Date: Tue, 20 Mar 2007 14:09:24 -0700 (PDT)
From: Drizzt DoUrden <menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@yahoo.com>
Subject: Ups and Downs - Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimers apply. If you are underage (18 or 21,
depending) and/or are offended by mature themes including consensual sexual
contact between teen males, then DO NOT continue. This work is entirely
fictional and any resemblances to persons either living or dead, is
entirely coincidental. If you wish to reprint this story, just drop me an
email letting me know where, and make sure you give me (Menzo) credit.

Feel free to give me criticism; my writing is far from perfect! Comments
are very much appreciated, so please drop me a quick email at
menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@yahoo.com

~Menzo

Bruised and battered, I heaved a deep breath and collapsed onto the leather
couch behind me. I looked in horror at the scene around me and tried to
calm myself back to a rational level. I coldly looked at the bloody,
unconscious figure on the floor and failed to find a shred of sympathy for
my father. As my adrenaline rush dissipated, I started to become afraid. My
father - who had made my life hell for over four years - was a harsh man,
and I wondered in what condition I would find myself when he woke up. It
was not something I really cared to find out.

I picked up the phone and put it back down several times before finally
coming to a decision. Calling the police wouldn't help anything. I had done
that before, and things only ever got worse afterwards.

Let me explain: My mother had walked out of out lives five years ago, when
I was 11, to live with another man. A little part of my father died with
her, and the rest was consumed by anger. He worked hard, and drank harder;
eventually descending into full blown alcoholism. I had sympathized with
him, and hoped for things to get better for a while and I had finally
resolved myself to my miserable existence living with him. He was becoming
increasingly violent of late, however, and I couldn't go on like this.

So, in a moment of rashness, I stuffed some clothes into a small backpack
and took what little cash I could find lying around my house and I stepped
out onto my porch. I resisted the urge to turn around and go back in and,
taking a deep breath, I started walking. It was the best and worst decision
I ever made in my life.

Oh, the arrogance youth! We think we know everything; we read books and
magazines and watch the news and consider ourselves worldly. I counted
myself a very compassionate person and was constantly trying to tell people
what it was like to be homeless, or to live in Africa and how they should
do more charity work. At the tender age of 16, I had no idea. The following
year would humble me and push to limits far beyond anything I had ever
dreamed possible.

My naïveté was astounding. When I walked out of my upper-middle class house
in suburbia, I thought my running away was a poetic, tragic affair that
would be tough, but would ultimately make me into a pillar of strength and
kindness. I fantasized about helping poor kids who, unlike me, couldn't
extricate themselves from their predicament. And so, with those grandiose
disillusions in mind, I walked into one of the roughest areas of town.

It soon dawned on me that I really had no clue how I would go about
surviving on the streets, or even finding someone to talk to and, I
supposed, help. It was dark by now and ss I searched for somewhere to eat,
or sleep, I heard a car slowly pull up beside me. I was nervous, to say the
least, but as the window rolled down I foolishly walked over to the white
SUV.

"How much?" came the eerie voice inside. I may have been naïve, but I
wasn't totally out of touch with reality.

"I'm not selling," I said, slightly grossed out. Selling my body for sex
was not a part of my grandly childish fantasy.

"Come on, kid. You're new here," he started. I suppose it must have been
obvious. "I'll help set you up with the right people."

I wasn't fooled by the creepy voice and I politely declined, starting to
walk in the other direction. The next thing I was aware of was a blinding
pain in neck and then blissful blackness.


********************************************


When I awoke, it was only for a brief moment of pain. I saw a blurry figure
standing over me and then a sharp pain in my stomach followed by a lesser
pain in my arm. I was out of it for quite a while but when I woke, I was
still looking into the same face, albeit far less blurry.

"What..?" I slurred, confused and disoriented.

"Hey, you're awake!" said the ragged looking boy cheerily.

"Where am I?" I asked, not really looking to make pleasant chit chat.

"No thanks?" he asked jokingly. His voice had an edge to it, even in jest,
that I was not accustomed to.

"I'm afraid you'll have to fill me in a bit. Things are a bit fuzzy after
the guy in the SUV."

"That would explain it," he said sagely. "It wasn't white, was it?"

I merely nodded and he proceeded to explain that that car was notorious for
leaving dead teenagers in its wake.

"Well," he continued. "I found you last night, all bloody and lying in a
ditch. Some friends helped me bring you here and I patched you up as best I
could. 12 stitches from an amateur with an old needle and sewing thread is
no fun."

"What?!" I exclaimed, rubbing my fingers over the long wound on my
stomach. I also became acutely aware that I was naked except for some
briefs.

"Heroin dulls the pain," he said soothingly. Well, I think he meant to be
soothing.

"Heroin!" I cried. I had never even done pot before. I took a moment to
take in my surroundings: I was lying on some old blankets in an abandoned
parking garage that smelled faintly of urine.

"Stop shouting," he snapped. "It would have hurt a helluva lot more without
the heroin. Heroin is an opiate, just like morphine. Didja know that?"

"I did, actually," I said furrowing my brow. I remarked for the first time
that for all his ragged, emaciated appearance he spoke very well. "Where
are you from?"

"Here," he said simply.

"Where is here?"

He laughed. "Here is wherever I feel like being."

"But you weren't always from here, were you?" I probed.

"Enough," he said firmly. Emotion flickered briefly across his face but he
quickly resumed his stoic mask. "How did someone like you end up in such a
dangerous area of town?"

"I was running away," I said, somewhat proudly, somewhat defiantly.

He laughed again. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but he was definitely mocking
me.

"I'm Kale by the way."

"Jacob," I reciprocated.

"Well, Jacob, why don't you tell me what happened last night."

I nodded, and told him what had happened, right up until I lost my
memory. It had seemed so hopeless last night, but apparently Kale disagreed
with me.

"Right," he said. "Well, lets go find you a phone."

"NO," I said quickly.

"What?" he asked curiously.

"I'm not going back there!" I said defiantly.

"Alright, there is a home pretty close to here. They might take you in, if
you convince them it's not safe to go home."

"No," I repeated childishly. "They always send me back."

He arched his eyebrow at me and I thought I saw the corners of his lips
curl into a grin. "So, what then?"

"Well..."

"Gonna live on the streets?" he joked.

"You do," I said defensively. Realizing that what he had said in jest was
my actual intent, he burst into laughter.

"No offense, Jacob, but you have no idea what my life is like." His face
softened for a brief instant, but no sooner had he let it slip, the mask
replaced itself. "You can't have any idea what life is like out here."

"You managed, obviously." I was a little annoyed that he thought I couldn't
survive on the streets and I was still too caught up in a fantasy to take
him seriously.

"You're right, I did," he said simply. "But it was hard. However, it's not
my place to tell you what to do. If you want to stay, then stay. But I warn
you, that nothing you have ever experienced will prepare you for this."


******************************************************

He was right; my wildest dreams couldn't compare to what my life would
become. But, for all his bluster, Kale had a soft spot for me, and he made
sure that I survived my first month. And that first month was one of the,
if not the, hardest I have ever endured.

Getting used to not eating, drinking a lot and the constant presence of
tension, drugs and violence was the first thing I had to do. Confrontation
was unavoidable out there, and to this day the change that I underwent
while out there still amazes me. I never resorted to selling my body for
sex, although I could have, and I was one of the few that made an effort to
make legitimate money. That's not to say, of course, that I never resorted
to illegal means of perpetuating my miserable existence.

Things picked up and, strange as it may seem, that year and a half I spent
living in an abandoned garage was quite an enjoyable experience. Of course,
I was coming from a hellish existence, and fell quickly into habits that
meant I had very little perspective on what was and wasn't enjoyable.

What really made the time a pleasure, I am sure, was the fact that I found
love at a remarkably young age. After a rough start, Kale and I soon
realized that we were meant to be more than friends. Having that
unconditional love in such an inhospitable environment allowed us to, I
think, maintain our humanity. We did what was necessary to survive, but we
always had something more to look forward to. We were inseparable and were
well known by everyone around us. Our companionship also kept us away from
drugs for the most part. Kale cleaned up and after that we never really
felt the need to totally escape from reality.

Yes, it was Kale that kept me there through the hardships that I had
endured. We brought a measure of hope - a hope of something other than mere
existence - to a world where there was only despair.

I shouldn't leave you with the impression that things were all happy,
because they weren't. I had my fair share of trials and it was, more than
anything, hard. There is nothing else to describe such an existence. But, I
survived largely intact, if a bit jaded and cold. I was there for over a
year before I finally made a mistake and wound up sitting in a police
station.


*************************************************

"Jacob Little?" asked the tall cop sitting in front of me. He pushed an old
photo of me across the table. I winced at the picture and looked up at the
mirror on the office wall. I looked nothing like the blond, almost pretty
boy in the photo. My once rosy cheeks were now gaunt and gray and my
distinctive green eyes had sunken well back into my face. I was emaciated
and looked much like a heroin-addicted waif. My blond hair was covered in
cheap dye, turning it a rather dull shade of brown and was greasy and
stringy from not bathing as often I would have liked. I was also covered
with numerous scars, the longest of which was over 6 inches, running from
my collar bone down my back. I did what had to be done, like I said, and
the petty drug dealer who had given me that scar had lost his life on that
very knife.

"Jacob?" repeated the cop, drawing me out of my silent contemplation.

"Please, call me Fyr," I said, referring to the name I had been given on
the streets and subsequently adopted. It was initially meant as an insult,
spelt Fear because I was quite timid at first, but I embraced it after
proving myself and changed the spelling.

"Alright Fyr," he said cordially. "Do you have anything to say before we
go?"

"Go?" I repeated. I was more than a little drunk, having been found passed
out in a public washroom. My life had taken a downward spiral in the last
two months, after I had found Kale's body covered in blood and discarded in
a ditch. It had broken me, and I had spent the last two months drowned in a
bottle. I had not been careful enough to keep out of sight, it would seem.

"To the St. Peter's Care Center for Boys. It's a top notch facility run by
the Church in conjunction with Social Services."

"Sounds lovely," I said blandly.

"Come on then," he said with a smile. He reached over to lead me by the arm
but I jerked away.

"Don't touch me," I said emphatically, earning myself a sympathetic stare.

********************************************

And so I came back into society and things that had once been second nature
to me came hard - namely trust. It was a massive shock to be placed in such
close proximity to so many people. Many had led lives as bad or worse than
mine but there were also many boys who were just waiting to be adopted and
had had fairly stable lives. I was most uncomfortable when I was first
shown around the facility but, at that moment, I honestly didn't give a
damn about anything.

After a brief introduction to the priest who ran the center, I was shown to
the small room that I was sharing with one other boy.

I walked in and, to my pleasant surprise, the room was tidy and didn't have
the same smell as the others.

"Hey dude," called the boy sitting on the bed.

"Hi," I replied, my flat tone not inviting more conversation.

"I'm Tom, what's your name?" he asked enthusiastically.

"Call me Fyr."

"OK, you wanna to something."

"No," I said, putting what few possessions I had in the small cupboard that
was provided.

"Ok," he smiled. "I'm going to play ball, come join me if you like."

I mumbled something unintelligible and then lay back on my bed, trying to
fend of the hangover. They had mentioned something about rehab and therapy,
but I was glad to see that nothing came of it that afternoon. I lay on my
bed for a long while, and then went to take a long, hot shower. When I came
out, Tom was waiting for me in the room.

"Supper time," he said. "Follow me." I did as requested and was treated to
a rather tasteless meal in a large cafeteria-style room. I ate in silence,
giving sharp one word answers when spoken to. When dinner was over, I
decided that a nice long night's sleep was in order.

You'd think that living on the street, with nothing to do, I would have had
lots of opportunity to sleep. That wasn't the case though, and I enjoyed
the feeling of a warm bed beneath me and I was soon drifting off to sleep.

I woke up late, despite my early bed time, and decided not to eat
breakfast. It was a luxury I was not accustomed to. Feeling somewhat lost,
I took another shower in the communal shower room - perhaps the first time
in over a year I had showered two days in a row - and was afterwards
interrupted by a knock on my door.

"Come in," I called, sitting up. I desperately wanted to be in an alley
swigging cheap vodka right now. Not dealing with his death at the time
meant that I still had many painful thoughts and emotions to deal with.

"Hello Jacob," said a blond woman.

"Fyr, please," I said. She pursed her lips but nodded in acquiescence.

"May we sit down?" asked the same cop who had brought me here yesterday.

"Be my guests," I said sarcastically, waving at Tom's bed, the only
available seating in the room.

"Fyr," he said solemnly. "I have some bad news. Your father died of alcohol
poisoning about a month after you disappeared. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I said curtly. "I assume that means that this lovely
establishment will become my home?"

"Jac...Fyr," said the blond woman concernedly. "Are you sure you understand
what happened?"

"I'm quite sure," I replied dryly. I surprised myself somewhat, being able
to slip so easily back into refined speech. I had been forced to adopt a
more crude, limited vocabulary during my tenure on the streets.

"I must be going now, Fyr," said the cop. "Father Thomas and Dr. Green have
a few things they need to say."

He waited a moment for my response but with none forthcoming, he got up and
left.

The shrink and the priest proceeded to inform me of the rules of my stay,
the rehab and the counseling I would have to take. I nodded every once and
a while until they finally got tired of talking and got ready to leave.

"Why don't you go outside and play some basketball," asked Dr. Green before
leaving.

"Because I wish to wallow in my own despair," I said truthfully. She
thought I was mocking her, apparently, but she eventually succeeded in
bullying me out of my room. I walked slowly over to the court and was
quickly assigned to a team. There wasn't much talking, for which I was
thankful, and I had always enjoyed playing ball with discarded equipment
that we found in parks. I wasn't a tall person - standing at only about 5'8
- but I was deceptively quick and agile and my reflexes were nothing short
of superb.

It became quickly apparent that I was the best player out of the small
group but as I deftly stole the ball from a large opponent, I discovered
that talent wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"Get of my court," ordered the tall, muscular guy. He was obviously unused
to not being the best - or perhaps, the others just didn't try to best him.

"No," I said simply. Backing down from a fight on the 'street' was
tantamount to admitting weakness, something that often proved fatal. He had
little patience, it would seem, for his fist was suddenly heading towards
my nose.

He was a big, stupid bully; I was a small, clever person who had spent the
last year living his worst nightmares. He didn't stand a chance. I lazily
ducked his sucker punch and brought my foot up into his gut. To his credit,
he didn't fold like I'd expected and he began to rush me. I nimbly
sidestepped, tripping him as I did so. He went down with a crash but before
things could escalate further, a 'Child Protection Officer' (a.k.a. warden)
came running over to split things up. After I refused to apologize, I was
informed that I would be doing the dishes after supper for the next week. I
was quite ambivalent to the punishment, which seemed to further irk the
officer.

The institution was awfully dull and, for someone who had come to despise
boredom and unwanted company, it was a rather depressing existence. I
hadn't heard from Dr. Green, for which I was grateful, but I knew she would
be wanting to talk soon. I had impressive self control and the only thing
impeding my progress in the rehab center was a lack of motivation. I could
stop drinking, I just didn't want to.

As far as company went, I soon learned that my sickeningly cheerful
roommate was about the best available. I reluctantly started to talk to him
more and discovered that beneath his annoying exterior, he wasn't half bad
to talk to. The first two weeks consisted of lots of sleeping, lots of
dishes and a moderate amount of talking.

I could have dealt with everything - it was nothing compared to adapting to
life on the street - if it hadn't been for the huge hole in my heart. I
hadn't had any form of sexual release in two months and, as much as I
didn't want to, I was developing a small attraction for Tom. It was more of
an effort to replace someone who couldn't be replaced, but I felt that I
had to move on, if only in a superficial way. I didn't even like him all
that much, but I was feeling incredibly lonely and although he was a poor
substitute for what I really craved, I couldn't help myself spending more
and more time with him.

Of course, I had know clue if he was gay or not - although my gaydar had
certainly picked up something - and I wasn't even intending to find out. It
was, in all honesty, a complete accident. A very unfortunate accident, it
would turn out.

I had just finished showering - an activity which never lost its appeal -
and, thinking Tom would be in the library as usual, I walked into my room
and let the towel fall to the floor beside me.

"Whoa," I heard a strangled voice say. I quickly rushed to cover myself
up. My sense of modesty was one habit I hadn't lost.

"Sorry about that," I said, blushing. Strangely, Tom seemed to be blushing
even more than I was. I looked down and saw an unmistakable bulge in his
pants. He looked into my eyes, obviously terrified.

"S-s-sorry man," he stuttered.

"Relax," I laughed.

"I should have told you," he whispered, looking down at the floor. I pulled
on a pair of boxers to alleviate some of the tension.

"Why? It's not really my business, now, is it? I never told you I was gay."

He looked up, his relief plain. "Wow, really?"

There was a brief moment of awkward tension and then I did something I
shouldn't have. I don't know what possessed me to be so forward - the
terrible sense of emptiness and loss, I suppose - but I stood on my toes
and placed my lips on his. He seemed a bit startled but he kissed me back,
quite thoroughly, in fact. I pulled his shirt over his head and then moved
my hands down to his belt buckle. I heard the door open beside us and,
startled, I pulled back quickly.

I was sitting there, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, having just
kissed my roommate wearing little more. I was so mortified that I couldn't
bring myself to look at the newcomer. But when I finally did look up, my
shock was complete. It was impossible, impossible. There, standing in my
door, back from the dead, was Kale.


*********************************************************

Well, there's the start to the story. This is a heavily revised version of
a story I started to write and post last year.

All comments, questions and criticisms are welcome at
menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@yahoo.com.

I hope you liked it,

Menzo