Date: Sun, 11 Mar 2001 10:44:45 -0000
From: Jamie <virus@dial.pipex.com>
Subject: Shadows-in-the-Curtains Chapter 1

Same stuff - don't read this is u r underage or u don't like reading stories
of love between two boys.

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I graduate in three months - whooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!

Black Gown, Red Silk Hood trimmed with "artificial" fur" - sexy!!!!

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*** The only disturbance in the room was a faint rustling from my curtains.
I drew closer and threw them open. He was upon me as soon as I had reached
out to touch them. Cold steel flashed through the air and blood dripped from
my forehead and ran thickly into my eyes. ***

The bruised and battered light of sunset had long disappeared over the
horizon and I was comforted that my heavy draped curtains absorbed the whole
of my glowing silhouette from the photographers beyond. They had first
appeared an hour ago, sailing past the police officers waving their passes
and shouting in distorted voices so that I could not make out what they were
saying.

One man wore a deep brown raincoat that reached to his ankles. His face was
uncovered and in the sleeting rain it looked like he could be no more than
fifty. As the repulsive weather battered around him he braced himself
against it and began to spy out the windows where I lived. Suddenly he
shouted and pointed at what he thought must be my bedroom, where I would be;
he was correct and his exclamation was followed by a hail of screams and
flashing bulbs.

All I knew was that I didn't want any of them to see me or to speak to me.
In my bedroom, five stories from the ground, it was very unlikely that
anyone would be able to get to me. That was a certainty that three hours ago
had been destroyed. Someone had got to me, and I felt a great pain in that
not even my own citadel was safe from predators. My fourteen-year-old body
was still trembling and I had long broken out in a cold sweat. Pushing
doctors away from me, I sent everyone who would go away from me. I wanted to
be on my own.

	I withdrew from the window; there were tears making their way down from the
wet duct and leaving a snail-like trail as they eventually feel from my jaw
line to the carpeted floor below. Looking down at it, I saw that it had been
stained with blood, and there was even a small pool of semen by the foot of
the bed. Just staring at that alone made me scream out.

	`Look, there is no way I'm staying here!' My voice was raised and there was
bitterness to it that I had heard so many times before. I had tried
repeatedly to suppress its supercilious tones, but to no avail -- it was my
personality. Like every tragic hero must have his downfall, I have mine.
However, this time it was needed and I knew exactly what had to happen to
me, even though my mind was clouded.

Unclear thoughts were racing around in my head that it was difficult to
distinguish between the emotion and the logical thinking. They had begun
after the attack. It had happened at least three hours since, but I could
remember every move.



*** He was wrestled to the floor by an unnamed policeman, who had delivered
a swift and heavy blow to his left femur. It seemed to stun him for a second
and he was dragged away from my trembling body. ***



	I glanced down at my bare forearm. A large wound, seeping with blood ran
down one side; the sleeve had been completely torn off in the attack and my
skin was covered with a smear of freshly bled sweat that glistened in the
warm glow of the standard lamp. Wiping it with a white handkerchief, that
soon became bright crimson, I turned into the dimly lit room, with blood
from a slight head wound staining my eyes.

	`I can't stay here.' I kept repeating this statement as if, somehow, it
would make it seem all the more comforting and true. However, in truth it
was the last action that I wanted to take. For me the utopia would be to
shoo all the policemen, photographers, detectives and reporters from the
estate and to switch on the television.

I wished that my Mother were here, with me now. A burly officer had long
taken her downstairs in a flat cap. The etched motif was that of the
metropolitan police and it flashed across his brow. It was my last memory of
her that she was screaming and clawing to get back into my room. I for my
part just stared at her, for I was still lying on the floor, my back against
the side of the bed, simply dazed at what had just occurred.

	Dexter, who had been standing in a darkened corner of my bedroom, emerged
into the light and walked over to me. He seemed to soak up all the light in
the room and appeared to me like a shape rather than a man. His features
were blackened and he showed no expression on his face except the slight
twinge that I had come to know as guilt.

	`I'm sorry, Alex.' He said, his obvious accent -- pure Wisconsin and
normally so well hidden -- breaking through. `They won't try anything whilst
we're here. You're safe now and there's no need to go anywhere.'

	I didn't believe him; I couldn't believe him. All I wanted to do was to get
out of this house and go somewhere else. But he was guilty. Why was he
guilty? Did he feel that he had let me down? How could he have known that
Pierre Tremblant was waiting for me outside my windowsill, poised to push
the cold steel of his curled knife (a sick trademark of his) into my throat
and cackle insanely as he ripped the skin from my face before turning my
body into that of a whore. I threw the whole weight of my mind against the
thought and at last it flew from my consciousness.

Edward Dexter had been my bodyguard for the past five years now, and knew
exactly what I felt, sometimes even before I felt it. His job was to
protect, but he did much more. After getting over the humiliation of being
assigned to a fourteen year old prince, he seemed to like the idea of living
his youth all over again -- even if it was with some spoilt, arrogant,
self-righteous, royal, jerk off like me. Like every young teenager of my
time, I thought I didn't need a bodyguard and could look after myself well
enough. What had happened tonight demonstrated my own helplessness to
unfolding situations. Used to being in control, I felt violated when the
shadow lunged at me from between the curtains. Here, in my own room, I
supposed to be safe and unafraid, except here I was trembling and utterly
terrified.

	There was a battered brown leather suitcase open on my bed and it was
already half-full. I had been packing with a completely undirected approach
for the past two hours, whilst my mind raced and I babbled incoherently at
anyone and everyone who decided to breach my sanctuary. With the slightest
provocation I flew into screaming rages that were horrifying to watch. At
the moment only Dexter had been brave enough to enter; he knew he could
control me.

	`I'm going to stay with Jay.' I suddenly announced, rummaging through the
wardrobe and throwing various garments into the suitcase.

	Jay had been my best friend for as long as I can remember. When his father
was first assigned as American Ambassador to the Court of St James (Great
Britain), he and my mother were scheduled to have weekly meetings. The
reason for these meetings was a simple one -- every country has a
representative in both the Government (the Ambassador or High Commisioner)
and the Royal Family (reporting directly to the Queen).

Being born into one of the more tenuous lines of the family tree, Princess
Mary of Westminster was able to carry out her duty as First Princess to the
United States of America with minimal fuss from the press.

Unattractive is not the right word to describe her, more overpowering - she
was a tall gangly woman with short blond hair. However, the blond was
becoming more unnatural as more and more grey crept into the dead follicles.
This was hidden by striping highlights that swept across her hair and down
to the base of her scalp.

	Their own professional friendship begot ours, with Jay and I crawling
around her large office in St James' Palace whilst they conducted their
business of foreign affairs.

Jay was taller than myself, about 5ft 11, and had short blond hair that fell
about his face in top huge mops with a centre parting barring the two from
ever meeting. When he smiled, a line of straight set white teeth glowed
through the dullness of the enamel surrounding them. It wasn't until early
last year that I had at last realised that I had fallen in love with that
killer smile. Before I could even sort out my feelings though, they had
moved back to America -- to a beautiful country estate in the Shenandoah
mountain range. Visiting it briefly on a trip to Virginia with my Mother, I
still kept the friendship by long transatlantic telephone conversations that
ran up bills that I would never have the money to pay for.

	`I've already telephoned him and Mother agreed as soon as I asked her.' I
continued, taking a pair of white socks from a drawer and slipping them into
the case. `They've both agreed to it, and my Mother will be flying over when
she has finished with the police.' I took the pair of socks out of the case
and replaced them in the drawer. `In any case, I don't need your permission
to go anywhere.' There I was turning back into the arrogant little git I so
hated. In my frenzy of self-rebuking I took up the same pair of socks and
threw them back into the case once more.

	At this point Dexter resigned to fate. Both my Mother and Father had agreed
that if anything should happen to me, I was to go to stay with Jay in
America until things had cooled down. It was a simple fact now -- a threat
had been made against my life and I wasn't going to hang around for it to be
carried through.

	Dexter nodded and staggered from the room; he was still limping from the
blow he received to his left knee during the attack. It was brutal and
savage, with the bite marks still clearly visible and edged with trickling
blood; I couldn't even bring myself to think about it.

	I wanted my Mother there beside me, holding me in her arms. But she wasn't
there; neither of them were there. Both parents were still working in the
city when the attack happened. Mother had rushed up to the estate as soon as
she had heard, but only a brief telephone call did I receive from my
unloving father. Ever since he had married my mother he had treated her like
hell, and now he was passing it on to me. It wasn't that he beat us or harm
us in any way -- he just didn't want to know his own son and it hurt like
hell.

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I was hurried to the helicopter in a veil of shouts and echoes. Screams were
coming from the furthest sections of the grounds and I tried to shut my ears
against it. Rain continually slammed into me and I dipped my head and
covered it with my arms in a vague attempt to prevent pictures of me being
printed in tomorrows "Sun". However, I knew better than that:


THE PUSHOVER PRINCE, ALEXANDER ASSUALTED AT PALACE


It would be horrific to endure. I climbed the three metal steps to the
chopper's warm interior. As the huge metal door locked shut I sank back into
a comfortable leather seat and sighed deeply. The inside was small and
compact. It had a slight tinge of claustrophobia, and I immediately disliked
it.

The blades began to swing in huge arcs, circling widely just above the roof
of the cabin. Then we lifted from the floor altogether and closed my eyes,
free from everything at last. I could still hear the shouts from the
reporters on the ground and various flashing lights kept distracting me,
even through closed eyes. Then suddenly it all returned to me and I was
forced to open my eyes just to get away from the mental image of Tremblant.
He was a serial killer and a paedophile -- I knew that much at least. From
what I had gathered from overhearing various snippets of conversation
between the officers standing guard outside my door, he was aged around
forty with short black hair that was slightly balding at the top. Earning
the nom de plume of Cradle Ravisher three years ago when he was linked to a
series of violent killings of young teenagers. His modus operandi was a
simple and a gruesome one: after removing most of their face, Tremblant
would subject them to various violent sexual activities until they were
dead. This he would have also done to me, given half the chance.

Gazing out over the black fields as we glided through the soft air brought
the thought back to me that I had been trying to figure out before Tremblant
flew at me. It seemed trivial to think of now, compared to what I had been
subjected to not more than three hours ago. Casting my mind back I located
the thought and brought it to the surface of my consciousness -- how would
people react when they found out that I was gay? As yet nobody knew about
it, not even my Mother. Although I was only fourteen, it was extremely clear
what my sexual orientation was and because of my recent episode with
Tremblant it disturbed me even more. Maybe I would grow up to be a serial
rapist and cold-blooded killer like him that terrorised the adolescent
world. Well, at least they had caught him now. He was locked up in some
lunatic asylum and I would never have to endure his warm breath at the base
of my neck, or his scaly lips pressed against my own.

The homosexuality had been a worry for the past year now. The fact was that
if the press ever got hold of a story like this I would be made either a
saint to the homosexual cause or an effeminate child hated by all. My first
thought was to my Mother. I was almost certain that she would understand,
but her duty to the state often came before my own well-being. Are the
British public ready for a homosexual prince yet?


His Royal Highness The Prince Alexander of Westminster turns out to be gay!


I was still to take on my official duties, but even at fourteen I had been
hit by spates of bad press and gutter reporting. Since I was only distantly
related to the Queen (she was my second cousin or something of the like) and
had actually obtained my title not from her but because I was born from the
line of George V (her Grandfather), I had managed to avoid the more
intrusive press reporting. They seemed to focus more on the immediate royal
family and left us alone to do what we wanted. This seemed like a good idea
to me, since it meant that I got the best of both worlds. I couldn't figure
it out; not now anyway. My thoughts raced to Jay and I knew immediately what
I would do. If I told him alone, then we could work it out together. At
least then I wouldn't be on my own anymore. With the matter having been if
not all then at least slightly resolved, I turned my head back to face
forward and allowed my eyes to close. The eyelashes locked together and my
head fell back onto the cushioned headrest.



*** My head still hurt from the jarring blow that struck it as I fell
backwards against the wooden bedpost. Then he was upon me, shaking me
violently and clawing at my clothes unrelenting. I saw the glint of the
knife as he brought it up over his head and then, with a cracked smile,
heaved it down into my arm. I cried out. The pain was immense as he
continued to rip the skin apart and pulled the knife from my shoulder to the
elbow. Wiping the sweat from his face he lent forward and kissed me savagely
***.


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Okay here is my second story. It is based on the true life of a close
relative of mine. Although the names have been changed to protect both him
and his friend. And before you ask, no I'm not going to tell you his real
name.

If u like what u read, mail me - virus@dial.pipex.com

AOL IM: jam0015

C Ya round