Gritty Devotion

Nicoline Balt stood by the white wooden door, the entrance to her foster care parents. She was waiting for the hysterical conflict to die down but it looked grim. It was a humid day and she ran her hand through her rich auburn hair, annoyed at the sweaty stands of bangs that stuck to her face. Her blue eyes turned to face the grass of the front yard, exasperated at the situation.

The sun was setting and it was getting late, probably way past her curfew. Feeling like an independant 15 year old who was almost 16, she decided to take another stroll. Nicoline was a normal looking girl, nothing spectacular or underwhelming. Average in height, average in weight and she wore a white tank top with jeans and a loose plaid jacket that had one button fastened. Her sneakers were black and worn due to her constant walks and time outside the suffocating house.

Truth was it wasn't so bad there. It was one of the better- the best foster family she's had. She was their last hope, the one last try to 'work it out'. It was pretty dumb though, Nico thought once again as she skipped down the hill. They picked a fight whenever possible, and though none of their anger was directed at her she was stuck in the middle. But the most thankful thing was that neither of them struck her, which felt like heaven after the last time.

Nico was in a light jog now, entering a shadier part of the town. She ignored the peculiar set of people and pressed on. It was the familiar smell of cigarettes and liquor. Throughout the years she picked up a particularly bad habit, something about the burning sensation of alcohol made her crave drinking. Being horribly under aged was not going to stop her from trying though, succeeding in the past.

Being new in town, she wasn't familiar of the crowd. Everyone's faces still looked new and suspicious, though she was generally careful sometimes you never know.

Nico heard a lot of screaming, chanting and cheering. There was quite the commotion outside the bar, two guys fighting- no three of them in a brawl of some sort. She was small enough to sneak through the crowd, their attention completely on their impromptu entertainment. It was one of the more established club houses in the street, and all she wanted was a peek.

The entrance seemed ratty and dirty, but once she descended down the stairs, it was apparent where all the money and quality was spent. The music was deafly loud, the smell was sweet, the lights flickered a colorful pallet and the clinks of drinks and laugher filled the whole basement. She was in awe, and wished she could observe and partake in the excitement.

He passed the homeless on his way to... an apartment. He would never call it 'home.' It hadn't been home since long before he could remember. It was simply the place where he lived, where he was surrounded by walls that seemed to cave in on him whenever she opened her mouth. Her voice was a bellow, an echo inside the tiny rooms they had inhabited for over ten? years. Her words would ricochet off the shitty plaster like bullets from a gatling gun, and when the dust cleared, he would find a new or reopened wound, a gaping hole he thought had healed weeks prior.

They never truly went away.

"P-Please..." A man reached for his jeans, fingers thin and caked in filth. The man was prepared to beg but found the boy had tossed him a coin before he could attempt to form the words. It was only a quarter, but the look the boy gave him spoke volumes. The boy nodded to him and pressed on, pocketing his hands in a black hoodie that melded with the shadows of the cold night. The man had tears in his eyes long after the boy had gone, rubbing the coin between his fingers as if it were more precious than gold.

Sucking in a breath, he climbed the stairs that led up to his cage. The apartment was easy to spot because it was the only one in the building that had a red door. The red door always gave him the chills. Even though it was freezing in the dark, he only shook when he saw the door, imagined what awaited him behind it. His hands would tremble and he had to wring them, interlock his fingers and breathe on them to stop the uncontrollable act. He licked at his chapped lips, his throat suddenly feeling extremely dry. He knew the screaming would come... or would it? Would he just not care at this point? What was there to yell about anymore?

The tremors only increased when he was in front of the door, one hand having to clutch his other wrist so he could put the key in the handle and turn. The click made him exhale a breath. Would she hear it? Gently he crept inside, gently he closed the door behind him, ever so... gently...

"Where the fuck have you been?"
The voice was female, loud and cold, icy as the gusts outside. Even though the hall in front of him was long and black, he could make out her enormous figure and the bloodshot eyes that looked to him with so much rage that it made his innards curl. Eyes that seemed to glow in the dark around them. Murderous eyes that he knew all too well.

Pulling back his hood, he ran a hand through jet black hair to smooth the locks out of his face. He had long hair that she hated. Made him look like a fag, she had said to him once. Very reason he didn't cut it since then. Now it was messy and stylized, thin spikes, curls, and bangs eventually dipping into a wave that covered one side of his face. It was a pretty face by male standards... and so obviously painted. He knew the make-up pissed her off even more. How could her son be a gay bastard? The shadows around his eyes made dark blue contacts pop, the skin on his face made to look a paler white than he was already.

"Out," he answered simply, a hand retreating into his hoodie to play with a few coins that he always carried. It was a nervous habit reminiscent of the man who was so grateful to him earlier. He'd rub and cling the coins together, flipping them between his fingers to calm his nerves.

"The fuck you mean you were out?" She stepped forward, spitting in his direction with each word. "Didn't I tell you to bring home liquor? You think I can drink this empty ass shit? It's a fucking bottle, August. An empty fucking bottle." She waved the bottle frantically before suddenly catapulting it at his head, but he anticipated it and stepped to the side to brace the wall with his shoulder, the bottle exploding in a hail of glass against the front door.

August looked back at the remnants and then at her with fear-stricken eyes... but the fear quickly melted away into anger. It was always that order. Fear. Then anger. Then emptiness. Empty as the bottle that was thrown at him, sharp as the shards that littered the floor.

"The hell do you think you're doing? You could have killed me!"
"What use do I have for a sissy fucking fag who can't even do what is asked of him?"
"Maybe you should speak like a civilized person for once. Maybe then I could understand the shit that comes out of your mouth. Instead you scream like a possessed fucking toddler!"
"Are you comparing your mother to a goddamn baby? Who's the sensitive fag who cried himself to bed not long ago?"
"You know, Mother, I recall you shedding some tears too for "that bastard" who ditched you many moons ago. I bet while you're here insulting your son and trying to kill him, he's enjoying some nice fresh pus-"

She moved quickly and was on him before he could finish the word, pinning him against the door and shouting in his face like a rabid dog. Gritting his teeth, he planted a knee in her gut before shoving her away just long enough to open the door and slam it in her face after he was on the other side. He heard a crunch and a scream of pain as if her nose broke, but he was already down the stairs and back out amongst the shadows, his cares and tears having withered when his age was in the single digits.

Sneaking into the club was easy enough when there was a fight outside. People were always drawn to stupidity and gore. August found himself on a booth in the corner, face in his hands. He felt like the vomit would come, but the music was keeping it at bay, so deafening that it rattled his thinking, kept his mind away from the despair that ate at him. Leaning back, he exhaled with a heaving chest, eyes focused on the lights above that furthered the assault on his senses. He had no idea why he was there, at a club of all things when he knew not the taste of alcohol or the allure of drugs... but he was, for a time, shrouded in a feeling of nothingness, his body belonging to that of the crowd and his mind an alien thing not his own.

If only the peace would last.