I found this story on an old jumpdrive the other day. I wrote it a while ago, and had forgotten all about it. I'm posting it here to see what you guys think. I was thinking I might expand it. Or I might take it down tommorow. Anyway, here it is...

Warning: Slash, violence, and mild language

A Smack on the Face

I know I'm no saint, and I don't give a damn. A priest once told me one day I'd pay for all my sins. The way I see it, I've already overpaid. I know I'm headed for hell anyway. What with predestination and all that crap.

So I'm wondering why I've got mail from The Most Holiest Sanctuary Church. I don't normally bother to read my mail, but with a name like that, how can I resist? Lying down on my unmade bed, I open the letter.

Dear Oliver,

I've started this letter a hundred times. I have so much I want to tell you, to explain. My name is Jacob Bloom. I'm a minister at The Most Holiest Sanctuary Church.

Nineteen years ago I met a woman, your mother. I got to know her well. She told me was sick, that there was something wrong with her mind. She made me promise I would not to fall in love with her, but I did anyway. I couldn't help myself, she was my angel. I wanted to save her, I believed I could. When I realized I couldn't, I felt I'd failed her. I left. I didn't know about you.

I couldn't get her out my head though. The years couldn't erase her memory. I searched for her, but she'd vanished.

Last May, I hired an investigator to find her. I needed to see her, to hold her in my arms again. But he told me she was dead. My angel had killed herself. He told me that she'd left a son. My son.

It took months to track you down. It was agonizing to learn all of the things you have had to go through. I'm so sorry Oliver.

I need to see you, to believe there is still hope for us. There's a café, The Cave, the investigator says you go to often. I will be there on there at noon on the 13th. Please come.


Your Father


The word tastes like oversweet chocolate. I stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

What's he want with me? He gonna save my rotting soul? I toss the letter away from the bed with a snort. No thanks, Daddy.

My foster mom used to call me flip in her more nurturing moments. I guess she was right. Sometimes I wish I hadn't run, so she could see me now. See me flipping my way into hell. Though, it's not all my doing.

It's the darkness. It hides in the corners of my head most of the time. But then…


It doesn't really sound like that, but it sure feels it. Like a smack on the face. It takes control of my mind. Whatever I do then, well, it seems like a good idea at the time. Though, I'll admit that really isn't much of an excuse.

As if I care.

Getting up from the bed, the sheets cling to me like a needy lover. I kick myself free of them. Seeing the letter on the ground, I kick that too.

I fish a tattered leather jacket from a pile of clothes on the floor. I'll forget about that man tonight, forget everything. It's time to go exorcise this mess in my head. Still, before I leave, I stick the letter in one of the jacket's pockets.

I'm standing in the guts of hell, and it stinks of cheap beer and sweat. Here in the carcass of the financial district we sure know how to sin. Studying the scene around me, I know I've come to the right place.

The moon is lounging on her throne while the young filth of the city pays tribute to their hedonistic goddess. There is no roof on the building, no windows or doors. We don't need them. It is just dark enough for animosity.

I fling myself into the throng of dancers. I close my eyes; feel the grind of bodies against my own. They move wantonly to the rhythm of the bass. I let my body be taken deeper into the crowd. Opening my eyes, I spot a game of Russian Roulette in the corner. The darkness growls.

I head towards the game, fighting my way through an assortment of body parts. I feel a pair of eyes on me, and turn to se a young man dancing towards me. The other dancers move, making room for him to pass.

"Oli, it's been too long!" he roars.

I run my hand through the stubble on my head. I look towards the roulette table. Both players are still alive. Damn. I'll have to wait.

"Marcello," I say, as he swings an arm around my shoulders.

His cologne sends a familiar jolt though my system. Even in the darkness he looks like some sort of deity.

He runs her hand through the stubble on my head, his nails digging into my scalp. I remember how he used to love to run her fingers through it before I shaved it off.

"What brings you to my part of town?" He asks, looking at me, then to the roulette table. He already knows what I'm here for. "This about that dead mommy of yours?"

"No." I shake off his arm. I remember why I'd been avoiding him. He know me too well.

He raises an eyebrow. Marcello has a soft spot for me. He's got this fetish for pretty things. His china doll, he used to call me. I know a smile won't get me out of this one though, so I hand him the letter. I watch him read it.

"So he worth blowing that pretty face of yours off?"

I gnaw on my lip. I wish he'd leave. He doesn't.

"You know, one of these days you're gonna get yourself killed."

"That's the point," I whisper, immediately regretting it.

I can feel his stare, but refuse to look at him.

"Please don't," he murmurs in my ear. I'm surprised he would admit caring. Around here, caring gets you killed.

He brings his face closer and brushes his lips against mine. I recognize his smile against my mouth, feel it linger a moment. Then he's gone. Part of me wishes he'd stayed, but the roulette table calls.


I hear the gun against my temple. I open my eyes. I guess I should be thankful I'm still alive. But I really don't give a damn.

I'm dimly aware of the people around me. They're exchanging bets and drinking themselves into morbid joviality. I hand the gun to the boy across from me, reluctant to let it go. There's a kind of comfort in the cool metal against my skin.

The boy looks at me, eyes like a puppy that's been kicked too many times. I hate that look. His hand shakes as he puts the gun against his head. His eyes try to tell me his hell.

Boy, if I cared I would ask.

The darkness hits without preamble. The boy's face morphs into mine. Pale eyes stare back at me. China doll face. It makes me want to puke.

"Shoot," I yell.


Damn. I jump across the table and grab the limp boy as he falls to the ground. His eyes are empty. Blood seeps through my shirt and sticks to the skin beneath.

The body in my arms changes.

I'm holding my mom. There's red everywhere. It looks like cherry cough syrup, except it coming out of her, and I know it's blood.

"Wake up." I whimper, shaking her.

I know I should do something, but I don't know what. I'm only four. She's got a piece of paper in her hand with writing on it. I can't read it though. She promised to start teaching me how to read next week. So I just hold her in my arms and shove my face into her hair. It smells like cinnamon rolls.

"Oliver, let him go." A voice yells behind me.

Hands pull me away from my mom.


I try to get free as somebody pulls her away.

"He's dead."

"She isn't dead, she isn't."

"Snap out of it." The hands shake me.

I beat the back the darkness. He's dead. The boy with the gun is dead. I shake my head. Mom's been dead for years. Better that way, too. Crazy masochist, I don't think she even had a soul.

I try to take control of my mind. But I keep thinking of the suicide letter, and now this letter from Daddy dearest. God, I hate letters.

Gasping for air, I notice there's still hands on me. I shrug them off. Their grip doesn't ease though. I realize they're not planning on letting go. I asses the situation quickly. There's three of them, all cranked with steroid and who knows what.

I laugh. They really shouldn't be messing with me. Don't they know I'm crazy as hell?

I open myself to the darkness, and let it take control. I kick the nearest body. I feel my foot connect before the first punch lands on my stomach. I kick and punch indiscriminately, not bothering to block their attacks.

I imagine poor Daddy waiting for me to come. The look on his face when he realizes his precious boy's not gonna show. Gurgles of laughter and blood spew out of my mouth. I half hope they don't kill me so I can see the look on his face.

The Cave is full of delinquents and miscreants, congregating in an orgy of noise and coffee. Just the way to start the day. I drink my chocolate milk while nursing yesterday's bruises.

I can see him from the back corner of the café. A stranger, in a stranger land. This must be what he imagined hell looks like. I chew on my lip, staring at him. I'm fascinated.

How long before he gives up, I wonder.

He's a pasty skinned balloon. His white hair sticks out in all directions. He's sitting daintily on a rusty chair, as if afraid to get his suit dirty. The other customers glare at him with open hostility. Not so quiet whispers of Narc float through the café. It's funny, my minister daddy looking like a Narc.

I study his face, looking for myself in it. I touch the stubble on my head, it's the same white blond as his. I wonder if he knows what I look like. Did his investigator take my picture? I look away.

Damn. My eyes are leaking. The darkness, it's turned me into a broken faucet. I look back at the man, and remember my game. I had planned to wait him out. See how long it would take him to realize I wasn't coming. But the darkness is messing with my head again, and I need to get out of here.
I mean to sneak out and leave him waiting, but he sees me as I walk towards the door. I freeze as our eyes meet.

"Oliver." My name sounds foreign coming out of his mouth.

I want to run, but the darkness carries me to the chair across from him. It's eager to continue its game.

"What happened to you?" My father asks. His worried tone churns my stomach.

"Just a little fun." I finger the giant bruise on my head.

He watches me. I think he's scared. I smile at him. My sweetest smile, the one Marcello says makes me look like an angel.

"You look like your mother." He says.

"Pretty, huh?" I lick my torn lips.

He squirms. This is too much fun. I bet now he's thinking I'm not worth the trouble.

"I loved her," he continues musing, "your mother was…"

"A crazy suicidal masochist."

His body tenses. So what if he loved her? What good did that do her? Love doesn't cure you. Marcello hadn't cured me. I know he loved me, in his own way. Maybe he still does, but it doesn't matter. The darkness is still there.

I look back to my father. We stare at each other for a long time. I have too much to say, yet I can't seem to open my mouth.

"I understand if you don't want anything to do with me Oliver," he says, looking defeated. "Should I leave?"

I look away. I feel something I can't explain. I think it's hope, but it's been so long since I last felt hope, I'm not sure. The darkness, it tell me it's useless.

He stands up, and the chair screeches across the floor. He sighs as he straightens his suit. I notice a black clad shape shift in the corner of the café. Marcello. He's looking at me, a minute smile playing on his lips. He came, for me.

This is hope, huh?

I thrust my hand out and grab the sleeve of my father's suit. What am I doing? He looks at me, waiting.


So, what do you guys think? Interested in more? Let me know!