He Can Only Hold Him

By Ravel Ashton

Trigger Warning: mention of rape and death

There’s a Nike drawstring bag that will do. You scramble around your tatty room looking for things you know you’ll need. Three pairs of underwear; one to be worn, one spare, one to be washed. You spy your battered journals, its peeling black leather covers, tucked under your mattress. You’ll need a jumper, you’re not sure if you’ll have a bed tonight. There’s a picture of you and your brother, it’s the only photo you’ll take with you. You grab the last half of a gram on your bedside table.

You take one last look around, it felt like you would never escape, you only recently redecorated. Thirteen stairs, thick red carpet with gold crests. Lights off switch by the door, turn the handle to the left. You don’t say goodbye. Down two flights of dimly lit fluorescent urine-soaked estate stairs, out into the cool summer night air you breathe in deeply, in for four. . . out for three . . . This feels right.

Every step feels like the right choice when you’re high on four grams of amphetamines. There is no second thought, just the singular, razor edge desire to be away from what you’ve known. You don’t realise at the time but your heading face first into the same mistakes your parents and their parents made before them.

The sky is purple, it's fading to black. You’ll blend in, black cap, black bag, black eyes. You move through the shadows; the roads aren’t lit where you are heading. The ascension to Vincenzo’s is pretty, rising higher into the clouds, it’s up hill, all up hill. You feel it in your calves whilst your thighs tingle with anticipation. In another life you are a prince, he is your king. His castle sits atop the clouds, a sea of amber beneath.

You’re not and this is South London.

It’s steep and you feel your bag slamming against your back as you storm ahead. You realise it's your whole life in that bag, that’s your whole life slamming against your back. The clouds break and you see the whole city below. Yellows and oranges, red dots moving across the night. You’ll see a lot of these in the next six months, you’ll be a lot of those lights in the next six months.

Vincenzo doesn’t know your real name, no one does, you keep that to yourself. You tell yourself it's because everyone gets it wrong but deep down it's because you worry he would kill you if things ever went south. You don’t love him, but he provides for you and that’s something new. His place is home for now, it's a place to feel free, to get naked, to forget what daylight is. It’s a club, it's a hotel, it's safe - you think.

You’ll be raped in this house. You’ll try to kill yourself in this house. A man will kill himself in this house. You’ll all be gone soon. You give your fake name at the buzzer and enter the house. You won’t leave for three days. Time will break down, stretch and wane to your whim. Seconds explode into minutes; and twists into hours. There is no sense of place, of belonging, just now.

Vincenzo is stout, he reminds you of a bull. Brown hair, brown eyes. His biceps are behemoth, they bulge as they wrap themselves around your starved frame. Like a python he could crush you if you get out of line. You think you like that. The fear.

A steady stream of clothed men come through the door, only to disrobe immediately and reveal their bodies to you. In the corner of your eye you spy a needle. Eyes cross confused at how such a little instrument could cause so much pain. Confusion turns to fear as you grow up. Fear turns to anger. Anger and judgement disappear when you have no place to stay. Vincenzo leaves.

Lewis enters. He’s tall, wiry, with eyes the colour of the water in Zakynthos. You sit cross legged on the bed as you watch Lewis start his routine. His pale arm stretched out, you wrap a small plastic tube around it just above the elbow. A spoon, a baggy, a blow torch. Skin breaks as the needle punctures his vein, a small amount of scarlet makes it way up. Lewis looks you dead in the eye, he trusts you, and you stop for a second to think if anyone’s ever looked at you in that way. He mixes it with the potion in the spoon. He asks if you want to be the one. You nod. You plunge the needle back into his arm, you both press down. His eyes roll back. His dick gets hard. You know you shouldn’t but you’re both high.

Vincenzo will be gone for a while and it's just you two. He has a way of getting what he wants. You’ll come to realise. You both do. He holds you in his arms, stroking your hair. You can’t remember the last time someone held you like this, it's enough to overwhelm you. You’re crying, you never cry, he kisses you. You kiss back. His hands are now everywhere, so are yours. You know you should sleep, but it's not your bed. You don’t set the rules anymore.

Cut yourself another line and push back the thought; you’re exactly like your mother.

Cut yourself another line and forget that this is exactly why your grandmother hates you.

Cut yourself another line and hope this is the last one.

Take another hit and scream in the shower because you can’t hold it in anymore. You’re fine, you’re fine, it's nothing. You put on his aftershave and you smell like him. You don’t smell like yourself anymore. You’re not yourself anymore. You’re not sure who you are. You think about going home ,you can’t. Your pride won’t let you. This was your choice. Just cut another line.