Bellmore City

(This is a scene of a sex worker and what he feels after completing the job.)

The sharp snap of his laces pierced the stale air, evoking the lingering odor of exertion in the room. Kye maintained a facade of composure, his bare chest pressed against the headboard, a loosely draped sheet his only cover. Beneath this exterior, humiliation stung. He avoided letting the man see the flicker of repulsion in his eyes as he watched him struggle with his laces over his ample stomach. With a grunt, he buttoned his shirt, the fabric stretching over his belt, then turned to Kye with a smile that seemed almost predatory.

“I'll look for you again,” he said. The gravel in his voice lingered, trailing off into the silence.

Kye blinked, trying to clear the fog in his eyes, and simply replied, “Sure,” before turning to look out the window, leaving the words hanging between them like an unspoken threat.

He felt a shift in the mattress as the man placed cash on the bed, then left.

.

He sighed, lowering his face into his hands as he paused to consider the scuffed heels of his shoes, the ones he wore thin from hours of work. Their wear symbolized his constant battle against fading away, each scratch a testament to his effort to stay relevant.

Kye did what he had to do. He had to make money for his family—a family abandoned by his father. Yet, it wasn't just obligation driving him. Deep down, he was fueled by an unspoken fear: the fear of becoming irrelevant, of not mattering in a world that seemed to overlook those who struggled silently. The image of his mother, weary but smiling, haunted him. Her resilience was both his anchor and his burden. He wanted to prove that he could be the rock his family needed, to break the cycle of abandonment that had marked his childhood. Kye yearned for a sense of control in a life that often felt dictated by circumstances beyond his power.

He dragged himself from the bed, went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. As the water hit his skin, he began to cool. He felt his burning shame being extinguished and swirling down the drain. He leaned on the cool tile, his head resting on his arm, as the rivulets coursed down his back and into the basin. They carried his secrets and deposited them at the bottom of Bellmore City.

Getting dressed, he shut the door behind him and walked into the grimy, hidden side of wealth. Covered by his hood, head down and hands in his pockets, he avoided eye contact as he made his way back to the alternate world in which he lived. A world, at least where he felt clean.

As he walked, his mind went to Billy. He wondered what Billy and Raven would think of him, but mostly Billy. From the start, he knew Billy was different—someone special. Billy never judged him. He was kind, respected his boundaries, and took time to get to know him. Billy could even make him laugh, which wasn’t easy after everything Kye had been through. Kye liked him, and those feelings only grew.

It grew into something else.

Something he had never felt before.

It was like trying to climb up a glass wall, only to slide back down, feeling each desperate attempt to ascend ending in failure. He had seen Billy with other boyfriends, Daggar being the last, and knew he didn't measure up. The weight inside him grew heavier, making it hard to breathe, as if he were being pressed against the wall he couldn't scale. Nausea twisted his stomach, a tremor passing through his hands as he came to terms with his deepening feelings, each implosive realization dragging him further into despair.

At first, he thought it was okay.

Change.

Something he could get used to, something that would pass in time.

Something he could handle, then move on.

A crush, perhaps.

Something to fill a void, a lack in his life.

But then it got worse. Much worse. It felt like punching a wall. It didn't punch back. It hurt. Days shortened.

Draining.

Darkness.

Alone, he wondered why the sun had left. Why didn't it stay longer to bring comfort?

He kept quiet.

It felt like swallowing thorns, each one catching painfully in his throat.

He watched Billy, savoring their time together and fearing its loss. It was the toughest punishment he could impose on himself. The image of 'blood-soaked petals' tried to capture his suppressed emotions, the pain he endured to maintain his silence, biting his lip to hold back words he would never speak. The 'Barley-induced confidence' referred to the false courage drawn from alcohol, a brief, hallucinatory bravery that shrouded his clear judgment.

He remembered riding to Billy's house, drinking even more.

The pool felt amazing on his nakedness, bolstering him with a newfound courage. He waited, anticipation curling in his stomach, watching the water ripple around him. Billy came—he hesitated just for a moment, a breathless pause that seemed to stretch between them—before jumping out of the pool and demanding what he wanted.

Billy's skin beneath his hands was warm, inviting.

Scratchy from a day of whiskers, tantalizing him.

Lips, hot and sultry, met with his.

Eyes of shock, crystal clear, radiant blue, graced his vision—beautiful just the same.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” ran through his mind.

What did he do?

Why did he let his emotions get the better of him?

How would he move past this embarrassment?

The weight of his actions bore down on him, making his desire for Billy even more potent. It was a mistake he couldn't afford, yet cherished. He knew he had to bury it like a precious treasure locked away on a distant island. It would become a ghost, haunting only him—a shadow unseen by anyone else.

He would create a façade for Billy, pretending that night meant nothing and that he barely remembered it. But deep down, Kye would hold on to that memory, a secret only for him, a beautiful yet burdensome reminder of what he couldn't have.

Making it to his moped, he straddled the seat and looked into the alley.

The neon signs flickered like restless spirits above Bellmore City, casting a garish glow onto the wet pavement. He saw the other sex workers mingling with passersby, their faces obscured under the flickering light, leaning in car windows, or flirting in obvious ways.

The night was alive with the clamor of distant traffic and murmured conversation, the hum of the subway beneath adding an undercurrent that seemed to pulse with the city's heartbeat. He couldn't help but wonder what stories were hidden behind the eyes of these workers, secrets they carried like armor in the bustling, indifferent crowd.

He felt the first of the rain.

A drop here.

A drop there.

The soft, distant grumbling as the clouds became hungry.

Soon, they could feed on other people's secrets--- and wash them away.

The scooter moved from the curb, its engine sputtering a quiet rebellion against the silence, as he left his damnation behind him.

In the rain, a faint aftertaste mingled with the air, a hint of something new, whispering fragile hope into the spaces between despair.