I don't want to say much on this, to try something. I'll just say that it was written for a writing contest on GaiaOnline with the prompt "every inch a king." It started out as an assignment for English class (the first three paragraphs) for vocabulary words, but then I saw that prompt and extended it. Inspiration from the song "King of New Orleans" by Better Than Ezra. The title gutterflower comes from the Goo Goo Dolls' album by that name, and they got the title from a poem by Pablo Neruda called "The Beggers".

Enjoy. Please R&R. Tell me how you think it ended: one of the two things that could've happened to him. I want to see what you thought.

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The emaciated teen sat in the cold alleyway, bundles of trash beside him to act as fagots for the rank fire he had burning in front of him. He glanced up and down the alleyway, looking for other desperate kings of the street, the gutterflowers and bums with no place left as winter set in.

His stalwart attempts to keep the fire burning failed as, one by one, the bundles of garbage smoked and fell apart in his fingers. The boy slouched against that wall behind him, smitten by the damp chill of the upcoming winter. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them to keep in what little heat his body produced.

In the hopes of warming himself, he left the alley. On the streets, he looked through the dark shop windows at the unachievable items inside: The gold and silver items bound to become heirlooms to a family he would never have.

With his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, he continued on his way, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans. He thought back on the life he'd had before, when he had a warm bed to sleep in and a family to love him.

But then the fire had come, warmer than he'd ever wanted to be. And it was all gone in a few minutes.

He stopped to watch a car pass by, hoping for the slim chance that some charitable soul rode inside. As usual, the car passed without even slowing. The boy continued on his way, the disappointment gnawing at his insides. He knew he should be used to it by now, but he found it only got harder each time, especially with winter fast approaching. The dark shop windows no longer held any appeal, and the teen continued on.

A gentle breeze blew up the street, but in the bitter cold of the night, it felt more like a gale. As the boy pulled his threadbare jacket tighter around his thin body, he didn't bother stopping for the next car that went by. From the edge of his vision, he saw the red glow of the car's brake lights. Ignoring them, he kept his feet moving.

As he neared the stopped car, he lifted his eyes just enough to get a look at it. It was a sleek black BMW, obviously expensive. The boy wondered what it was doing in this part of town so late at night.

The car began moving alongside him as he kept on his way. The boy tried to ignore the vehicle, but he couldn't help walking faster despite knowing the car could catch him if its driver wanted. He glanced over his shoulder at the vehicle and found that it was following along directly beside him. Turning down an alley, he hoped to lose the car.

"Hey!" The voice shocked the boy, almost causing him to take off down the alley. Forcing himself to stop and stay where he was, he turned around slowly, pulling his jacket tighter around his body as another breeze swept down the alley.

The BMW sat at the mouth of the alley, its engine still running, the driver's side window rolled down as a man leaned out and waved him over. Cautiously, the boy approached, ready to run at the first sign of anything threatening. "Do you know where Hickory Avenue is? I seem to have gotten lost in this part of town." The man was middle-aged, probably a lawyer, judging by the car and the suit he was wearing.

The boy pointed to his left, toward the end of the road. "Down there, take a left. Go until the third stoplight, then make a right onto Hickory Avenue."

"Thank you, young man," the lawyer said, flashing a meaningless lawyer's smile. "Say, what's your name?"

The boy replied with his name after a moment's hesitation.

"Lawrence Rhodes," the lawyer said, offering a hand, which the boy took out of courtesy. "Do you have somewhere to go?" When the boy shook his head, he said, "What do you say I buy you something to eat and put you up for the night, since you've given me directions home?"

The boy thought for a moment, but figured it was worth a shot. Whether he went with Lawrence Rhodes or stayed on the street for the night, there was the risk that something might happen. At least with the lawyer, it would most likely be a painless death if the man decided to kill him. He walked to the other side of the vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat.

"So," Lawrence said as he pulled away from the alley, "how old are you?"

"Almost seventeen," the boy answered. He let himself lean back on the heated leather seat, letting the warmth wash over him.

"How long have you been out on the street?"

"I'm not sure," the boy said, trying to think of the answer. "I dropped out of high school last May. Probably six months or so." He had no idea why he was telling all this to someone he'd just met, but the information was just spilling from his mouth.

Lawrence stopped at a fast-food joint and bought the boy something to eat, then drove the rest of the way to his house. It was a large, Victorian-style home, with turrets and a wrap-around veranda. The carport into which Lawrence drove the car seemed like an add-on to the house, not quite fitting in with the Victorian style.

"I'll get the guestroom set up," Lawrence said as he led the boy into the house. "You can go take a shower. I'll bring you some fresh clothes when you're done." He showed the boy the bathroom, then left him alone to shower.

The teen turned the water up as high as he could stand, then stripped out of his dirty, threadbare clothes and stepped into the shower. The water felt amazing on his skin, washing away what felt like years of dirt and grime. He looked down at the water rushing toward the drain: it was light brown from all the dirt running down his legs. He couldn't help but smile at the scent of the shampoo and body wash.

When he stepped out, there was a clean set of clothes waiting on the sink. He quickly dried off and dressed, then left to find Lawrence. The lawyer was in the sitting room, waiting for him, the television turned on to the local news. "You can go to your room if you want," he said. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

The teen turned and went up the stairs, easily finding the guestroom. He entered and laid on the bed, allowing his thin body to sink into the mattress. Closing his eyes, he smiled. As he slid beneath the covers, Lawrence came into the room. He grinned at the boy, then sat on the edge of the bed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening it and pulling out four twenty-dollar bills. "Eighty dollars for the first time, twenty for every time afterwards," he said.

The smile dropped from the boy's face. He looked at the money in the lawyer's hand, hoping he was asking for something other than what he was thinking. Beneath the covers, he shifted uncomfortably. If he refused, would Lawrence dump him back out on the street? If he said yes, at least he'd have a warm bed for a night and money in his pocket. The teen looked Lawrence in the eye, silently giving frightened approval.

Lawrence smiled and laid the eighty dollars on the night table. Then he folded his wallet and slid it back into his pocket. "It's your first time, right?" he asked.

The boy nodded, letting the movement show how terrified he was. As Lawrence slid beneath the covers beside him, his heart began racing. The beating was heavy and loud in his ears as Lawrence positioned himself over his body and began violently kissing his throat. His cold hands moved up and down his sides as he lifted the boy's pajama shirt.

Closing off his mind, the teen clenched his eyes closed and waited for the experience to be over. He tried not to feel the lawyer's palms, his probing fingers, and finally the sharp pain—he almost succeeded in not feeling anything, but as he heard the lawyer's breathing become irregular, he found himself concentrating on it, hearing his own breath coming in irregular gasps. He couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or the tears he felt welling up in his eyes, and he didn't want to admit to either.

When Lawrence was done, he silently got up, crawled out of the bed, dressed, and left, closing the door behind himself and leaving the teen alone. As soon as he heard the door click shut, the boy rolled onto his side and began crying, curling into a ball on the mattress as he waited for the soreness to subside. He had decided halfway through the ordeal that it wasn't worth the eighty dollars, but he knew it was too late to go back on the offer.

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When the boy awoke the next morning, he was congested from the last night's crying. His back ached from sleeping in a ball all night, but he knew the underlying pain in his lower back was from something else. He tried to keep his mind away from the previous night's activity, but he couldn't. He suddenly felt dirty—dirtier than he had when he had arrived at the house.

Unsure of whether Lawrence would try to take the money back or not, the boy hid the eighty dollars somewhere Lawrence wouldn't find it. He then laid in the bed again, his arms behind his head as he thought over what had brought him into the situation: The fire at the apartment complex, the deaths of his parents and brother, the lack of money left over.

He clamped his eyes shut, unwilling to relive those dreadful months. Outside the door, he heard activity as Lawrence made his way down the stairs to the living room to watch the morning news. A rumble from his stomach cut through the silence left after Lawrence had gone past, and he realized he had to eat.

The boy stood and made his way carefully down to the kitchen, not bothering to change his clothes. He was just going to shower again as soon as he ate to wash off the feeling of Lawrence's hands on his body. In the kitchen, Lawrence got him a bowl of cereal, talking about the morning news stories. The teen said nothing, staring into the bowl before him. He felt as if Lawrence was watching him, taking in every move he made.

As soon as he finished the cereal, he excused himself and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Disappointedly, he realized there was no lock on the knob. He figured he could be in and out quickly, before anything else could happen to him.

In the shower, the boy washed his hair quickly, then proceeded to attempt to wash the invisible dirt of the lawyer's hands from his body. He scrubbed until he was sure his skin was raw in some places, too involved in his work to hear the sound of the door opening and closing. A breeze of cold air rushing into the otherwise hot shower warned him of Lawrence's arrival, but it was too late for him to do anything.

Lawrence pushed the teen face-first into the shower wall, pressing his chest to the boy's back. "You'll find twenty dollars beside your bed," he said into the boy's ear, then began reaping his reward. With his chest pressed to the wall by both Lawrence's hand and body, the boy couldn't struggle or get away, so he waited until Lawrence finished his business. When the lawyer left, the boy crumpled on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, unsure whether the water on his face was from the shower or another wave of tears. He stood after a few minutes and again began scrubbing his body, trying to be rid of the disgusting feeling that still lingered where Lawrence's hands had been.

When he managed to calm down, the teen crawled out of the shower and dressed quickly in another set of clothes Lawrence had provided. He picked up the twenty dollars from the nightstand and went to find the eighty he had hidden earlier, sliding it all into his pocket. His decision was made: No amount of money could make him stay in that house any longer. Pulling on the threadbare jacket that had become his comfort, the boy went downstairs, glad Lawrence had returned his old clothes to him. He snagged another jacket from the closet beside the door and stepped out into the bitter cold of the morning before Lawrence could stop him.

He almost ran down the street away from the house, never wanting to see the dreaded place again. The jacket he had stolen provided sufficient warmth, but he knew he would still have to try to find some other way of keeping warm at night, even if it meant going back to using garbage fagots in an alley somewhere.

But at least he had money in his pocket. He wondered how many meals one hundred dollars could buy, then if it was possible to find some sort of heat for that much money. Sadly, he realized that one hundred dollars wasn't good for much more than food. But at least when he ate, he would be inside out of the weather.

The boy walked down Main Street, having slowed to a walk when he realized Lawrence wasn't following him. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his new jeans, inadvertently donated by Lawrence. They were warm, without holes or worn spots. Without realizing, he silently thanked the lawyer for the new set of clothes and the jacket.

He watched the cars go past as people drove to work during the morning rush hour. As each one passed, he wondered what each person in the car thought about him: Was he some homeless bum? Was he needy? Was he a way to buy sex?

The teen closed his eyes at that last thought, wanting to forget the past twelve hours. He knew they would probably haunt him for the rest of his life, however long that would be in those conditions.

A car's horn drew his attention to the road as he approached an intersection. He crossed, still focusing on the car that had blasted the horn. Without looking, he ran into someone.

"Hey!" the other party yelled. The boy looked up and saw another king, like himself. "What the hell was that for?"

"S-sorry," the boy replied, picking himself up off the ground. He brushed his knees off.

"Oh, what's this?" the other king said. He picked at the boy's jacket. "New threads?"

The teen watched him precariously, unsure of what he was going to do.

"Give it to me," the other king commanded.

"No," the boy said, pulling the jacked closer to his body. "It's mine."

Before he knew it, the boy felt a knife slide into his stomach. The other king held the handle, his face close to the boy's as he said, "It's mine now." He twisted the knife in the boy's stomach, making it even harder for him to get a breath. Then he pulled the blade out and let the boy fall to the ground. Before he ran, he stripped the jacket off the boy, taking its warmth and the hundred dollars in its pocket.

The boy writhed on the sidewalk, his hands over the wound. He struggled to get breaths, to overcome his shock, but he knew he wasn't going to last long lying there on the sidewalk and bleeding to death. He felt his eyes drifting closed, and his toes and feet were numb. His mind was airy, as if he was leaving his own body.

And then there was a face in his vision, female. The boy thought at first that it was his mother, come to take him home, but as the woman's voice—barely noticeable in his airy state—reached his ears, he realized it wasn't her. He felt his body being lifted, then felt a soft seat against his back and a blast of warm air. Staring straight upward, he saw the ceiling of a car, and the closing of two doors told him it was really happening. The woman said something to him, the words again not quite reaching his ears, but the sound of the voice was soothing.

The teen's eyes closed, his breathing becoming almost non-existent as he waited for death. He didn't want to drag it out any longer than he had to. Beneath him, he felt the vehicle begin to move, then there was a warmth in his hand, gentle but urgent as pressure was applied. He could still hear the woman's voice, and he picked up on the urgency and worry in its tone. The pressure on his hand seemed to pulsate, but he realized it was the woman's hand, squeezing his, trying to keep him awake. As best as he could, the boy tightened his hand around hers. He heard the relief in her voice, but it was short-lived as she went on trying to keep him awake.

What seemed like hours later, the car stopped and the sound of the engine ceased. The boy heard the sound of a car door, then there was silence for a few more endless minutes. At his feet, the door opened, allowing a rush of cold air to wash over him. There were more voices, masculine ones mixed with the woman's. He felt his body moving, being pulled gently out of the car. Laying flat, he felt himself moving again, moving over bumps on the pavement, warm hands on his body near the wound, taking his pulse, and one in his own hand: That of the woman, worried for a boy she didn't even know, terrified about what could happen to him, what would happen to him if nothing was done.

Slowly, he opened is eyes, nearly blinded by the florescent lights of a hospital. He saw the faces of a doctor and a nurse, wheeling him into a room. Beside him was the woman, her middle-aged face lined with concern, her lips moving as she spoke words that didn't quite reach his ears. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, the boy let them fall closed, his hand still in the woman's, anchoring him to the Earth.

Every inch a king, every pound too light, every thought afraid, every heartbeat human. Another soul lost to the wrong side of society, another nameless person never to be remembered. Uncared for and forgotten, with no one to notice if he's dead or alive. A false hope in a deceiving lawyer, and a pure heart with a worn, worried face—the ups and downs, the story of his last hours as a gutterflower.

"Set him up, to let him fall;
Turn him over in your hands.
God save the king of New Orleans."

-"King of New Orleans" by Better Than Ezra