I don't want anyone to be upset by what I like, so I'm putting up a WARNING!! that this page contains links to sexual gay literature as well as other things that aren't for kids or, well, quite frankly, bigots!

There is so much in this world to see and to hear, that if I die having known merely one percent I will die thankful to those who have shown me... my family, my friends, my teachers. Our time on this earth is too short to waste it being narrow minded, open your hearts, watch, listen -- you will see so much more before you have to leave.

So, where will the road take you from here? Do you wish to travel further cross the bridge and see what's behind the hill? Or will you let me entertain you for awhile at the best of my ability? The choice is yours...

The Smell of Memories Part 2

Title: The Smell of Memories 2 
Author: Dice 
Pairings: M/M 
Note: No spankings or playing in this part so far. 


WARNING: The story deals with depression, trauma and suicidal thoughts. It's BDSM oriented and people might not always "play safe"

Recap: Michael Aldren can't stand the smell of roses, why, is something not many knows. After a messy break up with his boyfriend, Julian, over Mike's indulging in S/M, he is driven into a state of depression and beset by thoughts of suicide he finds himself with his job hanging on a thin thread and with only the option of calling on a sometimes "playmate" for help.

**********

The Second Interval (Partial)

He was locked up. Darkness pressing in, the walls somewhere just out of sight, but he sensed them coming closer. He couldn't scream. A weight on his chest. He couldn't move. The weight grew heavier. There was no air. He was going to die! He couldn't breathe!!

He opened his eyes.

The room was dark, a single thread of light falling on the floor, across some newspapers and a pair of socks.

He still couldn't move. Sleep hadn't left his body yet. What was worse he still couldn't breathe – every breath a painful struggle, something weighing down his chest. Something wet ran into his ear and he realised he was crying. Quiet sobs escaped him and he struggled not to choke or be loud enough to disturb Maksim.

Slowly he tried to move his arms, one seemed stuck in the blanket, the other was numb and tingling from at a weird angle underneath him. He rolled over. There was a sharp hiss as something fell heavily onto the rug and a shadow vanished at lightning speed into a black corner.

Mike's heartbeats was loud as thunder in his own ears. That fucking cat! It was just the fucking cat! He wiped his tears away sitting up.

He could just barely remember the dream, but the feeling was familiar, one he'd had for many years after dreams like this. A sense of confinement lingering. Heart never wanting to slow. Since he couldn't shake the feeling staying where he was. He got up and headed unsteadily towards the bathroom, his every step sending a small jolt of pain through his knee.

Then the darkness betrayed him and he stabbed his toe on the bathroom door. He smothered a curse – he mustn't wake Maksim. He wouldn't be a bother. He'd promised.

Washing his face in cold water seemed to ease the persistent fear. The light, and staring at his pale face in the mirror helped too. But only just. He looked ghastly.

He needed to pee.

When he at length came out, the light was on in Maksim's bedroom. He stiffened and stood like a statue in the dark. Heart tumbling over and his stomach clenching in panicked convulsions. He'd promised he wouldn't be a bother. He wrapped his arms around himself and hugged tightly.

There was movement behind the door and then it opened. Maksim's familiar shape was a silhouette in the doorway for a moment and then he moved on, walking casually towards the kitchen, but stopping short of the door.

"Bad Galya. You make such noise. You will wake our guest," he picked up the cat and continued murmuring in Russian as he turned around, the empty couch and discarded blanket coming into his view. He looked around, even in the dark appearing confused. "Misha?"

Mike didn't move. Had forgotten how. He tried to answer, but he couldn't seem to find his voice, it was lodged somewhere in his throat and wouldn't even make a squeak.

"Misha?" Maksim walked around the couch and headed in his direction, but not looking at him. He was almost beside him before he noticed he was there. "Misha!" Sharp, annoyed. Mike looked down, swallowing acid. He was such a bother to everyone. "What are you doing?" Maksim put the cat down and with a firm hand steered him back to the couch. "Sit!"

Mike sat obediently.

"Bad dream?"

He nodded.

"I'm… I'm sorry I woke you…"

"I can live with the waking up!" Maksim cut him off brusquely. "What dream was it?"

Mike stared at his hands, fidgeting on their own in his lap. One hand drifted to the sturdy bandage around his knee – Maksim was frightfully good at dealing with wounds, a fact Mike had been grateful for many times when it had saved him a visit to the emergency after one partner or other had taken his silence as consent. Mike had an aversion to doctors and explaining away whiplashes did not appeal to him.

Maksim slapped his wrist. He jerked his hand back and rubbed it protectively, a red mark blossoming where Maksim's stern hand had struck. He met his eyes in the faint light.

"Tell me!"

"I don't want to!" Mike flinched at his own voice. "…sorry…"

"I have no patience for your wants. Tell me what is wrong!"

So simple to him. Just obey. It sounded easy.

"It's nothing, nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, I'm… I'm… I shouldn't have…" he turned away and moved up in the couch, feeling small and vulnerable. Maksim's face, lit by the warm light from his bedroom was so at odds with the chill Mike felt coming from him.

"It would be better for you not to lie," Maksim stood up. "I will not ask more, but I will tell you this; if you have a plan to kill yourself, you should not have come to me!"

The door closed. Darkness once again enveloped him and he remained sitting. Waiting. Waiting for daylight. He wouldn't sleep again this night, he knew as much. He never did. Not after a dream.

Maksim was angry. He'd been a bother. He'd promised not to be a bother. Before he knew it he was sobbing into the pillow he'd borrowed. First quietly. Constrained gasps that he wouldn't allow anyone to hear and then he couldn't stop them from growing louder.

He cried hard. So hard that he didn't hear the footsteps, didn't react until he was pulled up and embraced. He wept into the Russian's bare shoulder, choking on tears, his throat aching. An eternity passed, but he couldn't stop, couldn't find his breath, couldn't keep the sobs from echoing in the silence.

When no more tears would come, he felt he still had many, many more to shed. Maksim laid him back on the pillow and folded the blanket over him, caressing his forehead and rising. A soothing whisper was the last he heard before he succumbed to a restless sleep.

"Sleep, mîliy*… no more worries."

*****

A newspaper fell into his lap. Mike looked up startled at Maksim, who was now pouring coffee into a cup, sniffing it with a frown.

"Not as strong as I make it," he judged and Mike cringed, about to apologise. "It has apartments."

Mike drew a deep breath and let it out in a trembling sigh that he hoped couldn't be heard. It was. Maksim sat down and his eyes found Mike's, stern and compelling.

"You will not stay here! I live alone. I like this. You must take care of you. No boyfriend. No!" he interrupted Mike's plea with a sharp blow to the tabletop with his fist. Mike jumped. "You can stay here, two weeks, three. I will allow this. But you will look at apartments. You will be useful and you will obey me." A very clear `or else' hung in the air between them.

Mike nodded slowly. He had known this was temporary. Had known Maksim didn't want him. Never had. But it hurt.

He stood quickly, his knee making his steps falter as he walked over to the kitchen counter, turning the tap. The clatter of porcelain filled the silence as he began the washing up with shaky hands. He'd promised Maksim that he'd make himself useful during his stay. He might as well prove he could be.

"Misha!" Mike flinched and dropped the cup into the sink with a loud clang. "Do not try to ignore me! I will not accept it! Understood?"

"…yes…" he mumbled, picking up the cup – the handle had come off.

He was such a clumsy idiot! He fucked everything up. Everything always came apart around him. Maksim would have a go at him for this, he wagered. He slipped his hands and the cup under the water and held it still.

If only he could get a new one without Maksim noticing. He moved his hands and the cup to the surface again looking at the pattern. No. No, this wasn't even new. Probably not British. He'd never seen it in a shop. Maksim moved behind him and he pushed the cup under again, tensing up.

Don't see! Don't see! Don't see! Don't see! Don't see! Don't see!

"What did you break?" Quiet. Fed up.

Fuck!

"I'm sorry! I'll get a new one! I promise! Please, I'm so…"

Maksim turned him around, hands clamped down on his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. There was no storm in them, no blackness and no threats. Only certainty and an inflexible sense that they saw more than Mike wanted to show.

"Misha… you cannot stay here if you are afraid of me," he sighed. "You trust me, yes?" Mike nodded automatically. "Then why are you shaking?"

"…I… I don't… don't know…" he looked up with a pale smile that almost hurt.

He was drawn in close to Maksim's chest. Just a quick, quiet hug and then released. He nodded as if they'd reached an agreement on something and Maksim returned the gesture. A mutual, tacit understanding of just how bad things were and that they couldn't be dealt with in the blink of an eye.

"I have work," Maksim said then, moving him out of his way and
patting his shoulder. "I will be home around five. You go to the police and bring your bag."

Mike slammed the broken cup into the dustbin when Maksim was safely out of the building and cursed him. He might as well tell him to go to the fucking moon for that bloody bag. That's how impossible it felt. Of course, he lived here on borrowed time, in borrowed clothes and on borrowed food. He had to go get his bag. He owed Maksim that much.

He owed Maksim to go to the moon too if he asked it.

No matter how unwillingly and grudgingly Maksim offered his home and his compassion, his was the only offer that came without questions or pressure for sex. He might have demands that seemed insurmountable to Mike, but at one time `stand up' had seemed to be such a demand.

When he first met Maksim he had told him very little of himself. He'd been afraid. Afraid to be turned away by the Ruthless Russian, which was what he was referred to as in the circles that Mike used to move in then. But little by little a shaky bond of trust was forged between them. A bond that wasn't love and never would be. Friendship perhaps. Or as close to a friendship as it was possible for someone like him to have with a man like Maksim.

Maksim was the only one who didn't care that he was insane. The only one who accepted that part of him without forcing change on him. He simply told him to live with it.

Live with it. `You must take care of you.' Live with it. Go on. One step and then another. He'd tried that for so long and still every step hurt. All hurt.

He drew himself up and went back to washing up.

`If you have a plan to kill yourself, you should not have come to me!'

He smiled. A small cynical twist of his lips. No, guests should probably be more courteous than that. The thought of suicide hadn't crossed his mind though. Not once since Maksim said he would come for him. It was forbidden.

Gritting his teeth he tried to shove the thought away now. It wasn't real. Not a real wish. He was merely toying with the idea, like a cat with a snake… no harm done until it bit and its venom spread inside him, poisoning his every rational thought.

He missed Julian. A pang of guilt and longing pierced him. God, he missed Julian!

Missed his warm eyes, his kisses and his touch. Missed the security, someone who cared, someone who wanted to be with him. Now Julian hated him. He had made Julian hate him.

Mike banged his head against the cupboard door as hard as he could. Searing, blinding pain stabbed at his consciousness, just about making him fall over.

His hand came away wet with tears when he pressed it against his face to keep his balance. He was so fucked up! Fucked up nutter!

Rummaging around in Maksim's cupboards he finally found some pain killers. For the longest while he merely glared at the hateful things.

Drugs. He loathed them. Couldn't stand them. Hated them with his whole being and at the same time… He'd used to be able to do anything for them. He'd taken just about any kind there was, some from doctors, others from friends, some making his life bliss, others a hell without limits.

His head pounded, reminding him why he'd searched these out and shaking free of his qualms he knocked back a few without water, not bothering to check whether they were prescription or not.

Julian would've been fit to be tied if he'd seen him. Julian…



"…for a notice in the paper… Yeah, it's Julian!" his voice. Julian's voice. Mike felt warm inside. Then he realised he would have to say something and the warmth turned to ice in his stomach.

"It's… it's…"

"Mike?! Mike where the fuck are you?! Are you all right?!" Anxious. Worried to the verge of anger. A fitful laughter burst like a bubble on Mike's lips and mingled with the tears. He wiped at his nose.

"I love you…"

"I… Where are you? I was worried… I didn't know if you…" he didn't say it, never said it, never made it real.

Mike swallowed. If he told… He didn't know what to say. He choke on his tears and gulped down his voice. Then he tried again.

"Maksim's…"

"What?! You fuck!" Julian couldn't keep the disgust from his voice and Mike cringed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't have anywhere else to go! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Yeah? You always are, aren't you?" acid dripping from every syllable. "Fuck you Mike! I thought you were… I don't know… I'm…" A long pensive pause.

The silence said much. Silence that wasn't quiet was Julian's speciality. Silence that spoke wordless volumes. Mike rested his throbbing head against the doorsill and waited. Waited for Julian's decision. His verdict.

It came at length and kindly.

"I'm glad you're all right…"

"I love you…" Mike mumbled quickly, voice thick with crying and tears running down his cheeks.

That silence again. Longer this time. Tired. Satiated with the lack of response that was still so unmistakable. Mike's hand clenched around the receiver as if it could prevent Julian from vanishing. As if he could keep him there with the strength of his grip.

"I love you!" he pressed on in desperation, choking. Please be there… be there always… don't go!

"…I…" a sigh or a sob quivering on the other end.

"I love you! Please!"

"…I care about you… Mike, I do… but I can't… we can't…" he was quiet again, gathering strength, searching for words, finding them, "…don't ring me… I rather you didn't… it's better… I'm sorry. Please, I can't… bye…"

The sharp click was surreal. Reality wavered for a second and Mike dropped the receiver and sank down to his knees.

A shiver ran through him. Once, twice. He felt nothing. The world around him was swaying slightly and then he pushed himself up from the floor and rushed over to the sink.

He vomited until his insides burned, but the nausea wouldn't yield its grip on him. Still, when there was nothing left to heave up he staggered away from the sink drying his eyes on his sleeve, leaning on a chair.

Some milk perhaps. Maksim might have that.

No milk. He leaned heavily on the door feeling the cold from the refrigerator against his face. It felt good. His eyes fell on a bottle. Mike touched the label, he couldn't read it, but knew what it was all the same. Vodka. Russian – bound to be bought on one of his trips or sent from his family.

His fingers traced the foreign letters for a moment and then he let out his breath.

*****

He blinked up at the ceiling, the fading light from outside made patterns on the white wood, they danced before his eyes.

Someone opened and closed the front door. Mike closed his eyes.

"Misha?" he kept himself shut off and listened. Maksim stepped closer. "Misha…?" his voice was tired and not quite able to muster the response it seemed to want to give to his inert form.

He came closer yet. One step at the time and Mike held his breath. He heard him bend down and pick something up from the floor next to the sofa, cursing subtly in Russian – the bottle of vodka undoubtedly – a cold hand on his wrist, checking for a pulse and then he was shaken harshly by the shoulder.

"Misha!" he opened his eyes unwillingly to stop the rough handling. He glared up at Maksim leaning over him. "What do you mean by this?" he held the bottle out.

"Well… hullo to you… too," Mike muttered, the words he wanted were hard to catch. He tried to sit up and Maksim pushed him back down.

"You draining your sorrows, maybe? Yes?" Sizzling eyes, piercing right through him. Even as drunk as he was, he still quivered.

He struggled to sit up, Maksim barely allowing it. The room rolled over as his head came up higher than his feet and he wished someone would tell the walls to stand still. He attempted to glare defiantly at the towering Russian. He failed.

Maksim simply raised an eyebrow in return.

"Fo your infomashion… it'sh `drowning your shorrows' …actshually," he snarled with more sarcasm then he'd ever dared use towards Maksim. Although the effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that his jaw no longer seemed attached to the rest of his face.

"Mudilo**! I should drown you! You know what my brother give for this?" Maksim made to cuff him and then, when Mike flinched, just scowled and turned away, going to the kitchen with the bottle.

Mike's ears burned from drunken indignation and he stuck two fingers in the air at the Russian's retreating back. The room tilted again.

He lay back down on the sofa, his arm flung over his face. He listened to the sound of the bottle being tossed in the dustbin and then there was a clearly identifiable, rattling noise as Maksim shook the small plastic container Mike had dropped on the bench.

The Russian came back into the living room, medication in hand.

"How many?"

Too few. The cynical response died on his lips. He turned his head away. Anger, humiliation, and liquor burned inside him.

Maksim advanced on him. Steps falling heavily against the carpet. He was pulled up much too fast, the world tumbling over in pace with his stomach. A firm grip tilted his head back and forced his eyes to level with the Russian's. He twisted his head to get free, but Maksim's thumb pressed against his jaw until he stopped trying.

"I dunno…" Defensiveness warred with the confidence of the very drunk and he glowered at Maksim.

"You do not know?" the Russian scoffed. "I will drive you to the hospital then, yes?"

"No!" Mike pushed his hand away angrily. How could he say that? "I'm not… fuck… go not to no… not going to… no bleething hoshpital!"

"You do not mix drink and drugs. You can die, Mikhail!"

"It'sh Michael!" Mike shouted, frightened to open hostility. "Fuck off! What care… whachyou care?" the words seemed to be skipping merrily along just out of his reach. The words came out jumbled and he had to focus until it became a physical exercise just to get a sentence out. "I'd be… out of your… out of your… way then, wouldn't I? Wouldn't I? Wouldn't I?" Happy he'd found something to say that didn't come out all mixed up he repeated the question. "Wouldn't I?"

He stumbled to his feet pushing Maksim with all his weight.

It proved a stupid thing to do as the Russian stepped backwards on his own and Mike fell forward and knocked his bandaged knee on the coffee table. The pain made even his fingers tingle and he groaned, temporarily blinded and unable to focus on anything at all. He turned his anger and frustration back at Maksim as soon as he could.

"I shouldn't ashked you to help! Shouldn't ever talked to you… Julian hated you, I know why… he shaid you'd only… he shaid you were… You know what? Fuck you!" he stumbled up. He didn't know what made his head spin so badly, but he almost fell over again.

He put too much weight on his leg and cried out, staggering, stumbling and then suddenly Maksim steadying him with one hand under his arm. Why was he there? Always ready to help, but never willing? Mike snatched free and slapped his hand away.

"Should've never come here…"

"Why do you not leave then, hm? Go on, the door is over there!" Maksim pointed towards the front door, his eyes an empty black that would've chilled Mike to the core if not for the vodka clouding his judgement.

"I bloody… bloody will then! Fuck you!"

He staggered to the door, looked for his shoes, yanked a jacket down from its hanger and tossed it on the floor, raging and cursing when he couldn't find his own. Nothing cooperated with his clumsy fingers and the floor kept bobbing underneath his feet trying to knock him down.

The shoelace snapped and he threw the shoe into the wall, tears of frustration welling up. He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles until it hurt.

He was drunk, it hit him suddenly.

"I'm… I'm a… I'm not feeling so good…" he whispered.

Maksim watched him. He didn't reply. But the silence was heavy. Mike felt it even through his stupor. It wasn't supposed to go like this with Maksim. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all. It was all like a bad dream he couldn't wake up from.

The shoelace dropped from his hand as it went limp and he started crying. Maksim mumbled in Russian and then he moved. Walked towards Mike with no hurry.

When he reached his side he bent and picked him up. He felt light as a feather. He could recall vaguely being handled like this before, but not when. Carried. Like a child. Safe. Comfort.

He cuddled closer, sobbing.

"If I was a clever man I would not try to do this by myself, when I know I cannot, yes?" Maksim's voice was quiet and tired.

Mike felt the soft bedspread against his hands when Maksim let him go. He'd felt the pattern underneath his clutching hands many times. It was reassuring. Familiar. Lying on this bed was familiar too, it brought back the odd mixture of apprehension and calm of being in Maksim's hands. He felt small and free. His head swam.

"No! here, in here!"

Something was held up, his bleary vision couldn't make out what, and he heaved up the purely liquid diet of the day into it.

He fell back on the bed and the last thing he knew before sleep pulled him into a swirling black hole was Maksim's firm hands tucking a blanket around him.

To be continued

* mîliy -- dear/sweet (if anyone knows that this word can't be used as an endearment, let me know so I can change it something else).

** mudilo -- dumbass

The Smell of Memories

Title: The Smell of Memories 
Author: Dice 
Pairings: M/M (new characters, pairings will vary throughout the story) 
Feedback: Oh, please, good or bad, say something :-)

WARNING: The story deals with depression, past trauma and suicidal thoughts. It's BDSM oriented, will have spankings at a later point. I may be overstressing this, but this story is angst, pure and simple, and with few prospects of going anyplace happy anytime soon.

**********

The First Interval

**********

The smell struck him immediately when he set foot in the hallway. Sweet. Sickening. He saw his face blanch in the mirror across from the door. The fragrance made him tremble slightly. Why was that smell there? Julian knew, knew he couldn't stand it.

Roses. Pure, pinkish nearly white blossoms mixed with green and orange in a strikingly exquisite arrangement on the table in the living room.

He was sweating and his hands shook. He scowled at the flowers as if he could prevent them from smelling, prevent them from being, with his glare. There were only one clear thought in his head as he moved forward. He had to get rid of the smell. That smell that was choking him.

He slammed the garbage chute shut and felt some of the nausea go away. Then he returned to the apartment, shuddering when he looked around, not knowing whether he was imagining it or if the smell was still there -- he knew it shouldn't be.

"What the hell...?"

Julian came out of the shower, the towel around his slim hips held up with one hand, the muscles of his abdomen rippling as he dried his hair with another towel. He was staring wide eyed at the empty spot on the table and than turned his brown glare at Mike.

His hands were still trembling and he felt even sicker now.

"They're gone!" he hissed.

"I can see that! What I want to know is where they went?"

Julian advanced on him, throwing the towel he'd used to dry his hair in the big armchair.

"Well?"

He continued giving Mike that same piercing stare.

He couldn't answer. He knew he ought to sit down, or better yet, get outside. He needed air, fresh air. Now. Fast! He pushed his way passed Julian and pulled on the door to the balcony until Julian slid an arm around him and unlocked it to let him out.

Air, fresh air. With the smell gone he breathed more freely and the nausea disappeared. He was finally able to get himself back under control and sink down on the wooden bench by the wall.

"Did you throw them out?"

Julian didn't wait for him to nod -- didn't need to -- he continued harshly: "What is wrong with you? I got those from work! Do you know how sick I find this obsession of yours? This was one step too far. I've had it dammit!"

Julian crouched down in front of him, brown eyes searching the distraught face.

"I just... I just don't want them... Don't. Want. Them!"

Mike shook his head frantically.

"You're so fucked up!" Julian murmured seizing his wrist. "Get a grip, Mike! Fast! Or we're through! Got it?" he got up and left.



Some things are so terrible that you can't even tell the people you love. Others are so terrible that you can't tell people because you love them. He'd tried to tell Julian, tried to explain, but he had got a strange distant look that had said clearer than words `Please don't dump this on me!' and suggested that he see someone professional.

He'd seen enough professionals.

Julian thought that maybe he had a phobia. Against roses? Who'd ever heard anything like it? He tried to cure Mike by buying him roses that he'd associate with something good, red roses, yellow roses, pink, white, blue -- yes even blue roses. Wasn't it a miracle what botanists had managed to do? They didn't get rid of the smell though, did they? But maybe the smell was all in his head.

Last time he'd thrown up on the kitchen floor when the smell wouldn't go away. There had been no more roses. Until today.



`You're so fucked up!'

"I'm so fucked up!" he whispered. "So fucking seriously fucked up! Fucked up! Fucked! Fuck!" he stared at his hands. They were still shaking.

"Through?"

Was that his plan? His way of making the break up Mike's fault? Maybe. It was always his fault, he was nuts, nobody would love him, you can't love a nutcase, a maniac, a weirdo, a freaking, fucking lunatic, with a freaking, fucking obsession with roses, with being away from roses. Far away where the smell couldn't make him go through it again, and again, and again.

`Maybe you have a repressed memory.' Julian's I've-read-a-book-on- this-I-know-these-things-voice rang in his head. `You really should see someone.'

No, no, he hadn't repressed anything. He remembered it as vividly as if it was happening to him now.

He decided to suck up, it was worth a try. Or was it?

"I love you."

His words were met with cold silence. Icy silence. Julian's silence.

"I do! I really do! I didn't mean to hurt you."

Silence.

"What do you want me to say?" he pleaded and continued in the same breath: "I freaked out, all right? What can I do? I can't take it and you know it, I've tried to..."

"I don't want to hear anymore!"

Julian got up and slammed the door to the bedroom so that the pictures on the wall rattled, dangerously close to falling.

"I'll just make supper then, shall I?" he said to the door.

What he'd really want to do was take a long hot shower and purge himself from the filth -- not that he ever could. It wasn't his body that was dirty -- it was him. He walked towards the bathroom, but reconsidered. Julian was already angry and if he followed up one obsession with another he would be furious. He had to get a grip -- or they'd be through.

"Through."

No, he couldn't think about it. Through meant being alone again, and alone meant... alone meant going back in time, it meant lying in bed not wanting to get up, it meant having meals without taste -- when you bothered eating at all. It meant feeling worthless. It meant being worthless.

"I'm so fucked up." His whisper lingered in the empty room. He sat down on a chair in the kitchen, too tired to get anything done.

He couldn't say how long he had sat there. Julian's hand on his shoulder startled him and he flew back. Julian's face went from about to forgive, to about to blow up.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to order take out, but I suppose you'd rather be alone with your sulking. I'm going out!"

The door slammed.

What was the use? Julian didn't want him. No one could ever want him, he was pathetic. He didn't deserve love, shouldn't be alive.


*****


"Misha? What are you doing here?"

"Just passing by."

"I can't let you in right now."

"That's okay."

"What is wrong?"

"The usual."

"Come back in an hour, all right?"


*****


He sat in Maksim's kitchen.

Whatever conception he'd had of the Russians before he met Maksim only one remained. Hard. Hard eyes, hard words, hard...

"I'm so fucked up."

Silence. But not Julian's silence.

"No, you're not," spoken quietly, but with a voice he knew to listen to.

"I... Julian thinks so."

"And all think like Julian, god of fucked up, yes?" Maksim lifted his chin with a firm hand. "You're a fool, but not so bad."

"Please, I want..."

"He wants? No, no you don't want."

"I'm sorry, I need it, please..." he let out a sob, his eyes looking pleadingly into those of the stern Russian, but Maksim let go of his face and went over to the window, sighing.

"And what is it you need, Misha?" he said barely loud enough to reach Mike.

"I... you know, please..." he whispered.

A cat moved behind the curtain. Slowly. Softly. It stared attentively at the guest, then jumped on Maksim's shoulder, again locking eyes with Mike. Maksim's hand came up and scratched it gently.

"I'm begging you... please, sir, I need you to... to punish me," his voice broke and the cat still watched him.

"No!"

"...no...?"

"What you need is not having Julian telling you things to make you come to me!"

"Why not!?" he stood up, frustration clear in tone and stance, and the cat hissed with its claws out.

Silence and then the Russian let out a sigh again.

"I have no time for you, Misha, no time and no strength," he stated.

"I'm sorry..." Mike turned to leave.

"Where will you go now?"

"Home, I guess... out..."

Silence again. He moved like a cat, Maksim, quick, soundless, fluent. No hesitation as he took his arms, no delaying in forcing him close, despite the tremor it caused. Tears moistened the shirt. Please! Please!

"Misha... meeliy..." the Russian sighed, pulling Mike's head back. Waiting. Waiting until he listened again. "I'll do it. I don't know where you go if I don't -- this worries me... But I say stop, when I do, yes?"

"...yes..."



The ticking sound from the old clock on the wall in Maksim's bedroom had once been acutely irritating to Mike, now it was soothing. A familiar sound that returned him to calmness even after the most intense sessions at the Russian's hands.

He drew a shuddering breath. Above his head his hands were secured tightly with ropes, soft, smooth, probably silk, and at the foot of the bed his legs were being spread with the same kind of sleek ropes.


One loop, two... Maksim's hand caressing his tense calf until he relaxed into the covers.

Bare skin exposed and anticipating pain, bliss, relief -- all the things that Maksim could bring him, the things more cleansing than any water, no matter how hot. The one thing that would purge him from the filth inside.

He felt Maksim's thigh against his as the other man sat down on the bed. Reaching over, the Russian placed a scarf against his lips and Mike readily accepted the gag, this he was used to, though it had worried him at first, those many years ago. It was different now -- easier to scream when he wasn't frightened of the sound he made.

The many tresses of a flogger tickled his back. He could feel which one it was, not the smoother deer hide one and not the more rigid one with the vicious thongs either, but the suede, rough and gentle at the same time. It was snatched up and landed with a whoosh. Mike let out a gasp -- not from pain, there was none yet, but from the pure built up tension releasing at that first, sought after stroke.

The pain built up, becoming tangible, and then a slow burning feeling spread over his skin. Maksim focused on thighs and buttocks, knowing where to hit and how to hit. Driving Mike further into that state of bliss not found elsewhere.

He was almost free.

The pain, still a comfortable warmth, building slowly into a blaze, sent waves of emotion through him. It began to tingle more at each swift lash and he began to squirm uneasily, but wanting more, so much more. Maksim didn't let the pain fade between lashes, didn't allow for the skin to regain any coolness.

It hurt enough to make him wince now, to make him hiss softly for every stroke. And slowly, methodically Maksim drove him towards that brink he so yearned to reach. He felt as if he was being lifted out of himself, just on the edge of attaining that perfect state of floating... flying... where no thoughts, no feelings were too strong to be pushed aside. It was euphoria.

So close... The room dimmed as if from vertigo. So close now... he would let go any moment...

Then he knew it wouldn't come. Maksim's hands removed the gag, wiped away tears Mike never knew he'd shed and began untying his arms.

The clock ticked steadily, the low familiar sound, a reminder to come back to reality.

"...no...no..." tears welled up afresh, falling on the covers. "...no...don't stop...not yet..." but Maksim showed no mercy. He pulled him up and held him briefly, then pushed him into the bathroom and in under jets of cold water, quickly turning warm at the turn of a knob.

He was left alone. Crying, he rested his head against the wall.



"Did you have food before you came?" Maksim's voice cutting through his dazed thoughts as he came out from the bathroom. He shook his head. "Should have told me -- whippings are not good on an empty stomach!"

"I know..."

The cat was again on her master's shoulder, if cats had masters, perhaps it was the other way around... Maksim sat on the couch, half turned towards him.

"You know, and yet, you do not tell me? What am I to think of this?" he sounded angry. Mike didn't like anger, but he deserved it. Deserved everyone to hate him.

"I'm sorry, sir..." Why say it? It wouldn't help. Didn't help when said to Julian... it never helped. Maksim stood up and the cat jumped down.

"Sit! I'll make you food... I found a new baker, he's Polish, but live in Russia for some time... not good at bread, Polacks..." Maksim's voice trickled out from the kitchen as Mike sank down in the couch, a far off, yet reassuring sound that he didn't listen to much and that wasn't why Maksim spoke. Not because he wanted something said, but to keep Mike grounded, calm. He'd seen through his tactics, but that did not prevent them from working.

Mike let his gaze fall on the little white and grey cat, which watched him with scepticism from underneath the coffee table.

He'd had a cat. The memory came like a flash of sharp light and he closed his eyes. No. A black kitten. No, no, he didn't want to see that! Blood on the floor... no! A trail of it... it had looked like paint... and fur... no! ...then that little mass of red and black... no! ...he couldn't believe what it was... but the eyes... still open... NO!!

He stood up. Shivering. He clenched and unclenched his hands. The image faded. He walked into the kitchen, stopped hesitantly in the doorway. Maksim looked up, said nothing, but put the jar of honey down. Mike flushed with shame at the Russian's weary sigh.

"Bad thoughts?"

He nodded.

"Let me finish. Sit! Talk if you want."



He didn't talk.

When the Russian was done he sat beside him, pushed the bread into his hands and patted him on his knee. Salamata**, cold, with cream, honey and jam. It fuels the weary and the drained, Maksim claimed and Mike did not argue.

"Misha...?" Mike stopped chewing and looked up, a lump forming in his throat. "You should not stay."

He felt suddenly cold, did he want him to go? Now? Then he understood and the cold went to his heart. He put the bread down, a dismal kind of nausea overcoming him.

"I can't..." he whispered, breath stuck somewhere in his throat.

"He will damage you... I see this," Maksim shook his head.

"I've nowhere to go..."

Maksim said nothing. He hadn't expected him to. The silence grew a moment longer and then Maksim rose, busying himself with the washing up.

"You don't like the bread? Polacks! I should not buy from Polish baker..."


*****


The apartment was so dark. It felt abandoned and the air was raw. Mike turned the light switch and then hurried to close the balcony door. What a mistake in this neighbourhood. Not that there was anything worth stealing anyway, apart from a few CDs and a really old VCR.

He looked around, Julian hadn't been back.

Walking into the bedroom he ignored the lights and sank down on the bed. Some lingering remnants from the flogging made him tense up. It felt good. A comforting reminder.

He sat there for a long time, just feeling one with the dark. Melancholy overpowering him and making him unable to stir again.

The key in the lock. Stumbling footsteps. Julian was back from clubbing -- alone it seemed.

He turned the lights on in the bedroom, making Mike squint. The liquor showed in every movement of his swaying form. He leered at Mike and came closer, swaying backwards slightly and then he bent forward and kissed him.

Hot, sensual, with lips that tasted of alcohol and something else, a sour taste of someone else's ejaculation. Mike pulled back, but Julian held the back of his head, forcing his tongue into his mouth and tipping him backwards onto the bed.

Julian's hands suddenly lacked any trace of drunkenness as he swiftly unbuttoned Mike's jeans, and pushed them down over his hips and off. Mike resigned and let him have his way, as always. It was best. Always let them have their way and the pain is less.

Then as his briefs were dragged off, roughly, scraping the tender skin, Mike remembered how bright the glaring light really was. Julian moved back a bit, his face darkening.

"The fucking Russian," a statement, not a question. "You fuck!" Julian flung him off the bed -- he lay still. He had this coming. He deserved to be struck. Julian had never hit him before, but he knew, had always known, that it was only a matter of time.

"...I'm sorry..." automatically, always on the tip of his tongue, he regretted it immediately.

"Sorry?" Julian's voice was dripping sarcasm. "You fucker! You cheated on me, you bloody prick!!"

"And what you do isn't cheating...?" whispered quietly, a defiant question, coming unbidden and from somewhere out of Mike's control. He felt horror twisting his insides.

"You fuck!!" Julian kicked him -- once, in the ribs. Then he left the room. He returned a few minutes later. "We're through! You get that, you sick, fucked up pervert?! Through!" then he disappeared again only to return with a bag.

He flung clothes into it haphazardly. Shirts and sweaters, dirty and too big for their owner, jeans, the only other pair he had. Mike closed his eyes as every article of clothes he owned was stuffed into the bag until no more fit into it.

"Get the fuck up and get out!!" Julian hurled the bag at him, half of the clothes falling out again. Mike hugged it to his chest.

Julian pulled him up, dragged his compliant body towards the door and kicked him out, chucking jeans and jacket after him -- the shoes, ultimately, thrown with direction at his face. Mike ducked and cowered.

The door slammed shut and with a final, irrevocable click the lock was turned from the inside.


*****

A paper mug was placed in front of him, the aroma tickling his nostrils. Espresso, steaming. He warmed his hands on the mug, not quite holding it. He would drink soon, just let it cool some. It was odd, he had no tears.

Perhaps he was too empty already to cry, this was just a pebble added to the weight after all. He watched the mug and wondered briefly who had ordered it -- he didn't want it. His hands moved to grip it and the heat burned at his palms. He didn't want it to stop, at least he felt it. It meant he could still feel.

He wondered why he had worried about breaking up with Julian. It wasn't as if it mattered anyway, nothing did. He laughed faintly, but the sound was brittle, empty. Like life. For a moment he could almost feel his draining away from him.

His head swayed. There wasn't really any point ever rising again. He could just let himself relax, he'd fall and then he'd just stay down.

The room was so distant, like he was trapped in a bubble. Faint shapes moved around him but they didn't concern him.

Then the smell came creeping into his senses.

It jolted him back to the present like a sharp jab from a knife or the tip of a lash curling around the hip. He began to shake.

Looking around he found the source of the smell. A couple, seated behind him, oblivious to everything but each others eyes. A bouquet of roses lay atop her purse, glaring angry red at him. Mike couldn't control his body. It felt as if it had remained in the far off place where his mind had taken him a moment ago and he had woken up leaving it behind.

He stood clumsily. The espresso gushed over his jeans and shoes as he toppled it in his rush to get away. It scalded the skin momentarily, but he couldn't even find the presence of mind to swear.

Some people were moving towards him and he suddenly felt crowded. Panic hit hard and he lurched out the door and into the street. Someone called after him, but he just ran all the quicker. Crossing the trafficked street with no regard for life or limb; he found himself reeling into a side street, fleeing down the pavement and into the blessed darkness of a park.

He stumbled on the low hurdle separating path from lawn and landed on his face in the dew glittering grass.

Breathing slowly, he gradually found himself again. He sat up, pain began to make itself known from the scalding coffee and he rubbed at his leg. A part of him worried about blisters, the other wanted the pain to eat its way through his bones.

The bag was gone and everything he owned with it. But somehow he couldn't work up the strength to care. He rose.

Rain hung in the air, as so often when summer was reaching its end. He'd get wet. Perhaps he'd catch pneumonia. People died from that if it wasn't treated. It seemed an easy way to go. He didn't have to do anything, just lie down in the cold, wet grass and wait for the rain.

Wouldn't it be just as well? He didn't matter to anyone. Why should he take up space?

His feet moved on their own accord and he found himself staggering out of the park and to a familiar bus stop. He climbed on and dug up a few coins from his jeans pocket... the wallet! A moment's apprehension and then he let it go. It was in the bag with everything else -- with his entire life. A man with large brown hands accepted his money and the choked whisper that was his destination. The ticket crumpled in his hand.

The rain started to fall. Leaving drops on the window. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass and watched his breath become vapour and the lights outside vanish behind the haze.

He was so fucked up. This wasn't right, sane people didn't feel this disconnected. But he wasn't sane. Fucked up. Fucked up and worthless. Julian didn't want him. Maksim couldn't be bothered. He smiled weakly. Nothing hurt. Everything was just distant... the bubble reasserting itself around him.

Getting off, someone shoved him, he staggered and then slipped on the now soaked pavement. His knee crashed down against the hard stone and the acute pain drew a moan from him. He sat on the ground. The world began to dim for a moment. Someone was speaking to him, but he didn't listen.

The leg wouldn't carry him when he tried to stand and he fell down on his hands and knees. He could feel tears burn against his eyelids from the pain. So there were still tears inside him then. He marvelled at that.

Then someone touched him. He recoiled and his hand flew up. Staring at the woman he saw a look of worry and then disgust.

He heaved to his feet, forcing his leg to take his weight, and gritted his teeth against the pain. He saw her speak and noticed other faces around him. His body trembled. Panicked but unable to move. Trapped like a wild animal. And yet he found himself running.



He had no memory of getting there, but the familiar building suddenly loomed over him. Dark. Forbidding. A small light glinted from above the backdoor.

Mike moved towards it like a moth to a flame. He touched the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. Of course, locked. No one would be left at this time. He back away from the door and collapsed against the bricks.

He sat there a moment, not thinking. Then he raised his hand to his jacket's inner pocket a wild grin spreading across his face as he clasped the key. He didn't believe it. It had to be another key. But no, it fit the lock and the door opened with a desolate echo. The corridor within seemed to swallow and at the same time multiply every sound made. His steps was heard before he made them and they followed him like a stalker.

He couldn't walk up the stairs -- his knee wouldn't support him any longer. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood and then pushed himself up. One step... another... and another. His injured leg never touching the metal grid and his arms aching from dragging his whole body upwards with only one leg to stand on.

His palms were slick with sweat and he could taste salt on his upper lip when he finally reached the third floor and yanked the heavy door open. He fell through it.

The dark made the office an unfamiliar place, but he knew the way and he had soon staggered to his cubicle, falling into the swivelling chair and turning on the lamp. A small island of light in the vast darkness, which he knew was only an illusion for the office wasn't so big.

A few new folders and documents had been dropped on his desk after he'd left in the day. He moved them aside and looked at the mess that was his workspace. It quite accurately reflected his life. He sat there for a length of time that could've been an eternity or just a second, before he moved again, feeling every hurt and ache in his body. He opened the top drawer. A bottle of pain killers caught his eye... so simple... he could just take them all... it would all be over... so simple.

Picking it up he felt disappointment surging through him. Empty. He should've known. Should've remembered.

A tear trickled down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away. More tears fell.

He stared down into the drawer. Then a thought came to him and he shifted some papers and a box of staplers... there he found it. For a moment he did nothing but look at it and then he grabbed it. The sharp edge glimmered in the lamp light. So slight and sharp as a razor. Such a small thing, hardly worth calling a knife...

He held the grip in his hand, tears still falling down his face unhindered. He moved his arm upwards, his wrist slipping free of the jacket's sleeve, he bent his hand backwards and looked at the blue vein underneath the pale, thin layer of skin. The blade would cut deep and with no trouble.

Blood would well up. Red and bright. He could see it as if he had already put the knife to his arm. Could picture how it would stain the papers and trickle down onto the floor -- it would be a dreadful mess. He wondered briefly who would find him... who would be forced to clean up the mess he would leave...

Both his arms rested on top of the desk, the hand clutching the knife trembled slightly. He still cried, but it felt as if it was someone else's hands and someone else's tears. He was just floating above the worthless sod sitting there... just watching something that had nothing to do with him.

Toby would find him -- he was always early. But Betsy... poor Betsy wouldn't have to clean up the blood, would she? They wouldn't make Betsy do that, would they?

He was tired. So very tired. Maybe he would just rest a moment and then decide. Just put his head down and then his hands wouldn't tremble so much. He closed his eyes against the glaring light. Just for a moment...


*****


"Oy, Mike, you been `ere all night?" a distant voice. Then closer. "Oy, mate! You look like shit!"

Mike's head rolled over to one side and he blinked, vaguely aware that he wasn't where he thought he was. He rubbed his eyes against the jacket's sleeve -- he'd slept at his desk. The night before came creeping back into his mind, but somehow he couldn't quite focus on the details.

Toby Binks was looking at him from over the cubicle wall. He blinked up at him bleary eyed.

"What're you doing here, mate?"

He didn't know what to say. Couldn't find any words at all. He felt drained, like a rag slung over a line and left in the wind.

There was something in his hand. He knew suddenly what it was and swallowed, cautiously he slid it in under a folder, hoping that Toby hadn't seen it. He gave his colleague a nervous look, licking his lips and blinking stupidly still.

"Good morning, Mr. Binks," another voice drifted into Mike's dazed consciousness and then Mr. Pardew came into view. Mike met his eyes and his heart sank into his shoes. "Mr. Aldren?" his boss regarded him gravely and then gave a small nod. "You don't look so well, a word perhaps, Mr. Aldren, my office?"

Mike stood. Or tried to stand. A sharp spike of pain lanced through his right knee and he reeled, bending over the desk for support. He looked down and saw his jeans, shredded and bloody, clinging to his leg beneath the knee.

"Mr. Aldren?"

"Mike!"

Their voices, concern evident in both, mingled with Mike's own groan in pain. He shook his head when Toby reached out to help him, pushing his colleague away brusquely.

Fighting off the pain took some effort, but when he was prepared for it he could.

Mr. Pardew held the door to his office open and Mike sidled inside.

He knew. Mike realised. The older man knew and would deal with it. The thought made him feel nauseous with fright.

"Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Aldren?"

The words came so calmly, so without resentment or anger that Mike for a moment dared to hope that he'd been wrong, that he hadn't guessed, didn't know the awful truth from just that one look at him.

"This isn't good, Mr. Aldren, and you know that," his boss watched him with quiet concern. Mike looked at his hands, folded on his lap.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, the response filling some of the void inside him.

"Have you been taking your medication?"

Mike shook his head faintly.

"And you're still not seeing a therapist or the such?"

Again a faint negative inclination and Mike felt his chest tighten in dread. This was it, he was doomed! He trembled enough for the older man to see it, he was certain. He felt so weak.

"This is not good. Not good at all. We had an understanding, Mr. Aldren, didn't we?" still very controlled and without much anger, but there was some annoyance there, Mike knew, and it didn't bode well.

Mr. Pardew knew. Knew about the depression, the one he'd got over once, and promised would never return. Had known since Mike had started working for him. Well, a few weeks after as it were. A compassionate understanding of how much Mike needed to be needed had finally won out over the disappointment at his lying when he was employed and the concerns he had had and Mike had kept his job. He'd done well at it.

He couldn't lose it now. He mustn't. Mustn't!

"I didn't see this coming," Mr. Pardew admitted finally. "What brought this on?"

"I don't know... I... I just..." he blinked away tears and began to shake.

"Oh, dear... Mr. Aldren?"

Mike got himself under control with tremendous effort and nodded, not trusting his voice. He was so tired... so weak...

"Last night was... I didn't..." his voice trailed off -- there was no use, he was worthless, no one wanted him. He was a waste of everyone's time.

"Mr. Aldren, I must think of the firm! But as your employer I am concerned about your welfare, do you understand me?" Mr. Pardew spoke deliberately and not unkindly.

He nodded again, dreading the words he knew must come.

"I feel that perhaps you need some time off..."

"No!"

"You do... you must see that!" Mr. Pardew stood firm, his furrowed brow indicating frustration. "I would be much calmer if I knew you took care of yourself ... have you thought about having yourself admitted?"

Admitted? He shook himself. Admitted. He wanted to laugh. Not the first time. Easy advice. Advice for any fucked up, fucking nutter. Admitted. He couldn't cope with the thought. Never again! There wasn't a chance in hell he'd set foot in a hospital! Never again! Admitted...

He looked at his boss, shaking his head. Slowly and then quicker, until it hurt.

"Please, Michael!"

His first name.

Mike swallowed staring at him. He couldn't lose his job, he couldn't! What would he do? The night before flashed in his mind. He knew it had been bad, but he didn't want to acknowledge just how bad. He didn't want to go back to that place again.

There was a knock on the door.

Toby poked his head in. He looked uncomfortable. For a moment he stared awkwardly at Mike and then he looked away. Mike blushed, though he didn't quite know why. He must look terrible.

"Yes, Mr. Binks?"

"There's a P.C. Bradley outside, asking for Mike, sir," Toby met Mike's glance only for a second before again looking away.

A policeman. A policeman looking for him. Why would the police be looking for him...? It didn't make sense.

"Ask him to step in here, Mr. Binks," Mr. Pardew's level voice, not void of curiosity, answered Toby's silent question.

Mike rubbed his sweaty palms against his jeans. He couldn't grasp this. It didn't make sense. A policeman. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't...

"Good morning to you, sir, I'm P.C. Bradley." He was young, had warm eyes and a tentative smile. Mike stared at the handcuffs at his belt and swallowed hard, something sour threatening to come up if he didn't focus on breathing calmly.

The policeman shook hands with Mr. Pardew. He stood quiet for a moment with his hand reached out towards Mike. Mike swallowed again, nervously rubbing his palms against his thighs. He couldn't raise his hand.

"I'm looking for a Michael C. Aldren, that wouldn't be you, would it?" he asked smiling still, his hand sinking down to his side. When Mike didn't respond Mr. Pardew confirmed his assumption. He hadn't done anything.

"Mr. Aldren, a waitress at the Friday Café reported a young man running out of there last night. Leaving a bag behind? She was worried that he wasn't well or that he might be in trouble... honestly she thought there might be a bomb in the bag..." the young policeman looked him over casually, head tilted. "She checked... which we don't really recommend, but which I suppose was lucky for your luggage... wouldn't you agree?"

What was he talking about? Mike shook his head, not able to process all the information. He hadn't done anything.

Mr. Pardew began talking. Mike heard what he said, but he couldn't quite understand it. He was talking about him. He was telling the stranger what they'd been talking about. He would ask him to arrest him. He would go to jail.

But he hadn't done anything!

Silence. Unanswered questions hanging in the air. The policeman looked at him again, his eyes friendly, the smile replaced by sympathy.

"Would you mind telling me what happened last night?" he asked, crouching down so he could see Mike's face.

"I... I don't know... I don't remember!"

"Mr. Aldren, would you like me to take you to the hospital?" His way of asking, making it sound almost all right. Almost safe.

Mike shook his head.

"Then tell me what I can do..."

Go away!

He didn't answer.

"I will not be responsible for you collapsing in the office, Mr. Aldren, I want you to at least go home for the day. Do you have anyone you can ring?" Mr. Pardew sounded weary, but adamant.

Mike began to shake his head. But then dread came over him. If he said no the police might take him anyway. They did those things. They talked to you until you didn't know what you were doing and then they locked you up.

"I... yes..." he breathed.

"Good, good. Capital!" Mr. Pardew handed him his phone via the policeman.

He stared at it, he didn't know who to ring. Julian hated him. Didn't want him. He had no one else... Maksim... but Maksim would be cross. So angry. He didn't want him either. There was no one else. Maksim.

"I'd like you to come to the station with me first, and pick up your bag, if you don't mind?" the policeman put a hand on his shoulder and he shrank back. "Or it can wait till tomorrow, perhaps?" he yielded when he noticed Mike's obvious apprehension. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" Mike nodded quickly. The policeman backed away.

Mike dialled a number.

The signals seemed to never stop. They went on and on and... click. There was a moment's silence and then a crackling noise, a voice answering at the other end. Curt. Offhand. A certain lilt and trace of a familiar accent. Maksim.

"Yes, Savin, how may I help you?"

"Hello... it's..." he trailed off -- this was insane. Maksim didn't want him to ring if it wasn't important. He couldn't bother him like this... he had no right.

"Misha?" there might've been surprise there, but then he sighed. "I am at work. What is it? Oh, wait..." the indistinct sound of voices, barely audible. "...I have a client... what is it?"

"It's... I... please...?" he trembled. He could picture Maksim's eyes flash and narrow.

"Yes, out with it!" Annoyed. Frustrated. He shouldn't have bothered him with this.

"I'm sorry... I'll... I shouldn't have... I'm sorry..." his hands shook. He reached for the button to turn the phone off.

"Misha! Tell me!" Sharp, like a whiplash, and then the hard tone softened. "Tell me what is wrong?"

Mike gulped for air. He stared at the policeman's feet, his spotless, black shoes weren't so spotless when you looked closer. Mike closed his eyes. What must Mr. Pardew be thinking? He would lose his job. He couldn't lose his job. He got his voice somewhat under control and breathed slowly... in... out... in... out.

Maksim was speaking away from the phone. He heard only a faint murmur and then he was back, repeating the question. He couldn't tell him. Couldn't bring himself to say what he needed to. Couldn't face the rejection.

"I don't know what to do..."

The truth. So simple and artless and yet without any meaning.

"Where are you?"

"At the office... I'm... I... I don't have anywhere to go," a small whisper, afraid that Maksim would hear, afraid that Mr. Pardew would hear. He looked up at the policeman. A polite smile, probably meant to encourage, moved across his face.

"Not to Julian then?" Maksim knew and it made it a little easier. A little less painful.

"...no..."

"Very well, only this time... all right? I cannot be some last resort like this... I have not time to run places and pick up pieces." He would save him. Maksim would come!



He waited outside the dreary building, watching the cars that passed. His knee ached. His heart ached. But Maksim would come. He felt ashamed, being so relieved, but he couldn't help it. If Maksim had turned him down... no he wouldn't think about it.

A police car stopped in front of him. He swallowed hard, refusing to look at it.

"Mr. Aldren?" the policeman stepped out. "I just wanted to ask again if you're sure you're all right... I'd... well, if there's anything I can do... at all..." he gave up. "Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Aldren. You can fetch your bag at the station."

He was given a note with the district and address of the police station. He pocketed it without responding. The policeman got back in his car, hesitating a moment before he drove off.

Maksim would come.

**********

To be continued


* meeliy = dear/sweet (if anyone knows this can't be used like this, let me know so I can correct it)
** Salamata = Russian bread made from a dough you boil while mixing.

Of Rabbits and Nosy Strangers

Runaway, Part 1.
Of Rabbits and Nosy Strangers

Can you help me remember how to smile? 

Make it somehow all seem worthwhile?

How on earth did I get so jaded?

Life's mystery seems so faded

`Runaway Train' Soul Asylum

A rabbit dashed out right in front of my car and I hit the brakes. The car screeched to a halt… and ever so slowly slid into the ditch. I stared at the shrubs pressed up against the windscreen, what the hell was I supposed to do now?

Trinity started crying and two seconds later Chastity joined in the wailing. I looked back at the twins in the back seat, they weren't hurt, at least didn't look it, but they were tilted forward in their seats and not happy about it. Apparently my driving wasn't up to the two-year-olds' standard. I struggled out of the seatbelt; the bloody thing tried to strangle me twice before I was out of it.

I slammed the door shut and walked two steps away from the car and started swearing. Brilliant! What the hell was I supposed to do now?! The girls kept wailing and I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. No point in crying, I couldn't let this bring me down, not now, not when I'd got so far. Still getting far without a goal seemed hopeless.

I got the girls out of the car and tried to comfort them. I didn't dare hitchhike, if I did he might find me, or one of his friends.

Damn countryside roads! Damn stupid brakes! Damn howling twins!

I was almost crying. My stomach hurt, I hadn't eaten in a day. The twins had gotten the last sandwich almost two hours ago. I guessed they were hungry too. Hungry, tired and unchanged. I had no nappies left either. I had nothing at all left, to be honest. No money, no food, no clean clothes. I dragged the duffle bag out of the back of the car and then stared at the twins. Trinity stood with her little hands clenched at her sides, wailing as if someone had turned on a siren and Chastity had sat down in the dirt mimicking her sister's loud crying.

I wanted to cry too.

What was I supposed to do? Without a car I was dead, he'd kill me for certain if he found me this time. He didn't know where I'd gone. Couldn't because I didn't know where I was going. But that hadn't stopped him from finding me before and I hadn't had the twins to worry about those times.

I shouldn't have brought them along. I shouldn't have ever had them at all. `But then again, you tried to get rid of them, didn't you?' a little voice inside reminded me. I wrapped my arms around myself.

Damn bloody rabbit!

I had to think! I glared at the twins. Who could think with those two banshees around. I started going through the duffle bag, there had to be something in there. Anything! Nothing.

The September air was chilly and though the drizzle had stopped temporarily the bleak sky told of more to come. My chest ached. A tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away as quickly as I could. Twins be damned! I couldn't stay here!

I started walking.

The girls' crying chased me all the way to the crossroads. I stopped, looked at the sign. Six miles to the nearest town. Or village more like – who knew around these parts, might well be a pit in the road.

I stood there listening to the crying that seemed to go on and on. And then it stopped.

My heart started racing. I turned around and started running. My girls! My babies!

There was a stranger by my car, he was dressed in plain jeans and an off-white, woollen jersey of a kind I associated with shepherds or the likes. My eyes drifted to his broad leather belt as if it called out to them. I shook myself. He wasn't bad looking, though quite a bit older than any man I'd dated. There was something earthy about him. Something rough and durable like an old oak tree.

He was crouching down with Chastity on one knee. His hands ran gently over Trinity as he looked her over, concern in his eyes.

"Hey!" I called angrily with a voice that cracked. I coughed into my hand and walked up to him, snatching Chastity from his arms as he rose. She screeched and Trinity started crying again. "Shush now! Mummy's here, it's ok!"

I knew I sounded feeble. I couldn't make them shut up. Never could. They always drove me mad. Sometimes they screamed until I couldn't take it and shut them in the closet just to be rid of them. I bounced Chastity up and down on my arm.

"I's wonderin' if they were out 'ere on their own like. Dog picked up on the cryin'…" the man began uncomfortably and I noticed the huge black dog sniffing around the car. I yanked Trinity backwards away from the horrid animal, she objected the rough treatment by wailing louder still. "'Ere now, 'e won't bite!" the man noticed my look and bent to scratch the dog behind the ears – the same hands that had touched my daughter!

"They ain't alone! They're with me!" I snapped.

"Yeah…" he looked at me, his eyes travelling from my plimsolls and up over my torn jeans and the tatty blue and grey cardigan that was much too big, it's arms concealing my hands. It lacked buttons so I'd tied it at my waist, just barely covering up the black t-shirt with the Brainstorm print that was his and which I'd turned inside out.

I swallowed and took another step back. I was used to guys looking me over quite candidly, but not with eyes like his, sharp and assessing. Whatever assessment he made I didn't care to find out – I was leaving.

"Sign says six miles, so we've a fair bit to go…" I said, looking down my nose at him, even though I had to look up. I turned, my hand clutching Trinity's. She was howling her heart out and Chastity was struggling against my hard grip on her.

"You makin' them tots walk six miles?" he gave me quizzical look then shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Mrs…"

"It ain't got nothing to do with you, leave us alone!" I snarled and dragged Trinity with me, though she dug her little heels in and screamed. The man stared after us. I felt my temper rise. Damn bloody rabbits! Damn nosy strangers! Damn bawling kids! I was breaking apart, my foot snagged on a rock and I stumbled, Chastity whipping forward before I caught her. "SHUT UP!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" I screamed, turning on Trinity, who stared at me wide eyed and lip quivering. Then she scrunched up her face and howled again.

I let Chastity drop to the ground and gave Trinity a shake.

"Shut up! You hear me? Shut up!" I raised a hand to smack her leg – anything, just so she'd listen, just so she'd shut up!

My hand was grabbed and I was pulled back up sharply.

I stared at the stranger. He was towering over me now. Big and strong and with a menacing look that made me flinch hard.

"You ent hittin' a baby in my sight, gel!" he growled and I shook my head, trying to twist free. He let me go quietly. "Now, you 'ad better calm yerself right down and let me ring fer a tow truck an' we'll pull yer car up on the road, eh?"

I winced at his tone. He was used to have people heeding him and didn't make a secret of demanding it of me. I nodded slowly, true to my training and used to obeying to keep the peace.

"I live jest 'cross this field 'ere, not far… looks to me like you could use some rest… and the little ones an' all…" he picked up Trinity and then Chastity – both fell silent within moments, secure in his strong arms. Jealousy burnt inside me, but of him or them I wasn't sure. "Name's Ronald, Ronald Whitrow, Ron to most…"

I kept my eyes on the mutt trailing alongside us, sniffing for something in the grass. I hated dogs. Big, ugly, hairy monsters that they were, smelly, dirty and treacherous.

He led the way across the field. I saw a house on the other side. A small clay coloured house, with a thatched roof and chimney blowing light wafts of smoke towards the sky. As we came closer I saw white roses climbing around the doorway and up around the nearest windows. There were well kept flowerbeds all around the house and to one side a vegetable garden.

It looked like a picture out of a Victorian gardening book. I found myself captivated by the tranquillity of the place.

"This is it… what?" he stopped a few feet in front of me and I realised I'd stopped at the gate, lost in thoughts.

"Oh, sorry…" I croaked out, following him inside.


The house was almost as quaint indoors as outdoors. It was tidy, though with a cosy well lived in feeling to it. I felt horribly out of place in my shabby, modern clothes.

"There's a bathroom past there," he nodded down a narrow hallway. "No nappies, I'm afraid, but at least you can clean them up, eh? I'll put the kettle on, the little ones are prob'ly 'ungry." He handed Chastity to me and she started sobbing – I fled into the bathroom before he noticed her crying, it was embarrassing.

When I came out with her, he'd turned the radio on and he was singing along to an old Beetle's tune and making funny faces at Trinity, who laughed, her face sticky with jam from the scone he'd given her.

"I'll take her later…" I said quietly when he made to pick her up. "Better if she gets to eat when she's started." He chuckled and gave a curt nod.

"S'pose you're right, never had a baby 'round before," he confessed as he spread generously with jam on another piece of bread to give to Chastity. The jam was red I noted, and he took it from a jar with a homemade label, which hinted that the content was homemade as well.

The kitchen was all in white washed wood, there was a cupboard with glass doors, revealing neat rows of glasses and fine china. There was a blue striped tablecloth and curtains that matched and on the windowsill there were three blue African Violets in full bloom.

He had warmed the scones in the oven and the room smelled pleasantly of fresh bread. My stomach grumbled loudly.

"You 'ungry too?" he grinned. I blushed, but nodded, I couldn't pass up food when it was offered, I didn't have any money to buy something later anyway.

He put the jar on the table and gave me the bread and the knife. Then he continued to brush off the crumbs from the counter and wash his hands. He looked so at home there that I started wondering if he lived alone. No man I'd ever known had known their way around the kitchen.

I was about to comment on it when the song ended and a lady announced the news. He turned the volume up a notch and then began filling a bowl with water for the dog, which was outside somewhere still to my great relief. I shuddered and wrapped an arm around myself, then I took a bite of my scone.

The woman chattered on about the usual affairs, wars and disasters and then lightly continued with a weather forecast. More rain.

"An' what's your name then, eh?" I looked up when he spoke, but he was turned to Chastity and tickling her under the chin. She scrunched up her face and giggled.

"Tatty," she stated her own name for herself with sparkling eyes and he looked at me with a raised eyebrow as for a translation. I cringed. I didn't want to tell him our names, though I knew it was awfully rude not to.

I turned back to the scones and said nothing.

"Tinny!" Trinity introduced herself and then pushed her sister who I'd placed on a chair at the table, her look jealous and crabby. "Tatty go 'way!" her vocabulary was somewhat richer than her sister's but either spoke very much.

Chastity pushed her back with a sticky hand that smeared jam in Trinity's fair hair, I gritted my teeth and decided to break up the pending storm. I picked her up and she started screaming at once. I roughly pulled the remains of the scone from her hand and threw the soggy mess in the sink. She hollered as if I was about to murder her and I closed my eyes carrying her into the bathroom.

Once alone with her I snatched her knickers off and the nappies and then washed her though she wriggled and squirmed all the while trying to escape and she screamed for all she was worth. My head was about to explode.

"Shut up!" I hissed between clenched teeth, but she only blubbered louder and before I knew it I'd given her a smack on her bare bottom. It left a red imprint and it made her screech like wild.

I let her go and she ran and hid behind the toilet, giving me doe eyed looks from red brimmed eyes. I was a monster. I was a horrible mother. Guilt washed over me. I shouldn't have brought them with me without even a place to go. What was I supposed to do? I was running head over heels right towards a high cliff and there was nobody there to catch me as I jumped off.

I pulled myself together slowly and rubbed the ridge of my nose to stop the tears from welling up like they wanted. I turned the tap on again and let cold water fill my hands. Washing my face, I realised for the first time how terribly filthy I was. My blond hair was oily and looked almost grey; it clung to my temples in grimy strands and I ran my wet fingers through it, fastening the tendrils behind my ears.

I slid a finger inside my collar and pulled it down, a gesture brought on by some morbid fascination rather than any actual need to have a look. It looked the same as it had in the rear view mirror, a glaring blotch against my white skin, the scab was nearly black from dried blood and the edges had oozed pus that had dried to a crust. I shuddered and covered it up.

Nothing that showed if I was dressed, not a mark where anyone could see, I let the cardigan slid further down over my hands.

Trinity was still crying, but it was a tired, muffled crying. She looked so small and frightened, huddled behind the toilet. I suddenly feared going out into the cosy, little kitchen again and the kind man, who had wrapped my two little horrors around his finger in a heartbeat.

At length I couldn't bear the gaunt, pallid woman staring at me with her hollow eyes any longer and drew a deep breath before I tackled the chore of getting Trinity dressed again.

She fled from me when I opened the bathroom door and knocked her head on a table, she set of a flood of heart-rending cries and I groaned.

"Suit yourself," I muttered, picking her up, but my attempt to comfort her was thwarted by her squirming until I let her down again. "Have it your way, then!" I snapped watching her scuttle into the kitchen.

I heard his voice. He seemed to be on the phone and interrupting a conversation to speak soothingly to Trinity. I waited, listening.

"All right sweetie, 's all right… There's nothing? …You sure? …Well, all right then, thank you… Bye."

My stomach twisted sharply. He'd called the police. There was no doubt about it. I closed my eyes. Damn nosy strangers! I gritted my teeth hard, they'd break any day now. My head pounded and I couldn't keep the tears away much longer. What was I supposed to do?

`Charm him,' the little voice told me. `Flirt a bit, all men want sex, let him think you're willing, nothing you haven't done before.' I swallowed and unclenched my teeth with a great effort. I breathed in deeply and smiled.

"Sorry to leave you alone with them," I said, my voice not quite obeying me, it seemed to be trembling. I slid into the chair I'd sat in before and smiled at him.

He was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and watching me with a grim look. My resolve to be charming wavered – it'd be better to take the twins and go. But where would I go? Walk six miles with the twins was just not an option. I swallowed again, though there was nothing to swallow, my mouth was completely dry.

The twins were exploring the kitchen and I was glad the dog was still outside, though I shuddered to think of all the dirty hairs and germs it'd no doubt left on the floor.

"That's all right, so what brings you 'round these parts, Mrs…?" there was no getting around answering. His riveting eyes didn't leave me and if I didn't have a reply he'd become even more suspicious.

"I'm Aileen… Trivett," I deliberately used my maiden name. I'd never use his again. Never. "I'm, me and my girls, are goin' to visit my mum. I haven't seen her in ages," I made up the lie as I went along, something simple, easy to remember and easy to believe. "I'm sorry I was such a witch, but wot with drivin' off the road and everythin' I was in a right state."

"Feelin' better now, are we?" he asked curtly. I nodded and batted my eyelashes. "Hmph, 'ave some 'o that tea, Mrs Trivett, it'll do you some good."

I didn't understand, he was entirely impervious to my attempts at being amiable. I wasn't used to that – he may call me a revolting slut, but it was slut he lingered on, that's what made his eyes turn cold and black. Men liked me, whatever I did to stop them, they had always wanted me.

But this man didn't care.

"It's Miss, actually," I said and forced a naive giggle. "You can call me Aileen." I tilted my head to the side, looking at him with lowered lids and a shy smile.

"Right…" he said and straightened up, his arms falling free. "Let's see what we can do 'bout that tow truck, then?"

I stared at his back as he turned towards the phone, my mouth hanging open slightly, I snapped it shut. Stubborn old sod. I frowned a little and chewed my lip.

Then Chastity gave up a cry that jerked me out of my thoughts. Trinity was pinching her leg and trying to get something that she was holding. It turned out to be a crushed flower from the African Violets on the windowsill. I pulled them apart and took Chastity on my lap.

"Look at wot you did to the pretty flower…" I murmured and put it on the table.

"Petty fower," Chastity beamed.

"Yeah, pretty flower and you're my pretty flower, aren't you?" I hugged her, glancing at Trinity and thinking for a moment that I might reach out to her, but she stomped off as soon as she caught me looking and slipped in behind the open kitchen door.

I looked up to find the man watching me, his face pensive. I felt a blush creep up around my ears and quickly looked away. I heard him dialling a number and then the room was quiet. Chastity was leaning against my chest and I rested my cheek against her hair. It was greasy too, like mine.

"Freddy? Hullo, son, it's Ronald Whitrow, you 'ave yer dad in?" he scratched his left ear while he waited and sent me an unsmiling look now and again, the silence was heavy. "Avery. `Ow's the missus? Good… oh, I ent complainin', you know me… listen, I 'ave a gel 'ere with 'er car gone off the road… no, she's all right, jest needs a tow, 's all… I see, uhuh, well, nothin' to be done then I reckon… you do that… thanks, bye."

He hung up and stood quiet for a while and then he turned with a mirthless half smile and an apologetic shrug, shaking his head.

"Seems the tow truck needs as much towing as anyone," he stated.

"Wot's that mean?" I demanded, suddenly worried.

I let Chastity, who'd been close to sleeping, slide to the floor beside me and ignored her whining and the little hands that reached pleadingly towards me.

"Means you'll `ave to wait a day fer `im to fix his flat tyre," the man chuckled, I half rose. What was he saying? I couldn't stay in one place for that long! I started shaking and sweating. "'Ey now! Calm yerself, gel, it's jest a day, it ent the end of the world."

But it was, it was the end of the world. He'd find me, he'd kill me! I hugged myself tightly and fought the urge to huddle up and cry.

He bent over me and placed his hands on my shoulders, crouching down when I wouldn't relax. He began stroking my arms lightly as if he were trying to warm me up.

"There now, what's this about then? Calm down, gel, tell me what's wrong," he spoke softly and I felt the tears burn behind my eyelids. I would not break down! I couldn't! Mustn't!

I tried to break free and get up, but he held me still, his grip just tightening slightly around my elbows, it was enough for a sharp pain to shoot through my arm from a bruise above my right elbow joint, I gasped and he let go as abruptly as if I'd screamed.

His eyes met mine and I bit down hard on my lip so he wouldn't see how it trembled. He frowned, genuinely concerned and I felt suddenly sick in my stomach. Why wouldn't he just leave me alone. Damn nosy strangers. Shouldn't have let him help. I should have run over the bloody rabbit.

Sounds of a car drawing up outside made me jump up from the chair, heart thumping. He'd found me! I felt my legs buckling up underneath me and then saw the ceiling suddenly spinning around underneath me.

"Oi!"



As I woke up I found myself lain out on a small settee, my head propped up on a pillow. The room was quiet and I looked around taking in my surroundings. I vaguely recalled having been carried in here, but the memory was foggy. The walls were covered in wine coloured wall paper and there were overstuffed bookshelves all around and a fireplace in front of which stood a large armchair with a blanket thrown across it.

I closed my eyes.

Then I sat up gingerly, easing my legs down on the floor. The faintness seemed to have passed. I licked my dry lips. I could do with some water right about now.

Quietly I tiptoed up to the door and gave the doorknob an experimental twist and the door opened. I listened for sounds of anyone nearby, but there was nothing. Stepping out through the door though I heard low voices. I was in the small hallway leading out and to the kitchen, from which the voices were coming.

I walked up to the kitchen door. It was closed. Someone had gone to great lengths to assure that the house remained quiet.

"…s'posed to do then? Let 'er go on 'er merry way as if we'd never laid eyes on 'er?" it was the man, Ronald, but the voice that answered him was one I hadn't heard before, it was male as well and it sounded irritable.

"I ent sayin' that, but what's it to us really?"

"I dunno… I jest dunno, but I ent sittin' by doin' nothin'," Ronald continued.

"You never do, do you? What if she's a bleedin' nutter, eh? What then?"

"Oh, don't be daft, Adrian…"

I backed away from the door and promptly banged my heel on the little table and knocked over a vase that crashed to the floor and shattered into a million pieces.

"Bloody hell," I hissed between clenched teeth. I shrunk back from the kitchen door where Ronald's face became visible and behind him a younger man with dirt blond hair.

"'S all right, Miss Trivett, why don't you come in 'ere for a while, 'ow's yer head?"

I allowed myself to be led into the kitchen, my eyes darting around for the twins, but there was no sign of them. However the big black dog lay on the floor, its head resting on its front paws, it looked up slightly when we entered, but didn't move.

I drew back, a convulsive tremor going through me and backed into Ronald, who put a gentle, but firm hand on my shoulder and steered me into the kitchen.

"'E ent the bitin' sort, don't you worry yerself none," he assured me and then added as if he'd heard my unasked question. "The little ones are sleepin', dead on their feet, poor things." I nodded warily as he pulled out a chair for me. "Now sit, gel, there's a few questions I'd liked answered, if you don't mind."

To be continued

Next episode coming soon to a computer near you!