Craving
25 August 1998
Yesterday he ran away again. He stole the contents of my wallet; my money and credit cards. The message he left scrawled on the notepad by the telephone was cruel and precise. His absence left a hole in the texture of the house larger than his presence.
I paced the city in search of him, streets slicked orange by rain and road lights. It did not take me long to find him.
He crouched, hunched and shivering in a dark alley, arms wrapped tight about his knees. I became aware of the stench of rubbish and urine, the smell of recent blood and old food. Like a panther, his small black form curled in the corner by the wall.
He was knocking the back of his head repeatedly against the brickwork.
The switchblade in my pocket swung silently against my leg as I advanced. "Michael," I pronounced slowly.
Jaw set disobediently, his frightened gaze lifted to meet my own. His pupils were huge and dilated. The pale shine of his skin, the tired shadows in stark relief below his eyes, betrayed something older than his sixteen years.
"I can't... I can't stop shaking," he gasped, sucking air through his teeth as though oxygen would dull his senses. He snarled his fingers in his auburn curls, pulling as if he would tear the length of his hair from his scalp by the roots.
I stood above him, studying him thoughtfully. "Tell me you need me," I said.
His brows puckered together in a brief mask of pain.
"You can't live without me," I said.
When he did not reply I sank to my knees at his side and drew out my switchblade. "You know I only want what's best for you."
His eyes sparked gold and orange as he trembled, fixing on me, shaking his head in weakened defiance. He shrank away from me as I cut through the smooth white flesh of my forearm.
Then I offered the seeping red wound to his lips. "Drink," I said.
Copyright © 25 August 1998
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