I never could look sick and miserable enough to convince anyone I'd die for want of a little money and care.
After about a year of this, and having established a reputation as a half-decent thief, it was time for me to screw up spectacularly again.
---
I was always a pretty child. I blame Mother--she was one-eighth Japanese, and if both Misha and I hadn't been albino, I'm sure we would've shown it in more than just bone structure.
I was also frequently mistaken for a girl, which doubtless didn't help any when I hit puberty and started developing an actual gender identity. As long as I hid my eyes--something about pink eyes really frightens people, go figure--and took care to stay out of the sun, I was reasonably attractive. To people who find white hair and pink eyes exotic, it was more than just 'reasonably'.
Do you know what happens to pretty street boys who happen to get noticed by the wrong sort of people?
---
You would think that a life on the streets would be an antidote to naiveté, and you'd be completely wrong.
Stupid little Adrian had no idea who or what a pimp was. He'd never paid much attention to the whores--not interested in girls, and too focused on bloody-minded survival to joke with the rest of his buddies about what he'd do with a streetwalker if he had the money. In fact, the first time he actually paid attention to a whore was to prove his undoing.
Can you blame him? She was particularly fine looking, out and walking off her last trick. He tried to hit her up for money and got grabbed by her pimp, who likely would have beaten him within an inch of his life, if said pimp hadn't happened to drag pretty Adrian out under a streetlight.
This pimp was a smart man. He realized what he'd caught, and what people would pay for a taste of it, and already his grimy little mind was hard at work. How to get this skinny, pretty street kid to sign on willingly as one of his 'girls'?
There was the carrot: An offer of a place to crash, at least one meal a day, a little money of your own, and protection from the gangs. Sound good?
There was the stick: Take it, or I'll cut out your tongue for touching my girl.
Through greed and fear, Adrian agreed.
My. Mistake.
---
I had no idea what would be required of me in return for this 'gift' until I was locked in a windowless room with my first 'client'.
---
Needless to say, the actual revelation was quite a shock. It was later told to me that the man had paid nearly a thousand zenny for the 'pleasure' of deflowering me.
---
The next three years were dominated by that same kind of mindless, unceasing violation. Of course, I learned not to care rather quickly; sex just becomes another commodity when you get paid enough for it. And it wasn't all bad--hah! My repertoire of sex tricks is truly amazing, and I even learned--despite my own natural inclinations--how to pleasure a woman. Seduction, however, was an art I picked up a little later on in life.
The things we must sometimes do to survive our circumstances.
---
I can only thank God--if He exists--that I got out as unscathed as I did. Oh, I still have the scars--emotional, mental, and physical (when I still had a body, anyway)--but I survived, thrived, and didn't pick up anything nasty from the people I made my living off of. I even got some back--on the night of my eighteenth birthday, two days before I enlisted in the UNSC, I found my first client, killed him, and stashed his body in an abandoned warehouse.
And then I burned it down.
I am damn lucky nobody ever caught me for that one.
---
So of course I never told anyone this while I was still alive; Misha was the only person I even hinted it at, and he didn't know how bad it really was. Which is just as well; that kind of thing has this terrible habit of crippling one politically. And it's really not appropriate dinnertime conversation, or something you'd let slip over drinks, so most of my nearest and dearest never even heard about those three missing years.
It's one of my secrets that even Xiang, as obsessed as he was, never, ever learned.
And, yes. It does make me twitch even now, after having WRITTEN THAT MYSELF.
Argh.
muse
I wish, I wish, he'd notice me. Twelve years of dedicated haunting, interrupted only as I watch over my other few dear ones, and he's too blind to see.
Whatever shall I do?
---
Carry on, presumably. I always had in life, and it would be a damn shame to abandon the habit in death to mope around pitying myself. It's detestable. I did tell you I was a goth, but never the kind to sit in the corner writing bad doggerel and muttering, 'woe, woe, life is pain.'
Scratch that. Life is pain, and that was the camp I fell firmly into since the age of fourteen. But the 'woe' attitude, no, I never quite bought into that.
In fact, many suspected of me--and I eventually agreed--that being a goth was just an excuse for me to play dress-up in public. And why the hell not? I look cute in black, and I've always had a fascination with make-up.
Well, not quite 'always'--there Adrian goes again, getting carried away and exaggerating. It was actually less than half my life, from fourteen on.
---
Fourteen, yes. That's a rather significant number, and not because it's twice seven. I was fourteen when my brother died, leaving me alone in the great wide world. Not only was I fourteen and a complete orphan, I was also a total idiot, because the first thing I did when I realized Misha was never coming home was, yes, run away from that home.
It was one of the stupider things I've ever done, but then, most of my life was a series of really, unthinkably stupid mistakes. And somehow, I managed to survive all of them. Right up until the last one, and wouldn't you believe that I'd actually had that planned somewhat in advance?
---
So, at the age of fourteen, I was out on the streets.
How did I survive? They always say that fortune favors fools--and my own dear Fool's awful luck notwithstanding, fortune seemed to smile on me. I fell in with one of the numerous little street gangs in the city, making my way for a while with my skills as a pickpocket. Less frequently as a beggar--the whole 'albinism' bit notwithstanding, I never could look sick and miserable enough to convince anyone I'd die for want of a little money and care.
After about a year of this, and having established a reputation as a half-decent thief, it was time for me to screw up spectacularly again.
---
I was always a pretty child. I blame Mother--she was one-eighth Japanese, and if both Misha and I hadn't been albino, I'm sure we would've shown it in more than just bone structure.
I was also frequently mistaken for a girl, which doubtless didn't help any when I hit puberty and started developing an actual gender identity. As long as I hid my eyes--something about pink eyes really frightens people, go figure--and took care to stay out of the sun, I was reasonably attractive. To people who find white hair and pink eyes exotic, it was more than just 'reasonably'.
Do you know what happens to pretty street boys who happen to get noticed by the wrong sort of people?
---
You would think that a life on the streets would be an antidote to naiveté, and you'd be completely wrong.
Stupid little Adrian had no idea who or what a pimp was. He'd never paid much attention to the whores--not interested in girls, and too focused on bloody-minded survival to joke with the rest of his buddies about what he'd do with a streetwalker if he had the money. In fact, the first time he actually paid attention to a whore was to prove his undoing.
Can you blame him? She was particularly fine looking, out and walking off her last trick. He tried to hit her up for money and got grabbed by her pimp, who likely would have beaten him within an inch of his life, if said pimp hadn't happened to drag pretty Adrian out under a streetlight.
This pimp was a smart man. He realized what he'd caught, and what people would pay for a taste of it, and already his grimy little mind was hard at work. How to get this skinny, pretty street kid to sign on willingly as one of his 'girls'?
There was the carrot: An offer of a place to crash, at least one meal a day, a little money of your own, and protection from the gangs. Sound good?
There was the stick: Take it, or I'll cut out your tongue for touching my girl.
Through greed and fear, Adrian agreed.
My. Mistake.
---
I had no idea what would be required of me in return for this 'gift' until I was locked in a windowless room with my first 'client'.
---
Needless to say, the actual revelation was quite a shock. It was later told to me that the man had paid nearly a thousand zenny for the 'pleasure' of deflowering me.
---
The next three years were dominated by that same kind of mindless, unceasing violation. Of course, I learned not to care rather quickly; sex just becomes another commodity when you get paid enough for it. And it wasn't all bad--hah! My repertoire of sex tricks is truly amazing, and I even learned--despite my own natural inclinations--how to pleasure a woman. Seduction, however, was an art I picked up a little later on in life.
The things we must sometimes do to survive our circumstances.
---
I can only thank God--if He exists--that I got out as unscathed as I did. Oh, I still have the scars--emotional, mental, and physical (when I still had a body, anyway)--but I survived, thrived, and didn't pick up anything nasty from the people I made my living off of. I even got some back--on the night of my eighteenth birthday, two days before I enlisted in the UNSC, I found my first client, killed him, and stashed his body in an abandoned warehouse.
And then I burned it down.
I am damn lucky nobody ever caught me for that one.
---
So of course I never told anyone this while I was still alive; Misha was the only person I even hinted it at, and he didn't know how bad it really was. Which is just as well; that kind of thing has this terrible habit of crippling one politically. And it's really not appropriate dinnertime conversation, or something you'd let slip over drinks, so most of my nearest and dearest never even heard about those three missing years.
It's one of my secrets that even Xiang, as obsessed as he was, never, ever learned.
And, yes. It does make me twitch even now, after having WRITTEN THAT MYSELF.
Argh.
muse