Suffocate

Chapter 10

How did I come to this?

I knew my life wasn't ever apple pie and white-picket-fence. Hell, I knew since Day One I was never going to live a life like other kids around me. No one's lives are the same; I had to realize that.

I've got friends that live with their brothers, moms or dads. Some of them have no parents or live on their own. Some have already graduated, others dropped out. I'm the friend who is a mix of all that. I've got a fucked-up Dad, a fucked-up Mom, and two fucked-up older brothers. I barely attend school and I work my ass off at a shitty job. Other times, admittedly, I had to literally work my ass off.

No one knows except for fuckers on the street corners and bums in the alleys. That bitch from Berk's must have heard about me from a friend. It is true, some people know. Rumors spread, and shit like that. Hopefully none of my sisters heard any of them. I sure as hell am aware that Mom doesn't know a damn thing. She probably won't give a shit, considering she works to earn money, so if I'm doing the same thing, it doesn't matter what I do; just as long as I put food on the table.

Doing what I do—did—it was not my choice. At least, it was not the easiest decision to make. I knew what the hell I was getting myself into. Though, yes, I underestimated the plenty of wrongs that could happen, but I knew that protection was key. Sadly, some people liked it raw, and what they've got, was definitely raw enough.

I've been pushed around, treated like a fucking ragdoll. There were times I was treated worse than how my own father treated me. Try explaining why it took me three hours to walk home because just one or two guys wasn't enough for the night. Most of them didn't know how to treat a guy with any care at all.

I think the only math they've figured out in their lives was that if there was a hole, a penis can definitely enter it, and that was the solution to the problem.

Believe me, I had tried doing less destructive things to get the money I needed. Selling drugs is safer than "sexing-it-up" with strangers every night! Hand jobs or blowjobs, even simple-ass exhibitionism for the local pervs got me an easy twenty to eighty bucks, if I was lucky. But, then, the times where they'd wanna go ahead and get more, expect more than what I was willing to offer, they'd lay it out on the table.

"Two hundred and you'll be a rich boy tonight."

"I don't serve ass, sorry, dude."

"You're not leavin' here."

"The fuck do you mean?"

"You won't leave here 'til you do."

"You can keep your money! I'm not doing it, I just fucking told you!"

"Tough luck, kid. Let's go."

"No!"

Some nights . . . it didn't matter what I said or did. If they had the upper hand, they'd take advantage. Like my dad, for instance. Being the bigger man meant and still means everything. Doesn't matter if I've grown a lot over the years and stacked up on muscle. I'm still that helpless, little bitch that he owns. I know I'm not, but, somewhere inside me . . . his ownership is engraved.

Him being away made it a bit easier; but, to deal with assholes that acted so similarly to my dad was torturous. And now, he's back in town. It's been a week since he'd ganged-up on me. I'm still healing, but I've been keeping a low profile. Haven't spoken to Dad since he helped me back into my own house and dropped me off at my bed, giving me a whiskey and a couple of aspirins to drink away the pain. I made sure he left the property entirely before even downing the golden-brown liquid. There was no way in hell I was going to get shitfaced drunk with my dad in the vicinity.