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Valentines in the Dregs

By: Lucifer_Carroll



There is a misunderstanding in the world. For some reason, love has gotten a weird reputation. It's believed to be easy, to be beautiful, to be without hardship. Perhaps we can blame TV, with its trivialization of the human condition or perhaps humanity itself for falling for such a fallacy. Love is not easy. It's not always pretty either. This is a story about that.

It features a man named James Korbain. James is a loser. No, not like the lecher who staggers up to women he believes are easy at a bar, but rather the guy at the corner of the bar, drinking because he's at rock bottom and still falling. 

It wasn't entirely his fault. He was incredibly bright, just in that overly perceptive way that makes teachers hate. Despite their best efforts, he aced his SAT and their finals and maybe he could have got into a good school. But then his father got into the car accident and his mother had committed suicide soon after. He was able to pay for the funeral and still have a little left over for school, but then the will had come where he had learned that what his father mostly had left him were obscene gambling debts to shady people. Through a total destruction of credit, he had been able to rise to the level of debtor to "respectable" people. In other words, those who sent nasty letters before they harvested your organs, instead of the ones that just showed up with surgical tools.

All he had to his name in fact was a crappy one-room apartment in the Dregs with a single second-hand mattress. By the tone of the last notice, he wouldn't even have that in another month.

And in the general scheme of the Universe which can't resist the temptation to heap insult on injury, his personal life was going no better. For some trick of fate, he had an aura of despicability. It wasn't, to his ability to detect, a fault of his nature for in truth he was a generally nice albeit quiet and sullen guy. It was just for whatever reason of coincidence, people assumed the very worst of him. Police officers would constantly stop him on the street and search him, he could never keep friends for long, and he would be fired from every job for suspicion of a crime someone else committed. And as the cherry on the sundae of misery, every woman saved her most barbed and painful rejections for him. It had continued even though he had stopped trying. Long after he had ever given up hope of human interaction, he could not drink a beer alone without a woman sending a note emphatically pre-rejecting him and even sitting in a bus staring out the window ended in him getting slapped.

Given all this, it probably isn't a surprise that eventually James gave in to the downward spiral. He stopped caring about appearance or human interaction. He lived almost entirely in his mind, not bothering to live, but rather going through the actions of going to work, eating the base minimum of nutrients, and then sleeping. He had become the shell of an automaton.

Or at least that's what occurred on the surface. Inside was a different story. Inside was waiting for its chance, the crack in life to prove its merit, to shun the constraints and bitterness of an uncaring reality.

And it would soon get its chance to do so, on the bitterly cold evening of February 12th while James was walking back from yet another soul-draining day in his minimum wage dead end job. He would pass an alleyway and hear a noise that would set it all flooding back to outside. And it was:

"Damnitt, you hold the wench."

Thought processes foreign to many of his fellow city dwellers began to take over and slowly he looked over.

"Fuck, bro. She's utterly wasted. I can't wait to try."

"Well wait your turn, fuckwit. If you don't hold her up, neither of us is gonna get a taste."

The outside began to thaw with old convictions, ones buried out of bitterness and just a little bit of spite, and slowly he began to walk down the alleyway.

"Slip me the knife, I need to get her out of these fuckin' clothes."

"Okay. God her breasts are soft and nice even if she smells like shit."

"Well that's what matters. HEY, WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM, FAGGOT?!?"

James noticed the knife at his side, but was by far the worst person to pull that shit on. A normal person when faced with a loss of life and limb for someone they don't know goes through a moment of hesitation where they wonder if it's worth it and thus give the knife-holder an upper hand. James however, had long ago given up much care for his personal safety. He merely acted and broke the punk's wrist with one movement.

"Brother," the uninjured one screamed. "Oh you're fucking dead." With that he charged with another knife pulled from somewhere on his leg which served as a sort of Street Punk's bag of holding.

Again James had the upper hand. He wasn't strong enough to beat the punk, but he cared less. He felt a bit of pain in his side but that didn't stop the path of his knee. He had no clue if the wound had been fatal or even if the punk had left the knife there while he crumpled, but he quickly moved to keep him down, kicking his face as hard as he could, pouring years of barely suppressed anger at the world into keeping the second brother down.

He stopped soon after it stopped moving. By the sounds of the barely audible gurgles below him, he hadn't gone that far, but he was beyond caring. He looked over at the first brother who had thought about rejoining the fight while his back was turned but had wisely decided that raping a skank wasn't worth getting thrashed by someone well on the down curve of sanity.

"She's just a crack whore, you dumb shit," he pleated bitterly.

James looked over slowly. It was one of those turns you see in a certain type of movie. Sort of the universal sign to stop talking and get away. Unfortunately, the street punk was common-sensically illiterate.

"Fuck, she's probably been raped before and I doubt she'd last long in that condition. Besides, it's not like you know her." The brother stopped in a rare moment of thought process and a look of terror flashed across his eyes. "Right?"

"I don't know anyone," he said bitterly.

"Then what the fuck, faggot? She's probably going to die out here tonight or soon with how she's hitting the horse. Might as well get some fuckin' action, right?"

Perhaps it dawned on him during this whole diatribe that he was finished, that he had lost this one. Perhaps, somewhere in his tiny skull the thought of leaving the freak alone with the damned druggie cunt would be the smart thing to do. However, he said it anyway and thus, he finished awakening James to reality.

"Leave," James muttered quietly.

"What, faggot?"

James trembled with anger. "I said fuck off, scumbag. Get the hell away before I kill your pathetic misogynistic immoral ass."

"." The pause hung in the air as the glacial thought processes of the street punk swayed into focus. 

"Aw, who needs this shit? C'mon Charlie," he finally muttered, lifting his brother over his good shoulder. "Should be a law against fucks like that."

While they disappeared into the streets of society, perhaps to beat and violently fuck some other poor lass or perhaps to soothe their injured masculinity on some poor shmuck weaker and richer than they are, James breathed the air in crisply. There was a wet feeling on his side, which was already beginning to sting slightly in the cool air. He felt, to put it in horridly clichéd terms, like he was just waking up from a dream.

He looked at his hands and gave them a couple of purposeful squeezes. He looked up in the air and a pigeon shat in his eye. He wiped it away quickly then looked down. The woman was completely oblivious to the world. Her eyes were thickly lined and hollow. That along with the tract marks on her completely uncovered arm testified to a young life spent primarily chasing escape from. Her hair was shaggy and grease stained, but may at one time have been some shade of blonde.

The rest of her body was tragic. It conveyed a fragility that mere drug-induced litheness and a small frame could not reproduce. It shouted victim, use me, shatter my dreams. It was the body of a broken woman and the barely held on rags betrayed this still further. One tiny breast hung obliquely out of her mostly ripped and tattered shirt and her pants had the fly lewdly open. She wore nothing underneath or possibly had those articles removed a long time ago.

It was not erotic; it was heartbreaking.

To take this woman in would mean nothing but trouble. There was nothing to gain from the act and its possible that it would make his already putrid existence, more miserable. He took another deep breath of air. But then again, he had to hit rock bottom sooner or later, right? He carefully rebuttoned her jeans and shifted her shirt to cover both breasts inadequately and lifted her up in his arms. Her head lolled onto his chest and began to drool down his front.

With a sigh, he looked out of the alleyway and marched quickly to his apartment. True, the best action would have been to take her to a hospital in case it had been an overdose, but he had a feeling that any action like that would likely involve him being interrogated by morose police officers asking how he had got the wound and what his "posse" did to the woman. To avoid this, it was best to take her somewhere safe and warm and deal with the rest later. Luckily at this time of night, he ran into no police officers, though his paranoia suspected that they would try to bust him for the crime he had just broken up at any time. 

He only received the haughty and suspicious glares of the random night patrons. A look of "we don't approve of your hideous act, but not enough to actually comment." Frankly, he didn't give a damn about any of them. Would any of them have bothered to break up the rape in the alley? Probably not, though they'd all "shed a tear" if the woman had turned out to be from a famous enough family to make the paper. Fuckers, all of them.

Ah, barely contained rage. He had almost missed the feeling. Back when he cared enough to sneer at the world. It was all so darkly nostalgic. He walked up less than gracefully up the stairs to his room. Carrying someone up stairs is a task not easily accomplished even when the person in question is a passed out anorexic drug addict. Luckily he had the type of landlord that didn't bother to check up on strange thumps and grunts going up or down the stairs. Of course, this had been because some of the tenants were penny-ante drug dealers who sometimes had to "deal" with "problem customers."

With an unseemly amount of luck, he made it with girl into his room without incident. It was so uncharacteristic that he couldn't help but be a little proud. With luck like that, he might not have ended up where he was now. Locked in a crappy room with a passed out drug addict and only room for one. His feeling of goodwill tarnished slightly. What exactly had been the whole thought process? Bring her here and then what? Did he know first aid? Sure, it was better than the alley...He looked around at the peeling wallpaper, boarded drafty windows, and skittering cockroaches. Well, vaguely warmer and safer at least.

He banged his hand vaguely against the door. Well, he had brought her in as an act of chivalry, might as well keep at it and then figure out the rest tomorrow. Besides, his side was really beginning to hurt right now. He placed her as gently and tastefully onto the mattress as he could and covered her up with the blanket. She seemed to still be breathing so hopefully she wasn't Overdosing or anything.

He staggered to the bathroom in a combination of general fatigue and blood loss. The wound was ugly to look at, but little more than that. He really had a good run of luck this night. He knocked on a faux wooden cabinet quickly. A man gets to be wary about a run like that when used to a whole other type of run. He rummaged quickly for the bottle of rubbing alcohol he had bought more as its capacity for suicide device than for its medicinal value. He had always said that if he had to face the last rock bottom, he'd like to do it drinking to death.

He grimaced as it hissed on his skin. He didn't have any bandages, but a t-shirt that passed the Bachelor's Standard for cleanliness (hasn't been on the floor an excess of five days and can't be used as a stun weapon against squirrels) was quickly converted for the job.

He was hitting the limits of his adrenaline by now. There was no space, but he knew how to improvise. Or at least his body knew how to crumple unceremoniously into a heap against the door and tell the brain that this would work unless the brain wanted to waste valuable sleeping time finding a better spot. It all worked out to the same thing in the end and the world swam away into unconsciousness.

He dreamed while he slumbered. Something he hadn't done for a long time. There was the girl he rescued, but somehow prettier. And she was smiling. Not a fake smile like plastered on the faces of "upbeat" people everywhere, but a genuine from the heart smile. Why was she smiling? And how can I dream about something like that? There was something else too, something away from focus. A discussion or something and a gun. A gun pointed at his face. It was all disjointed. Talk about something, someone asking about a Blank Valentine. No, Valentine Blanc. Or something. And there was a fat guy with wings, smoking a cigar disapprovingly. And he was saying something too.

"Bugger all this for a lark, you ain't photogenic," it said and flew off. Fucking cherubs. And then there was more. A grinning TV, offering a miniseries on the wacky and superficial love between a Germanic Prostitute and an alien from Pluto, random colors, and Carl Jung on a camel. Then there was a pounding headache and random angry screaming. It was all so surreal and...oh.

His eyes opened as some sort of blunt object smacked him between the eyes.

"Goddamn that hurts," he moaned clutching his face as another blow landed on his back. He flailed out randomly in the International Standard "stop hitting me" pose and by sheer random luck managed to knock away the curtain pole while only spraining one wrist and a few bad whacks to the elbow.

Unfortunately, this only meant that the attacker switched to the constant standby weapon of its own body, raining down a series of frantic overhand smacks. Though unglamorous, it still did the job especially to one still groggy from just waking up. James reached out again and grabbed his attacker's wrists and looked straight into its...her eyes. Bloody hell, he thought bitterly, no wonder he didn't bother with good deeds anymore. "Listen," he screamed impatiently to the druggie, "I'm not-"

He folded up swiftly as one of her legs connected between his legs. Yep, he was waiting for the Universal but. The ironic turning of the tables that had so neatly characterized his life. He decided to roll with it and through great effort managed to lift himself painfully to his knees. A slap rang across his ears. "Lis-"

"Who are you," the girl screamed frantically, but a level lower than the uncontrollable frenzy she had held a moment ago. The random attacks must have calmed her down a bit. I'm a stress ball, the sarcastic side of James pipped up unwelcomingly. "What did you do to me?"

He tried to explain that he was James Korbain and hadn't, despite what his appearance might suggest, taken advantage of her prone drugged out condition to have a bit of humpy fun, but rather had saved her from said fate. Unfortunately, he had been kicked in the nuts quite recently so it came out more like, "Nngh, mumblemumblemumble, fuckin'."

"Where's my bag? Where's my bra, you fucking sicko," she screamed again waving something vaguely at his throat. His eyes were too blurred to make out what it was exactly. His tongue was beginning to vaguely come back to him luckily. "Jesus lady, urgh, can I have a fuc...a fuckin' second?"

Something sharp was pushed distinctly against his neck. "No, you may not," she said with the type of measured calm that makes one long for chaotic madness. He looked pleadingly up into her eyes while struggling to quickly catch his breath without nicking himself.

Perhaps for someone else it would have worked. If he had been a handsome yet roguish pirate captain, she may have swooned and dropped the kitchen knife and said something akin to "oh your eyes are honest." As James was, with his face radiating his aura of deviousness, he probably luckily that she only tried to cut him.

He ducked out of the way, smacking his head against the wall, getting only a minor scratch. This was hardly a consolation. He decided to just surrender to the Universe. He propped himself up pitifully against the wall and held his hand against his neck to check the damage. "Fuck," he said to himself. He glanced at the knife still in her trembling hands and pointed at him. "Why did I bother?"

"Cause you're a sick little pervert? Who knows?" The knife waved a little more erratically.

"The fuck? Damnitt, bitch, I didn't do anything to you. I took you the fuck in from the alleyway where two nice gentlemen would have been happy to give you all the perversion you want." It came out in a self-righteous torrent. He had sort of reached a plateau of pain and submission where the self-preservation gene that tells people when to stop talking stops working. 

"You lie," she cried in perfect synchronization with expectations.

There are a number of responses to an accusation like that. Some are quite pithy. However, they are all uttered by people who have never been in that situation. In truth, there is only one real response that the body makes before the brain can even dwell on the first quip. He began to sputter indignantly.

"Fuck it," he said at the end. "Just cut my throat and be done with it why don't you?"

She glared at him distrustingly. "You don't act like a rapist."

"No shit," popped automatically out of his mouth, though he managed to suppress the slower quip of 'so how many rapists have you seen.' "It's probably because I'm not one."

"Yeah," her eyes narrowed and glared again at him. "So why did I wake up in your bed?"

"Because you were passed out in a fucking alleyway about to be raped, you dumb bitch!" He was in red alert territory by now and still diving. Unfortunately for him, she tried to slap him with the hand holding onto the knife. Fortunately for him, the random movement of her blade only managed to slice up his cheek rather than remove an entire eyeball.

He touched his cheek with deliberate caution. "Jesus Christ." This was all to expectation, of course, but maybe he had hoped it wouldn't be this time. Maybe he even had subconsciously wanted to play the hero, get his chance to receive gratitude instead of condemnation. He was an idiot. He curled up into a ball and switched off. "Screw it. Just leave."

He heard the knife fall on the ground, but didn't trust his senses enough to look up. That action may have saved his life.

"You helped me?" The voice was distinctly softer. The tang of distrust was still there, but muted partially. "No one helps me."

He remained silent and bit back the sarcastic quip trying to claw its way out of his throat. The self-preservation gene had finally woken up and was busy wondering what the hell had been happening to the rest of the body since its vacation yesterday.

There was a soft sound at the cusp of hearing. He looked up cautiously. His eyes goggled a little. The girl was mewing quietly, trying to hold back an avalanche of tears. He recognized the expression. He had the same expression on the day of his mother's funeral. He had kept strong until he had seen her go into the ground and then all the self-control in the world couldn't stop the dam from breaking.

He refrained from asking the inane and pointless question of 'are you all right' and instead crept slowly up to his feet and approached her. It was a stance more commonly seen among assassins or thieves, but given recent events it was a prudent one. She didn't move as he did this and so with great caution he patted her on the shoulder.


Valentines in the Dregs



He felt a pop and sank to the ground again. So much for that arm, he thought pitifully as a few murmurs escaped his gritted teeth.

"Oh my God, are you all right," she said frantically, her eyes still streaming.

James rolled his eyes angrily nodding to his now dislocated shoulder.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry, Mr. Not Rapist. It was a reaction." Her mouth moved with justifications and apologies streamed together. If he wasn't only barely able to see through the combined pain, he'd have been blushing deep scarlet. No one had ever fussed over him or seen him as worth an apology or condolence. He had even been kicked when grieving at his mother's grave.

He pushed himself through the pain, willed it into a dull roar. "James," he squeaked. "James Korbain."

"Huh?"

"S'my name," he spat out before grimacing again in pain.

"Oh," she said quietly.

There was a moment of silence. Perhaps, it would have blossomed into a romantic moment on TV with a heartfelt apology and a shared look. Instead in the real world, James merely gasped. "Um... could you fix my arm, please? And for God's sake stop wagging it."

There was a startled squeak, a scream, a pop, and another scream. He had supplied both the screams. He silently cursed the Universe. The first day that anyone gave a damn about him was the same day he was beaten half to death by the same person?!? The Universe had some explaining to do to him someday.

He sort of collapsed onto his side and lay there, looking pitifully up. He had only recently woken up, but he could feel the desire for sleep starting to grow in him. He was very much hoping this good deed would soon draw to a close. He couldn't stand very much more of the punishment of the chivalrous. Once the pain had dulled from searing to merely grating, he groaned and twisted himself in order to fit her face into view.

He could still see the tear marks down her eyes. There was sadness there too. Not just the obvious sadness, but also a deep scar of the soul barely concealed by the eyelids. There was something...attractive wasn't the right word, maybe attracting about it. He fought with himself for a second and then decided that the cocoon was the least painful of the routes he could take.

"Listen," he began looking away. "You should be okay now. So you can go home now."

There was a silence and it stretched. James fought the urge to groan. He turned around to say something callous and the words died in his throat. Of all the expressions he had been expecting to see, terror was probably near the bottom of the list right before glee.

"Uh," he began worriedly.

"Can't go home. Need my bag," she droned emptily. Her eyes were still wide with fright. "I need my bag."

He pulled himself up painfully but quickly with his good arm and stood awkwardly around her. He wasn't going to dare touch her, remembering all too well her last reaction, but he needed to do something for her.

"Uh," he said again uselessly.

"No home. Bag has everything I own. Need my bag." Her eyes were still glassy and she was beginning to shake a little. James battled internally for a second and unfortunately for him, chivalry won. He closed his eyes, bit his lip, raised one leg and then slapped her. He went down, but only with a bruised thigh.

He stood back up carefully and looked into her more stable, yet still frightened eyes. "Don't worry, I'll find your bag. And I guess I can shack you up for a little while until you get on your feet again. Okay?"

It was a stupid thing to say and he knew it. Get back in her feet? She was passed out in a gutter with tract marks all up her arm. He was merely inviting tragedy into what remained of his home. Not just tragedy, but tragedy that had a habit of greatly injuring him. If he were smart he'd turn her in to some Drug Treatment Program and wash his hands of her. He stopped and thought. Fuck intelligence. He was already inches from Rock Bottom anyway. He had no life to ruin.

And so it with barely a moment to change into a shirt less bloodstained and to clean up the fresh wound on his cheek, he was back in the alley digging around for the mysterious bag. Perhaps he felt used, but given his past, being used was one of the few good feelings in life. However, he couldn't help shaking a bad feeling. He suspected that what was so important in the bag for her was her drugs and he was just about to help her on her slow slide to death and that couldn't be right. He searched some more. Of course the quandary did become moot if he never found the damn thing.

"Hey Faggot!"

Oh god, James thought bitterly. Not these two fuckers again.

"Looking for something, fuckwad?"

He turned around slowly. They were the same two narrow-minded morons he had thrashed the night before. The first had one wrist in a sling and was carrying a knife in the other. The second looked a bit worse for wear but was grinning like a fox just the same. In his hands looked to be a lady's handbag, scuffed and greasy and faded, but a handbag just the same. Yep, that was probably hers all right

"So what you going to do, cocksucker?"

"Yeah, I bet you love wearing women's purses."

He could beat them down again. Well...maybe. Last night had been different. The Beast had been hot with righteous indignation. He had a purpose. He had fury. Right now, however, all he had was a slight feeling of exhaust. Not to mention that he was a bit worse for wear himself and he couldn't at all trust the movement of one arm and one leg. He was at a disadvantage this time. Reality filled in the rest. Yes, he could not win this time by brawn.

"C'mon faggot, what you gonna do?"

James thought for a second. He had always wondered something about people who were quick to call others faggots. Having been the target of such an insult more often than the average straight man, he had brewed up a theory that he had always thought of trying. He thought for a second and then grinned. If he was going to lose anyways and die, he might as well test it out. Couldn't hurt and worst case it might distract them.

He strode forward with the grin plastered and spreading across his face.

"Hey, assfucker, don't get any closer," he said waving his knife in front of him. "I'm warning you, fag-"

James grabbed and twisted the knife out of his hands and with his bad shoulder grabbed the back of his head and pulled him towards him.

With his face inches away from his own, trying not to revolt at the stench of bad cologne and hair gel, he whispered softly, "Oh yeah, bad boys like you get me hot."

The first brother's eyes turned wide with fright. He smiled and then spun his dazed self around so that he was hugging him around the back. He flashed a smile to the second brother who was too shocked to stop him.

"What about you, handsome? Would you like to join us? We could have a three-way."

The taste of fear was on the air and the dark side of James's personality was enjoying it. "It's okay. I won't bite...hard."

The second brother screamed, threw the bag at him and fled. James nimbly dodged it and laughed. "Well, looks like it's just us, you perceptive little man you. That is unless there's somewhere you need to be."

The poor punk nodded fiercely that this was the case.

"Well then, I suspect you need to really hurry over there. But remember, if you ever do want loving, just be sure to try and attack me again," he leaned in to his ear to savor the last bit, "sweetheart."

Racehorses couldn't match the acceleration the thug showed in escaping from James. He couldn't suppress the giggle that was building up in him. So wrapped up in their petty bigotry and fears. A lie, some fake homoerotic flirting, and he touched them where a thousand beatings couldn't penetrate. It was all so easy that he couldn't help cracking up for the first time in ages. He hadn't been able to do anything but half-smile for so long. He had forgotten the real emotions, visceral reactions. It was in its way, good.

When he had finished enjoying his laugh, he picked up the bag and began to sort through it. Sure, it was the unchivalric action to take, but at the same time, he didn't want to be handing her just another pointless and dangerous escape. He was probably moralizing, interfering, but somehow, he felt that was the important thing to do. To save her from ever being in the situation he found her in again.

He dug through, but there wasn't much to find. There was a locket with a woman on it, possibly her mom, a random mirror, the kind of which appears in every woman's purse as a matter of narrative consistency, and a driver's license, which bore the name of the woman, "Elizabeth Waters," as well as a picture of her smiling and happy. He looked hard at the picture. 

There was an innocence to it, as much as could be inferred from a crappy proprietary teenage photo on a driver's license. He knew better than to infer from clues like one's looks to determine personalities. His own appearance had too many times been misinterpreted for him to do that, but there was something else to it. He couldn't escape the feeling that the photo woman was too innocent, that if something had happened to her, if she had gotten a good look at the evil of the Universe's machinations, that she would just break down.

He bit his lip and put it away. All that was left on top of all that was a big white bear with a red heart on its chest. It stirred a memory. Something about Valentines. His mind wandered. What day was it anyway? He knew it was February already, but...His mind flashed crimson. Ah yes, it was the day before, wasn't it? He had fairly constantly blocked the holiday from his thoughts for the last number of years. Being so solidly alone had made a necessity of the action.

It wasn't easy of course, but he tended to avoid malls and shopping centers where the push to placate your loved one with under-thought gifts was paramount. The rest was just a matter of keeping one's head down and switching off the senses. Overall, it was the same process he had used to escape every other painful feeling. Escape. Just like a drug addict without the hallucinations, but with the same headlong dive for death. He felt disgusted with himself and threw everything back in the bag. Hell, she didn't even have any drugs in there.

The march home was a bit more somber than the trip out. This tends to happen to people when they take an honest look at their lives. He hadn't been living for years, instead just wasting away in the Dregs. Chasing the pointless escapism of hermitage, not laughing, not crying, not being hurt, not caring. And now he was. His body felt like hell, but he was laughing, growing angry, being sarcastic, being cruel, being chivalric. All the things he had bottled up because the Universe liked to toy with them, make them hurt, make them sting.

And like all quandaries it led to the why. Why had he woken up? Was it her? Was it Elizabeth that was drawing it out? And if it was, was it just the circumstance of truly interacting with another person for the first time? Or was it something...else? Could he be...? Cowardly, he let the thought die there.

When he got back to the room, he found Elizabeth on the bed staring blankly at the wall. She seemed to be lost in thought. Not the mask of terror thoughts of whatever he had triggered before, but enigmatic just the same. Cautiously he coughed. "I, er, found it, Elizabeth."

"Lizzie," she screamed. "Never Elizabeth." She stopped for a second and her eyes narrowed. "How did you find out my name?"

He looked down sheepishly. There was no escaping it; he was going to have to take the punishment for what he did, even if it meant diminishing his standing with the one person who found him worthy of apologizing to, of using. "I looked inside."

He might as well not have bothered looking away. The inward gasp told as much as her expression would have. He had broken the bond of trust, thin as it had been before. True, she technically didn't mean anything to him, but somehow, he felt hurt that the bond was gone. "I didn't want to bring you back a heroin supply. I wanted you to...I thought maybe I could keep you from wasting your life on escapism. I...didn't want to help you speed to death."

The words were halting, flustered. He felt stupid. He felt like he was trying to justify himself, try to weasel out of the guilt of looking at the items that supposedly were her salvation from the darkness. He remembered the girl on the license who seemed so fragile with innocence. He was scum. "I'm sorry. That doesn't make what I did right."

He turned away without looking. Maybe that was the key bit. Maybe if he had looked he could have seen her face, could have seen her drop the bag. Maybe he would have even ignored the phone call that began ringing incessantly. Maybe things could have been avoided, complications smoothed over. But in life, missed moments are common, complications always arise, and people always pick up the damn phone.

"Hello," he muttered into the receiver.

"LISTEN, YOU SCUMBAG! I AIN'T PAYING DIRTBAGS LIKE YOU TO BE LATE TO WORK! EITHER YOU GET THE FUCK OVER HERE IN 15 MINUTES OR YOU CAN LOOK FOR ANOTHER JOB! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

Fuck, the job. He had completely forgot about that soul crushing repetition. He was working on a Sunday after working every day last week and they were still yelling at him like the crap on the crap on someone's shoe. Still, with the final notice on his rent coming up quick, he couldn't turn it aside. He glanced hesitantly over to Lizzie. There was a deep confliction within him.

Part of him was frightened to go, was worried that something bad might happen if he left her alone. But he didn't have a choice, right? It was leave her or become guaranteed homeless. "Um..."

"I heard," Lizzie said quietly. "It's okay. I'll be fine on my own."

And so James left for work. You see, in life, unlike TV, people often make the wrong choices, stress the wrong thing at the wrong time and only later do they lament and beg for a chance to make it all right. When he came home that evening and found her unmoving on the bed, an unhappy smile glazed onto her mouth, he wept or rather trembled against a wall while small lonesome tears battled sheer habit.

But this would be selling too much short and so we allow a brief glimpse at the other side of the equation, at what Lizzie went through in the dark quiet room.

James was correct when he thought that Lizzie was the type too innocent and fragile to take Life's harsher side. It wasn't that she was a coward. She had actually been reasonably tough. The only problem had been The Memory. It hung on the cusp of consciousness and swung its might when she could least take it. So she had sought escape from it, sought solace in the injected liquid.

It had been a foolish thing in retrospect. Sure, it killed the memory, sent it running back to the edges of the mind, back into the shadows from whence it came, but it birthed new horrifying memories and realities. They piled on like fleas. Each time waking up naked and covered in sperm inside of a dumpster or worse waking up tied to a bed. And then there were the worse acts, the ones she could remember. What she had done to get the escape, how she had let her soul tarnish further.

And further the noose had closed on her. Constantly she faced fresh evils, fresh evidence that she was all alone in an evil sick world. She had given up all hope on seeing good again, of being free from darkness and its poisonous Memories. As she became more abused to the drug, more degraded in appearance, it became more certain that no one would care for her, that more would find justice in degrading her broken body and mind.

She also felt horrible about what she had done to James. Here was a person who had apparently protected her in her most degraded and filthy form, who had bothered to make sure she would be warm, who had put himself into cold discomfort to do so. And what had she done to him? Thrashed him and cut him and broke his arm.

Sure, he had looked indecent with the scraggly beard and that fierceness to the eyes, but she had known even then that he wasn't a rapist. The little bit of trust she had left had been trying to get her to notice the look behind the eyes, the way it tried to apology for the eyes. And she had ignored it as a ruse and kept swinging. And even after when he tried to console her, she couldn't stop herself. Too many betrayed touches. Too many memories.

After all he had went through, she did all this to him. She wondered if he had noticed her peeking into the bathroom as he changed. The makeshift bandage dyed nearly half-red. He had not gone through unscathed to save her from the night. The Universe didn't send a flailing maiden more than one White Knight and she doubted that it looked kindly on those who did more harm onto them than the villains. It had hurt when he had told her to go home. Not just because of The Memory, but because he had given up on her.

So she had sent him out to find her bag. It was such a foolish request, but The Memory had been so close, so deep. It had been about to seize her. She needed her way out didn't she? Or else The Memory would seize her and she'd have to live out that day all over again. She glanced at the bag fearfully. But with the bag here, The Memory might find her again in life and repeat itself for real. She had been a fool.

She curled herself up tighter on the bed. But then, what had he said again, this morning? She smiled to herself, hiding it even in the empty room with her hand. Even after what she had done to him, he wanted to help her escape the darkness, the endless cycle of The Memory. She had been so worried that he had found her escapism at first, but he had been too kind to check everything.

She pulled out the Valentine's Day bear and peeled back the Red Heart. Inside the stomach were 12 glowing white bottles. Valentine Blanc, as The Memory had called them, the purest and best quality Horse in the town. She stared hungrily at the vials and the clean needle lay next to them. Another brief respite from the darkness lay within, so very close to her hand...

She stopped and with one eye closed pushed the bear away from her, out of sight. She could beat this, the darkness, The Memory. All of it was within the realm of possibility. He hadn't wanted her to escape anymore. He hadn't wanted her to rush towards death. He actually cared if she lived or died. He wasn't handsome or suave or anything else, but he was her White Knight, her aid out of the pit. How could she let him down so soon after she met him, before she got the chance to truly apologize to him?

It was about this time that darkness fought back. The dark tendrils of doubt peeling away the fragile and bruised trust and romanticism of a more innocent Lizzie. But he left, it whispered. He left you here alone with me and The Memory and the escape hatch. A job where they shout at him is more important that you, it muttered with glee. And he wouldn't even have agreed to let you stay here if you hadn't freaked out so bad in front of him. You are his bane, it squealed. You will never be free of me or The Memory.

A snippet flared and her eyes bulged. She had been doing so well up to this point. She owed it to him to be strong. Hadn't he suffered great physical pain on her behalf? Shouldn't she show similar resolve for the mental? The snippet grew longer and more detailed. Her eyes fluttered and sweat began pouring down her brow. The snippet grew still longer, the tendrils of darkness were nearly completely covering the old Lizzie. She was biting her lip and ripping the mattress at this point. The snippet became The Memory. Old Lizzie had lost.

She jerked in the air as it came rushing back. Her eyes were glazed over and her hands moved frantically back, grabbing a vial. Before she was even aware, it was set up and pressed into a vein. No, just need to hold on a little longer was the last thought before the oblivion of Pure Escape.




Valentines in the Dregs



And so he had found her when he returned. And he had wept and trembled and balanced himself neatly between anger and self-loathing. He had abandoned her when she had needed him. He knew she had been a druggie. He had known that.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he muttered pitifully into the wall. And he truly was. Most people would have screamed at the victim, would have cursed them for their weakness, but this is only because most people are unworthy scum. Well that and most people didn't really get the people lost in the Dregs. When rock bottom is not just near, but sometimes a little up, the desire for escapism is more understandable, more forgivable.

Hell, James had given into it today as well. She had needed him and he had run off to his cocoon routine and his shitty little job. He had escaped as much as she had. Sure there were the justifications, but those were always a superficial balm. He had the spectre of homelessness and he could only guess what darkness of the soul made the white liquid irresistible for her. But these things could have been resisted if he had tried, if they had helped each other instead of slipping back into their cold little lonely worlds.

He thought about what he had just thought. He needed her, didn't he? She didn't flee his unfortunate aura. She wasn't the prisoner to the superficial that everyone else was and besides, she made him feel wanted; feel needed, like his existence actually mattered. And he had just abandoned her to the paralyzing hopelessness of the Dregs.

He looked over hopelessly. The drug had worn off. She was looking at him, her lip trembling pitifully. He turned away helplessly. They both wanted to say it, "I'm so sorry. I failed you," but they couldn't. If they said it, it became true. If they said it, they truly had failed the other. Still it needed to be said. Cause if they didn't say it how could the other ever forgive them for it. The seconds took hours.

Eventually James stood up and fought with his lips. If he could only say it, then he could forgive himself for abandoning her. He could have hope of having meaning on Valentine's Day. He could have hope for a future. He could prove himself worthy of being needed, of being used. But he couldn't. Despondent, he moved to walk away.

The grip had been like a steel grip. Desperation and despair had seen to that. It had pressed against his wrist and had wrenched him around, forcing him to face her again. And tears streaming down her face she had leapt into his arms and kissed him violently. 

It was not a beautiful kiss. It was not a tender kiss. It was not an erotic kiss. It was however a heavy kiss. It was weighted with a thousand desperate emotions and meanings and mostly with desperation. It said all that they couldn't and begged forgiveness. It wasn't a TV climax kiss. Those are light insubstantial kisses. This was a kiss that required the eyes to be streaming with tears. Overall, it's one of the rarest, most honest kisses around.

In another more utopia inclined world, James returned the kiss with even more honesty and passion. He certainly wouldn't have sat there like an idiot as his brain tried to process the sheer shock of finally being kissed. In reality, James had grown utterly used to having everyone treat him with derision. A kiss was in a realm he hadn't contemplated since he had last bothered trying.

Unfortunately, that left Lizzie standing there with a one-sided kiss. Her heart began to shatter and the tendrils began to extend once more.

"I," he moved to speak and then looked into her face. "You," he added pitifully. He broke into a huge grin and grabbed her into the biggest hug he could give. He felt a knee go sharply into his groin, but he didn't care. Tears were streaming down his face. Tears were streaming down her face. They didn't want to let go. So they didn't.

Sure in TV land, this is the point the clothes go into the fire and the happily ever after begins after maybe a zany misunderstanding once baby time comes around. But reality as we stress again and again, isn't as neat.

They cried themselves to sleep, still holding onto each other tight on the mattress, still fully clothed. And with new dawn came a new day, a new beginning. And it was even fitting that it was Valentine's Day.

James felt the first rays of this wonderful day on his face at around dawn. He couldn't feel the warmth of her body in his arms anymore, but that was only natural. People tossed and turned at night. One can't hope to retain such an intense bond over the unconsciousness of sleep. He rolled over without opening his eyes, but she wasn't there either. He began to worry, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Morning, sleepy head," the voice trilled above him. Something was wrong about it. Since when did Lizzie trill? He snapped up and turned around in record speed. The muzzle of a gun was pressed firmly into his forehead.

"Happy Valentine's Day, faggot," the all too familiar thug trilled.

"What did you do to her," James growled. The Beast had returned and was baying for blood.

"Nothing, nothing. Her father just picked her up. He had been worried sick, you see," the thug muttered gleefully. "He had been especially disgusted that she found herself in such a 'pit.' I mean, even for a crack whore this is quite the rock bottom." James gave him another impotent growl. "But he wanted someone keep an eye on the trash, make sure it didn't try to follow her home. Luckily, I was all too willing to help. C'mon cocksucker, let's see you try something now."

The gun was literally pressing into his skull. If he messed up, his brains would be an avant-garde pattern three feet back. But, something was wrong. Something important. What was it? It clicked. The trigger that had made her so desperate for her bag and the white escape it contained. It had been home. It had been...

He swore to himself. He had failed to be her White Knight once before. He wouldn't do it a second time. He let the Beast get full control, dropped himself into the category of worthless and he was ready to go. The gun went off loudly, an action altogether too common in that particular building. It however went off a few inches to the right, the bullet cutting a deep groove across his skull, but not penetrating. The blood began to curl down to James's eye, but the Beast didn't need his full sight. It leapt onto the thug and began to pummel.

It was only be the grace of God and what James didn't know that the thug wasn't pummeled all the way to death. "Where the fuck is her home, you utter reprobate?" The words weren't so much words as one long drawn out growl. Sometimes the White Knight is also a demon. "Answer me or I swear you'll scream every time you see a curtain pole."

"Ack, I don't know. I swear. Please don't kill me."

"Then who's her father?"

"I don't know. He just pays me to do a couple of odd jobs. The last one was to find the wench and bring her home. She stole something big, he said. A blank Valentine."

"Valentine Blanc," James muttered to himself. "Wait, white Valentine. You mean, the drugs in the fucking bear?"

"I don't fucking know, you dumb shit. I'm hired muscle. I fetch people, break legs, and sometimes I take a little pleasure on the side. You know, business."

We assure you that the thug eventually did wake up again. It was even before James got back. However, he did decide to get a new job quite suddenly and the people did whisper about the knuckle shaped dents in his skull.

James meanwhile was running through the uncaring mobs of the city, trying desperately to remember the address on the driver's license and where in the city it was. He was beating his head frantically as he ran, which is probably why he ran smack dab into the man on the ladder removing the cherub from its display spot. It had a fat cigar in its mouth to be cheeky.

It caused him to stop and he caught a snippet from a television the bored cashier was watching on the counter.

"Next Tuesday on a very special Valentine's episode of Timothy and the Merry Merriness, Charlie will get involved with a Germanic prostitute who may know that he's secretly an alien from Pluto. Could this be true love or Government Spying? Also this Saturday, comes the tender miniseries 'Lovers in Dystopialand.' Can true love survive minor inconvenience in a world where everyone else seems to get royally fucked over? Tune in to find out."

Something was trying to tell him something, but he had no time to waste on these eerily familiar distractions, he needed to find...A gaggle of brightly colored college students trampled over him. The colors twirled and spun over his dazed head and as it swung into focus, all he could see was Carl Jung on a camel, advertising new Psycamel cigarettes.

Wait, Psycamel. His mind flashed to the driver's license. 1331 Sicanel Dr. He felt odd for a second. Was the Universe apologizing to him or setting him up again? He shook his head angrily. He had no time to waste on this crap. He needed to run and play the White Knight before the first person who cared about him was lost forever to the darkness.

Meanwhile, in the world of Leslie Waters, she was in the thrall of The Memory.

"Ah, you are waking up, Elizabeth, dear," Roger Waters said happily.

No, not again, she thought desperately. Not The Memory. No, she escaped it. She was with James. She had her White Knight. The darkness could not seize her.

"You're such a naughty little girl aren't you, Elizabeth? You took all of daddy's moneymakers. And you even used half of them. How ever will you repay daddy?"

No, she screamed in her head. Not in reality, never again. Not The Memory. It can't happen again.

"Oh, but I'll call it a Valentine's gift if you give me one in return. Cause Daddy needs his lovely Valentine." She felt his hand on her breast, kneading it and screamed.

She slipped into The Memory. Mom had just died, but with Dad she could keep strong. She trusted Daddy to be her anchor, to keep her safe. But she had stumbled into the garage and found how Daddy made his living. He had been so angry and she looked so much like her mother and Daddy had been so twisted. Just a pinprick, just a little to make her more responsive, to make her buck harder. It had hurt so much and then came more hurt. Daddy's tastes became more and more violent and slowly she had become used to the drug. Then Daddy began sharing her to his clients. And then... and then...

And now it was happening all again. She had escaped Daddy's Garage. She had escaped The Memory. She had even learned how to use the drug to shut out what had happened here, force it into the shadows. Now, it was here again, it was all building again and her White Knight was gone, probably killed.

Her clothes were gone. She knew that for a fact and she could feel hands caressing her, polluting her with darkness. She whimpered inside. Help me, James, she said. God, help me.

"Who the fuck are you," her father screamed angrily. Elizabeth opened her eyes. James was standing by a broken door, his eyes wild with rage, walking forward with the slow purposeful stride of a wolf.

"You sick little fuck. No wonder she's a druggie," James growled. "No wonder she kicks if you so much as touch her."

"Listen, kid," Roger said slowly. He was used to being on top of the hierarchy, far away from the more physical elements of his drug operation. James was worrying him. "Let's not be hasty. Is she really worth all this? I know you're broke. I can set you up for life. I'm talking mansions, girls on each arm, the whole works."

James continued approaching.

"Um...please don't kill me," Roger pleaded as the Beast pulled him up by the collar.

"Why should I," James growled. There was no reason why he shouldn't end it now, dispel the creature where Lizzie could see it. Assure her The Memory couldn't attack her anymore. But...he stopped. If he slipped to that, would he still be a White Knight? Or would he just be another demon, something to fear when the tendrils of darkness snaked out? "Perhaps not, but I'll be damned if I see you walk around free."

He went against the wall hard, but it still took three thrusts to really knock him out. Luckily the ropes that had tied down Lizzie could easily be converted to constrain the sick patriarch.

An anonymous phone call from the house quickly brought the cops. The bears filled with heroin, the video library compiled of "Daddy's Instructions to Lizzie," and an unerased message on the machine asking if the disappearance of a key witness to a drug kingpin trial had gone of okay had caused a feeding frenzy. The departments had fought to see what would be tried first and hardest. Eventually, he found his own Daddy in prison who gave him his own Memory.

And for the couple, they were walking home. They didn't speak at all, but their arms were wrapped tightly around each other's shoulder. His shirt and jacket were clothing her body. It said all that needed to be said, but people always need to add something in these situations. There is some primordial urge to say the obvious, the banal, to somehow wash away the excitement, the horror, and the surrealism of reality.

"You saved me."

"Yeah," James replied happily. "Happy Valentine's Day."

The distance between them decreased by another microscopic degree and remained there until they got back to the Dregs. There was much that remained unspoken, but it still seemed to hang in the air.

The clothes got abandoned at the front door. Neither was particularly attractive naked. Lizzie was unhealthily thin and in the places, clothes hid, old scars and bruises. Her breasts were small and slightly askew with too much rough bondage. Her arm still bared the tract marks of her former escapism and her eyes still had the hollow rims though old innocence flowed once again through the pupils.

And James wasn't much better. Besides the aura, his body was a mass testament to the two days of Hell he had just survived. The healing cuts and bumps and swollen bruises and bandages combined with his unshaven face and large body to look unseemly like a genuine pirate of old. Not the ones seen in bad romance novels, but rather the ones that Admirals fired on first and sifted the wreckage later.

Still there are many levels of attraction and in truth physical is the weakest of all of them. They came together awkwardly despite everything. One after all was still a virgin and the other still carried the weight of a million Bad Memories. Knowing this, it was practically passionate. 

They kissed slowly and softly, just holding each other and feeling the warmth of each other's lips. Savoring each moment of life, each moment escaping from escapism. A tongue flitted daringly from one mouth to the other, neither was sure who did it, but the other quickly reciprocated. The tongues collided and darted around each other awkwardly but gently. There were mistakes of technique, but these were okay.

Ever so gently, James brought his hand to cup one of her breasts. He didn't slump down though he did feel her knee rise up instinctively.

"I could-"

"No, it's okay," she interrupted, holding his hand in place. "It's okay if it's you."

Softly he toyed with the soft flesh. His technique was horrid, totally without rhythm, and entirely in the realm of random squeezes and turns. But her nipples hardened all the same and her moan came earnestly. Slowly, he lowered himself and began kissing down towards her cleavage. His tongue technique was slightly better, but it was the gentleness and devotion that was truly powering it on. He tentatively licked a nipple and felt her shudder.

He continued downwards and then paused as he reached the pubes. He looked up questioningly and hesitantly she nodded. He kissed her pubes and her leg didn't swing into his sack. He kissed one of her folds and again her leg didn't connect. He kissed up higher, where there was a small bump. This time her leg did move, but only to shudder. He licked gently around the strange bump, encircling it and sometimes flicking across it. This produced a series of earnest moans and curses from Lizzie.

He continued on softly, encircling and sometimes tracing his tongue downwards along the folds and between them. He naturally missed her g-spot by miles, but it was okay. With the care and his attention to the clit, she was approaching a decent orgasm nonetheless. He flicked harder along the clit, letting his tongue run all over it, only periodically pausing to spit away the pubic hairs that got caught on it.

It happened very unceremoniously. There was no warning or style and certainly no zaniness. She just cursed, pushed on the back of his head, shuddered a few times then nearly fell onto the ground. James was too busy making sure he caught her to worry about things like multiple orgasms or cleaning up the juices.

He chuckled and kissed her, but she furrowed her lips, spat out one of her own hairs and then rubbed her own tongue. He did the same out of embarrassment. 

"Um," he muttered hesitantly.

She paused for a moment and then slowly nodded, though she closed her eyes tightly. Slowly, deliberately slowly James began to enter.

Now, many of particular tastes are interrupting us again and asking why she did not "return the favor." Why she did not lick gently and hesitantly along the head and shaft showing all the care and devotion that he had showed her. Why she did not suck to completion, exclaiming in surprise as the hot milky shower covered her face. Why he did not help her clean it off after admiring her submissive splendor.

There are distinct reasons for this. First, reality doesn't always include the steps we have grown accustomed to. People skip things, people invent, people do whatever they do. Second, James did not hate Lizzie. He knew far too well that this was an activity closely related to The Memory and she was only doing this out of genuine love for him. To match himself in anyway to The Memory was utterly unthinkable to him. Third, even if he had insisted, Lizzie would be unable to perform the deed. In fact, it wasn't until their marriage in another two years on another Valentine's Day that she was finally able to do it...for a single second before screaming. It truly was memorable.

Now back to the insertion. It was exaggeratedly slow. James was being more than a little careful as he pushed and Lizzie couldn't help but cringe and hold her eyes tight as it entered into her, but eventually it was fully in. They stayed like this for a while, Lizzie getting comfortable with the invader and James consoling her. 

Eventually she opened her eyes, smiled, and kissed him gently. He began to move his hips. It was overly gentle at first until the last of Lizzie's flinches fled into the darkness. After only a little hesitation he moved to increase the pace. While he increased, he did so slowly, moving deliberately and carefully and constantly watching her face for sign of conflict. He was also concentrating on not spending himself too early. He was determined not to make a fool of himself on his first time. He wanted her to believe it could be pleasurable for her too.

Eventually as he began to worry that it might be too soon, she began to softly moan. He increased the pace a bit, but not enough to scare her. Her moans began to increase and still rang with the sweet tang of earnest. He increased again, focusing constantly on holding out as long as he could. She began to move with him, her body beginning to thaw to the feeling of genuine pleasure.

The moans increased and the movements became more synchronized, more fluid, more passionate, more daring, more trusting. A smile began to spread over James's face as a few tears began to flow with it. Lizzie began to knead her own breasts playfully. Her face was slowly beginning to capture more and more of the essence of the Old Lizzie on the license. She moaned harder and begun to swear.




Valentines in the Dregs



The motion was beginning to be too much for James. He felt himself lose control. He was going to come before her. He was going to fail her. He pushed hard to give her as much as he could before he let go, but he came to early. Still the continuous motion and the cum was enough to help totter her over the last barrier and she came a few seconds later with a genuine innocent smile back on her face, unhidden by her hand.

They smiled together and remained entwined for a while. They could have said something, expressed their love, their need for each other. Tell each other that the other was all that they needed and would keep them sane no matter how much the Universe or the darkness tried to hurt them or bring them down. Tell each other that they would be their anchor as well they could, that they would not fail each other ever again, that they would not let themselves slip into escapism again.

But they didn't.

They didn't need to. Their faces said it all. They were together. They were alive. And it was Valentine's in the Dregs.