I am looking for MATURE critques! I have edited and spell checked this story as much as I could. Please do not be mean about your reviews and . I am posting this because it has been done for a long time and am looking to clean it up and make it the best it can be.

The rain falls lightly, but it will soon it will come to pour. The sky is gray with a possible storm, and a mist that thickens in the empty streets of nearing night. A street lamp glows through, blemishing its light as it shines through the haze, catering its aura as my only source of light. Through the mist I catch glimpses of vulgar graffiti that mimics and symbolizes the violence that has brought forth my time to die. I am a mess sitting in the barrenness of my city ghettos; leaning against a brick wall with nothing but lost faith, and I am soaked in blood.

My clothes are torn and stained from the red essences of my body. My hair is damp and sticking to my neck from the mist that has turned into drizzle. There is a two inch mark deep in my shoulder; a souvenir from a fight. It bleeds freely and drains me of my strength, readying me to pass out from the pain and blood loss. Sadly, it is not enough to kill me. I cry with a whimper as tears streak down my face. I am in a state of misery, hardly dry. A sick mixture of blood and rain has erased any comfort I might have.

Despite my pain and envy for those who are dry, I am not crying for myself; I am crying for the man named David. David, a man who lies dying in my arms; more cut and bloody than I. His black leather jacket has been torn, and he too wears a wound that pours a fountain of red essence with each easing breath. I am terrified; more worried for him then I.

We are outcasts who rarely are sought, and when we are, they are only dirty looks from the bystanders and passing streetwalkers who are disgusted by the sight of the perishing man and girl. They don't bother to understand, don't bother to ask what led us into this peril, only to assume the worst, to be strangers in the rain. We are drowning in our misfortune, drowning in our blood, and drowning in the rain. We have come so far, only to fail. We will rot in our failure to succeed. Soon the pain will pass, and maybe, just maybe, we will be in heaven together. A desperate pain that leaves me barely able to talk, does not prevent my begging prayers to the Lord, calling them to come true, and letting David survive.

Lord please save us, please let him wake up…please Lord, please…

But unlike the answered prayers of faithful saints, I am granted no miracle, and mine go answered only by an incessant waterfall of blood and cold rain.

David chokes, and I immediately hold him tighter while I maliciously curse the Fighter that hurt him. I take his hand, and hold it in my mine. I cry over his face, my tears mixing with the rain that streaks down onto his face.

"…Whatever happens, I won't let you go of your hand."

The area I live in, which like any inner-city ghetto was dangerous and tripe. I lived in a particularly bad area where even walking home from school posed danger. And that was just what I was doing when I was first approached by the Fighters; the gangsters of the streets. The road with the large white-washed fence and the alley across from it was the domain of the Fighters, and it was my route home one day when five of my classmates threatened to kill me after school. Behind the fence was a small complex of the cheapest, most rundown apartments in the metropolitan.

It was anything but a nice afternoon, and I had just crossed the gate opening when a black guy; the Fighter and two of his buddies came up looking for a rough time. They hassled me and tried to touch me. They picked me up and slammed me against the wall, spitting in my face that this was their territory that I had trespassed on. They said they would grant me no mercy for my mistake. They held me against a nail and caused me to bleed, leaving a permanent bloodstain on the wall of the picket fence.

I'd cried loudly from the pain of the nail sticking into my back, and moments later from behind the fence appeared a man with blond hair and a black jacket. At his appearance the Fighter's dropped me, turned to him and stepped forward. The man was silent for a moment while he glared at them. Than he cussed, shoved and told them off. He said he ever caught them hassling me again he would kick their asses.

The Fighter's had snarled at him, and then run. The man told me to stay safe and vanished quickly as he had come. Mystified, I had taken his word, and tried never again to walk that way home. But a few days later I was forced to take that street due more threats, and of course the Fighters got me. This time they cornered me farther from the gate and threatened to use their knives. The Fighter pulled out his knife and held the cool blade against my cheek, daring me to scream. I muffled my cries as they laughed at my silent tears and turned the blade sharp side against my skin.

They had laughed, and laughed loudly. It was this that had caused the behind-the-fence-man to come out again, and this time he did not pause to glare. Instead he instantly pulled out his own blade, holding it high.

"I told you not to touch her again."

"Back off man!"

"I warned you."

He swiftly moved; his knife now at the Fighter's own throat. The Fighter's two buddies retreated, looking back only to flip the finger. The leader slowly backed away from the blade; and the blond man swiped it sharply through the air in a threatening motion. With this, the lighter flipped his middle and followed his buddies.

We both watched a moment as they disappeared around a far corner.

"Had to take this way home again huh?"

His voice was calm and sultry.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, feeling guilty. "How…did you know I was here?"

Apparently he had an apartment in that old complex that looked out over the fence. He'd seen the Fighter's coming and had come out to see if he 'had more rescuing to do' .

We started talking. He explained while that Fighter was younger and bigger, he was more skilled with a knife and the two buddies were only talkers.

He asked me where I was from, and how old I was.

I was sixteen and from Midstreet.

He repeated to stay safe, and assured that if he ever saw them harassing me again he would kill them; permanently.

I asked him what his name was.

"David." He'd said.

We parted after that.

I became mystified by this man who had saved me. Often I dared to travel down the sidewalk next to the fence with my blood on it hoping to see him again. The Fighter's wouldn't come back. David had fucked with them enough for them not to want to mess with him again. As long as I was by the fence and not across the street in the alley where they lurked, I knew I was safe.

When David was around he was usually in his apartment by the window on the couch. I would stand there, close as I could be, and wait until he saw me. He would grin, wave, and I would wave back, too shy to smile. But eventually I warmed up, and presented one with each encounter. I would walk away after he waved to me, like my job was finished.

He came out there one day when I was watching him. He'd spotted me leaning on the fence, staring at him through the spaces in the pickets. He waved, and then disappeared from the window. His actions made me nervous. I didn't know what he was doing or what he wanted, and I almost ran away. He walked out and came to where I was standing. He rested casually against the fence, like he had no business, and was only there for the sake of being there.

He asked me if the Fighters had hassled anymore me, and I said no. He didn't say much else, only stared off, but remained there, as if he didn't know what else to say. But from his presence I got he just didn't talk much. My courage built, I said to him,

"Thank you for helping me."

He turned back to me, "Your welcome." He said with a surprising smile.

After our third encounter it soon escalated to where I was walking that dangerous path everyday to see him. He would come out and we would talk.

For the most part he didn't have much to say, and when he did it was terse and to the point. He had a charm unlike any other, and the silence between his words and mine didn't bother me. There were no sayings of pointlessness, only just and meaning. Oh, we said words and had quite a few conversations, but mostly we just hung out. Just being near him saved my patience, and satisfied my desire with the need to see him. David rarely smiled when he talked, only when something funny came up would he change his expression. Other wise he was quiet and confined in that black jacket that he wore everyday.

I would think about him often, and looked forward to the times I met him.

Soon our conversations had moved from the same spot near the white picket fence to the steps on the front porch, and became much more intimate. From "How are you?" to "The last time I got wasted I thought I lost my stomach." He cussed, and swore like sailor and said the dirtiest of things. At first he tried to control his mouth, but I assured him it was Ok, and eventually he went back to saying the same old rotten things that I came to adore. He would smoke, and sometimes drink. I never minded. Alcohol was the least that bothered me. I would lean in, my head resting on his shoulder, and take in the smoke filled scent on his jacket, enjoying even the most noxious of fumes. He never seemed to mind.

Things started to grow between us. I found myself growing attracted to him, and he, I.

I trusted him completely. He never tried to harm me, only offered me a smoke a few times, but I declined. "Probably for the best," he'd say, and then take another puff.

I never came home after school. I was always with him. Dad never knew where I was, and didn't care either. My schoolmates started asking where I was and why I wouldn't hang with them after school anymore.

I told them I was busy with homework.

David was careful. When a neighbor of his came by, he would smile and nod to him or her, telling them with his facial expressions, "There's nothing going on."

He lied a lot. Not to me, but to other people. It was all a matter of protection. One time a neighbor asked him, "Who is that girl?"

He answered, "She's my niece."

"I didn't know you had a sister."

They knew he didn't have a brother."Well I do."

David and I hung out together like friends. We acted like buddies and we talked liked acquaintances.

But in our lack of communication, I knew there was a connection only we knew; and yet never spoke of. Sometimes, I found myself holding his hand, leaning against his shoulder, or sitting on his lap. We had never said, 'I love you' to one another, never vowed loyalty, or made any sort of commitment. We're we lovers? No. Were we friends? Yes. Were we more then that? Yes. Then what were we?

I don't know.

Pretty soon our after school porch hangouts got more mature, and I started seeing him at night. I'd sneak out after Dad fell asleep, and he and I would take walks around the block. These were the times when David talked the least, and the sound of silence carried a conversation only we could understand. A couple times we saw the Fighters, and they would lock us from across the street. But never were we attacked, only flipped at the bird and cursed at.

David had a job; he worked while I was at school. It was low pay, and not many hours. But it got him through. He barely had enough to eat, but he seemed to live off of alcohol. His clothes were numbered less then mine, but still, he seemed to make it ok.

We took it a step further when he started taking me to bars. It was Saturday nights, and a long way away, at least an hour by foot. But we went there despite, and somehow I got in. We would grab a table and often the waiters would give me a look, and question with their eyes. But David would only tell them "She's with me," and they'd drop it. We would hang there for hours. I'd watch him drink. He'd down beer and vodka, and the occasional wine. Sometimes he gambled with some buddies of his, and lost the money he earned earlier that day. You may think it was boring or scary, but some of the most exciting times of my life were when I'd sit with David and his table full of drunk buddies. I'd watch them throw their money on the table, then toss coins and play cards to make a winner; barely notice me; which was a good thing, and I never took for granted. David would check on me, and he'd smile when he saw me watching him, cheering him on, hoping he didn't waste another buck. Whether he'd win or lose, he was always in a good mood.

But mostly we'd sit alone, and those we're the times I liked best. At these times just like our walks, we'd rarely talk We'd just sit at the table, me on his lap, staring at each other and drink.

Yes, even I drank. In one night I'd finish more beers then any of my friends at school had in their whole lifetimes. I got tipsy about every Saturday night, only my knowledge of how many bottles it took stopped me from getting wasted every time. I developed a taste for alcohol, and once David let me taste the Vodka he had ordered. The whole bar would smell of smoke, half of it David's. It was a bad habit of his and one I rarely saw him not do.

After that, some where around two AM, we would link arms and walk back home. For a drunk he could navigate well, and only got us lost twice. He'd drop me off a block from my house, and walk the opposite way home. He never came near my house, too afraid of my Dad and what he'd do if he found out that I was spending my time with an older man. Lucky for us, my dad could care less where I was at any hour; or that I was nearly wasted.

Many a times we had been harassed. Gang member's preached to him about the difference of our ages, when they found out he was with me.

"Yo, you know it illegal to be messin' wit a girl that many yeers younga then you."

"We ain't gonna let you break the law David."

That was their excuse, really it just pissed them off to see me with him. They cared less about the law.

"What are you going to do about it?" he challenged, knowing they didn't give a damn about the law.

The Fighter had come up to his face, stared at him straight in the eyes. "You're gonna pay for it." He said. "One day, we gonna make you pay for it."

They were the only ones that knew. Everyone else was oblivious to our relationship. We made it so inconspicuous and unlikely that no one could have ever guessed it.

Our relationship was unspoken, even between us. You never saw us kissing on the street, or him looking at me in the way a man looks at his wife. Only in the bars did he do this, and no one I knew was in the bars.

His silence told me all he felt. We had never kissed, never touched. The farthest we went was what we did in the bars. My father never knew, my friends never knew, they had stopped asking me where I was or had been when I promised to be with them. They never saw me hang with David. We had our own routes together, and no other high school kid dared to walk them. For months they asked me where I was, and why they never saw me anymore. I would answer, "Things have changed."

No one would ever approve of my relationship with David. He was an alcoholic, a gambler, and a smoker who lived on the lowest side of the town, yet he was the best person I knew.

I could trust him with anything. About how my mother had run away, and how my Dad was abusive. And on one occasion, how much I really cared for him,

"I miss you," I told him one day, confessing my feelings randomly after a walk. We we're at his apartment, sitting by the steps. "I miss you when you're away, and when I can't be with you."

It was the first time either of us had gone far enough to mention the relationship between us. Saying it was like killing off any denial we could obtain, a confession to our secret relationship. I understood that he was twenty years older then I. It was illegal for him to be with me. If we were caught, he could be charged with statutory, even when we had never done that. I was a teenager barely out of school, and he was a grown man with a job and a past. He was old enough to be my father. I was afraid of what he might do after I told him that. But all he did was light the cigarette he had pulled out and said,

"You too,"

The rain continued to fall. I kissed his forehead, touched his face, and whispered words I so desperately wanted him to know. Words I had not been brave enough to tell, until now.

"Do you remember the time you let me stay over?"

The tiny squeeze from the hand I held told me yes.

My father had beaten me. Hit me, slapped me, and almost knifed me. I can't remember what I had done wrong. Maybe my teachers had called; maybe he was drunk and wanted an excuse to abuse. But whatever it was, he wanted to fight. And he did. I was a victim with the scar to prove it all. I wouldn't tell anyone of the knife he pulled out. The butcher knife he had used from an unspeakable crime years before. It was only a rumor, but I feared it be true.

I had cried, and he had taken the sharpened knife out, and held it to my throat.

"You slut for a daughter, whore. How dare you come back here without…"

"Please don't hurt me," I pleaded. "Whatever you do, Daddy, please don't hurt me."

"You deserve it," he said, and then he bruised me.

I had run. Ran so fast, I kept looking back to see if my father was following me, but he wasn't. Still I kept running, my pain and my fear chased me down the street as I hurried to David's. So hard, had to get away from the abuse at home. Needed a place to stay, I couldn't go back…

I rapped my hand on David's door and stood there waiting, praying he would come. He couldn't be out now. Not when I needed him most.

He answered it with surprise.

"Please," I begged, breathing hard, "I need a place to stay…"

That's all he needed.

"Come in," he said.

The apartment smelled of smoke. Drifts of alcohol could be caught through the clouds of cigarette fumes. The only source of light came from a lamp and it's crimson shade on the nightstand near the couch, painting the white apartment walls a strange and eerie red-orange glow. Beer bottles sat at the ends of the cushion, ashtrays with ciggs in them lay at every corner. The place was a mess, but not quite a junkyard. He owned little and almost nothing at all. The lamp, the stand, the couch, not much else was in this place. Everything from the kitchen to the door of his bedroom was visible and in plain sight. On the stand was his lease bill.

It smelled just like him. I sat down on the couch.

"Who did this to you?" David touched the bruise on my cheek.

"My father," I said lifting my jaw higher as he moved his thumb over a nick on my throat. "He cut me."

He bit his lower lip and then said, "Mother fucking son of a bitch, I'll kill him."

I trembled and repeated my question, "Please, can I stay here tonight? I can't go back there, he'll hurt me…"

He took a moment to answer,

"Of course."

He sat down beside me. I felt at home here, in his apartment, alone with him, and no one knowing where I was. It was worse then my house, but I'd rather live here then with my ass of a father. It was hard for me not to cry, but I managed to only weep dryly. David took my shoulders and looked at me in the eye. I knew he would protect me.

"I wish I could just live with you," I whispered.

There was a strange look in his eye, one I had never seen before. I had seen him with humor, I had seen him with trust and care, but I had never seen him with fire in his eyes until now.

His hands went to my shoulders, then to the buttons of my jacket.

"I wish you could too." He said.

Slowly, one by one he undid the buttons, looking at them as they reached further down my bosom, and I became afraid. I trusted him with all my heart. But I knew he was more mature then me and likely to have different plans then just giving me a shoulder to cry on. I had no escape; I was at his mercy. The door was locked, the curtains were drawn, no one knew my location. He had the advantage of being stronger and already have undone the first layer of clothing I wore. Two more and he would have all of me. If he chose to violate me, he could do so easily without much force. Grabbing me and stripping me of my clothes, right here, right now…so be it. I didn't know if I would even resist, let him do it, don't fight. If he did, then at least it was him and not some stranger on the side of the road, or a Fighter by the fence.

As he undid the last button, I didn't expect, but prepared for the worse.

But my fears instantly diminished when instead of touching me he pulled me close to him and offered himself in a way he never before had. My face pressed against the leather of his jacket, his head on mine. I could feel him breathe. I was embarrassed for the state I was in. I was so over whelmed from the hurt of my father. How dare he bruise his own daughter, slice me, cut me, nearly rape me.

"Yes, you can," David said, moving his hand down my back, "…stay here tonight".

He was being more intimate then he had ever been. The touch, the words, the comfort, the warmth his body gave, it was the first real expression of love I had ever received in my life. And it wasn't from my father, nor my mother, or a trusted teacher or a dear friend. It was the former gangster on the street; the drunk, the smoker, the loser who could never even dream of going big. He was the one. Putting aside his terseness, David opened himself up when I most needed him. He did care for me, I knew it all along, but than I knew without any doubt, someone really did care for me.

"Thank you," I whispered, "Thank you so much."

I fell asleep on David's sofa. Except it wasn't the cushions that were beneath me, and it wasn't a blanket that have me comfort. That night, it was his arms instead of a blanket that gave me my warmth. In heaven I rested, I would never forget that night I spent in his arms, cared for, loved, and never once did he let me go. I had no reason to fear violation.

I touched his wound. Put pressure on it. He jerked from the pain it caused. His hair fell now totally wet. My own, damp as could be. Our blood mixed from a tiny pool that had formed from the sacrifices of our devotion.

"I'll never let you go; never," I kissed his forehead again.

His breathing calmed. The sky turned darker. The blood turned blacker. My lips turned bluer.

"When I finish school, we can disappear."

"Yes, we can disappear."

We were discussing running away. We had been planning it for awhile, talking nonchalantly about it. Jokingly at first, but now we were serious.

"We can run away."

"There's a place I know of, we can go there. My buddy told me of it. When you're done, we will leave."

David had a lot of buddies.

"I can't wait."

"What about your father?"

I thought for a moment.

"Fuck him," I said.

He had smiled at the curse.

The alley had been dark, right around the corner from where I was now. Sided by a fence and a brick wall with colorful, graphical graffiti. Trashcans that smelled of must fallen in the corners with brown grass as their foundations.

The Fighter had led me there, or rather, forced me there.

"Come 'mer white girl," He had called running at me. "Com mere' so you can die."

"Leave me alone! HELP!"

The fright kicked in, and I attempted a mad dash the opposite way.

"Stupid bitch!" he screamed as he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me across the street. The Fighter's hand covered my mouth, keeping me from screaming. I tried to kick him, bite him, hit him, made the biggest fuss of my life, anything to get away. But he was three times my size, and over twice my weight. He could crush me within a second.

Oh God, why did I have to walk that way? Why had I not just gone to David's, or home, or school, or somewhere else, away from here? I had been trying to get away from my father. I didn't know he was waiting, didn't know he had been planning to attack me once he saw me alone. If only I had gone by the white picket fence instead…

The Fighter threw me into the alley, knocking me down; I fell on the barren dirt, landing backwards on my hands. He grabbed me and then slammed me into the wall, holding me against it with his body and breathing into my face with hot, putrid breath.

"HELP!" I screamed.

Maybe he was near, maybe he would hear me.

"Hush, bitch. No one can save you now. Not even that pedophile boyfriend of yours…"

"He's not…" I tried, "He's not a…pedophile!"

He slapped me, hard, struck me with the hand housing five backward rings that made deep scratches and raised blood on my face on contact.

"Listen up, that stupid fag is too old for you. Get it? No teeanga' can sleep wit a forty year old fag!"

And then he struck me for the second time, and then a third and then a fourth, each one causing more and more bloody marks on my face.

"I wasn't!" I cried between the hits, "I wasn't sleeping with-"


Then he kicked me; making me double over and hack.

"You sluttish whore, don't you know it's illegal to sleep with men twice your fucking age?"

He shook me hard. "Twice your age!"

"HELP-ME!-" I tried to yell.

"Let go of her," Said a familiar voice.

The fighter whirled around.


Miraculously, David had heard me. His hair ripped down his face, making him appear as someone no one dares to come across.

"I said, let go of her." He said.

The Fighter let go of me; and turned to him. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a switch knife with a sharpened blade.

"Too young, far to young, you can't be with her. You too old to be wit a girl like dat."

"Oh yeah," David's hand now gleamed with his own knife "Wanna bet?"

In this city, silence means yes, and this time, the Fighter was not afraid.

They began to fight; the Fighter ran and tackled him. David was older, more experienced, but his age was what got him. The Fighter was younger, stronger, he got David square in the chest, knocking him out off his feet and attaining the upper edge.

"You God damn fag, you don't need to be wit a girl dat young!"

Over and Over! To Young! To Young! Words that would haunt me forever. To Young! To Old! To Old! He's to old for you!

"Does your Daddy know?" The Fighter turned to yell at me. "Does your Daddy know you've been wit him? Does he? I seen your Daddy, and I dun' think he-"

He was knocked down before he could finish the sentence. I was David, who now stood. He had been hit, but not ended. Unfortunately, neither had the fighter.

"I'll see you in hell, pedo.."

"In your dreams, fucker."

David launched himself at him, and they fought again. A rip-roaring double edging fight, I saw their knives, heard their cries, saw the slashes as they gnashed one another with their pocket blades.

"Do you not know my age?" David screamed madly, wrestling the fighter's arm off of him and then socking him in the face. "I'm thirty-one!"

My own blood wept down my face, I cried over and over screaming for help; but to avail, no more would come.

"Run!" David screamed to me as he hit the fighter. "Run! Run!"

But I couldn't. I couldn't turn away from the horror before me, the death I was seeing before my eyes. David cut the Fighter, and the Fighter cut David. They grunted, they groaned, they moaned as one sliced the other with bloody blades.

"Oh Fuck!" I heard one cry.

It was a red haze before my eyes. Too shrouded in tears, to hysteric to tell between voices. Wanted to rush in, to save him, would risk everything to save David from the fight I had gotten him into.

"NO!" I managed to scream. "NO!"

The Fighter had grabbed David's arm, and stuck his knife right into his side between his ribs. His acid cries of pain, and fall to the ground were enough to bring me to my knees.

"Faggot!" screamed the fighter, kicking David on the side over and over until I swear I heard his ribs crack. "I'll see you in hell!"

A blade dropped. The Fighters.

I ran for it. Neither of them noticed me coming, I barely knew what I was doing. All I knew is that David had saved me, and now it was my turn. The Fighter was too busy cussing and kicking David, he didn't noticed as I grabbed his blade, held it in both hands, and in one swift movement stabbed him right in the shoulder. The Fighter screamed, flung himself back.

"Your going to die girl!" he spat looking up from his bloody hang. "I'll make sure you get what you deserve!"

And then he took off down the alley leaving us and forgetting his blade behind in a fright of hurry.

I hurried over to my fallen beloved, who was lying on the ground, groaning and gasping his side. I saw his blood, the tears in his jacket, the shakiness of his body.

"David? Oh God…."

He kept groaning. I grabbed his arm. I had to get him to a hospital. Had to get him help, had to save him…

"Go," he said stretching the word, "Get out of here, leave me...he might come back…I don't want you to be hurt-"

"No, I won't leave you! I'll never leave you." Harsh, then softer, if I could just help him; get him out of here.

Then I heard thunder boom.

I tucked my arm under his, and with all my might attempted to lift him. Blood seeped down his face, shoulder, and side. "Shit," He said. "Shit, shit, shit, oh God….oh bloody God.." he touched his bleeding wound. "I'm going to die."

"No you're not! I'm going to save you. I'll get you help. Come on, we have to get you too a hospital."

He hobbled, me supporting his weight, he could barely walk. He was losing so much blood. It was on my hands, on my sides, on my face. Both his and mine marked our once clean skin. We two were a mess, a bloody duo of a victim fight. We fought our way out of the alley, our bloody trail behind us. The moment we set foot out of the alley, the rain began to trickle. The sky now dark gray, the thunder struck again. David and I nimbly our way down the street. Busy streets were hardly occupied. But even if they were, who would help a stupid street thug like him? But what about me? I was just a girl. Just a girl covered in blood trying to help the thug. I was no more worthy then he.

For nearly an hour we made our way down the sidewalk. Past abandoned buildings, past more alleys. He was dying from the loss of blood and the eight-inch cut in his side that gushed a waterfall of red. I can see the blood flowing, see the bricks get a new coat of paint.

No more strength, no more fight, no more blood to pump through his heart, he collapsed, and I fell with him. Couldn't support him any longer, we could take no more steps.

The rain was getting heavier, the sprinkle turned into drizzle. He whispered my name, and I pulled him close to me. I rested his upper body in my lap. I stroke his hair, I whisper his name, and I offer everything I have to him. Or what is left of me. What would we do? We were so far away from home, so far away from the nearest hospital. No one would stop and help us. I didn't have change for the payphone. God, what would we do?

"…Please," he begs "leave me, let me go…"

"No. David, I will never leave you." My voice softened to a low whisper.

"I can't leave you, you mean to much to me.


Someone walked by, I tried to call to her, but she took one look at us and turned her head.

An hour passes, then another. He is becoming unconscious. I am afraid I will lose him now.

I am dying myself, a slow, painful death. Dying from the wounds on my body, my own blood loss is taking a toll. I can barely speak, can barely move. I have only enough strength to sit up, and hold David in my lap. My eyes are tinted and cloudy, I can barely see. David has quite moaning. He won't moan, won't moan. He won't wake from the slumber I know he slipped into.

It began with him saving me. A simple favor from the man behind the gate. It turned into an affair that no one would have guessed existed. Months we had spent together, months I had finally learned the meaning of true love. Found the one I want to be mine. And now he was slipping away from me, dying into heaven. I could feel his soul leaving.

Twenty years, I had fallen in love with a man twenty years older then me. And he, me. Our love unspoken, our bond untouched, we were innocent in our relationship, we had never spoken or acted upon it, yet we knew it was there, and that was what we had planned on until we could run away.

I had never felt the feeling of intimacy between him and I. I never got to kiss him, never felt his lips against my own. Never felt his body beyond our meaningful but unintimate experiences.

How I wished I could be there again. This time it was he who was in mine.

"David," I whispered, the word's barely coming out. I choked, breathed, and uttered what was inside.

"Please wake up,"

He didn't move.

"I'm so glad I met you. So glad you saved me. So glad you welcomed me into your arms."


"We we're supposed to run away David, do you remember? We talked about moving out of this city, away to the place you told me you knew of. We we're going to be together, don't you remember? Please…I can't lose you. Wake up, David wake up."

Only a shallow breath. He was almost gone. My dreams were up. There was no way I could save him now. Even if I did call the hospital, they couldn't save him in time.

The Lord was taking my boy away from me…my love, my heart, my man, my David.

"There was something I wanted to tell you, something I wanted to tell you from the first day I met you, the day you saved me from the people who did this to you, David."

I crept close as I could, so close my lips barely brushed his, my hair fallen down my sides. My hand's touching his bloody face, his warmth so far; I gave him my final act of intimacy,

"I love you."

I felt a touch. I felt his hand make a slight move against mine, so weak I could barely feel it. At first I felt a hope, a candle burn inside, but then the already dying flame went out in a flash, that I felt another move that was not caused by his will.

He had heard me. He heard me say I love you. My final word's, the desire I had never achieved in all the months we had been together. The last thing I had wanted to tell him but had been too afraid too.

And I did, the moment before God took his soul, and took all hope away; I had told him the forbidden. I had hoped for so much. Hoped for a future, prayed for our life together. It wasn't just running away, it wasn't just escaping. It was life. We wanted a life together, where it was just the two of us, as one, bonded forever. But now…

Now he was gone.

I cried now, full fledged tears and weeps, overflowing from the gushing of emotion. Faster then they ever had before.

My face now one of many waterfalls in the city. The only one I had ever loved had left me for heaven.

"David…" I whispered, "David.."

There was only one thing left for me to do.

I set him gently down, and with the last ounce of strength I had left, struggling from the wound, the pain, and the blood, I crept down next to him, lying side by side. Our blood was dripping, mixing as it pooled. But blood no longer bothered me; now it was the sign that granted me peace. I put my arm over his chest, and came as close as I possibly could. My own life would not last much longer. It was just like falling asleep. You want to fall asleep and you wait for it until it happens. I was only waiting until Death came and visited me. But perhaps he was already near. There was already one death near by; perhaps he was still around, waiting to put one more into barrow. Unless someone came to rescue me, and drove Death away, I would not survive.

I prayed no one would come.

I would lay there and die in his arms, just as I had that one special night. My head on his shoulder, my arm on his chest, our souls close together. I could feel the last amount of warmth in both of us dying inside.

"I love you," I whispered again.

"I love you, David."