|
"Leave A Light On For Me "Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: rape/noncon, prostitution, drug use,
drug addiction, homophobia, and abuse of a minor. Please heed the
warnings. Pairings: 3x4, 4xOC'sx4 Summary: After recovering from an addiction to
painkillers, Quatre finds himself facing an uncertain future. " Leave A Light On For Me " I was never what any reasonable parent would consider a "good" child. I nearly got my face slapped off by my father when I was five because I'd told him to 'suck it' when I wasn't allowed to have one of the delicious fresh-baked cookies our chefs had baked for after supper dessert. I'd heard the phrase somewhere on a television program I can't even be bothered to remember now. I was a disobedient child. Mouthy, rebellious, and angry. I hated what I stood for. It wasn't enough that I was lied to for the first half of my life, but I had to be told that I was created only for my father's convenience. His chauvinist desire to have a male heir despite having twenty nine capable females before I ever entered the picture. I still don't know what his motivation was behind telling me what he did. I can understand not wanting me to feel guilty for the death of my mother, but he was a smart man. He could have concocted a better story than the one he threw me. Perhaps he didn't want me to feel different than my sisters who were all created artificially. Or like I was better than them. I don't really know. First I had to come to terms with the tales he'd weaved about my origins. Then I had to come to terms with being deceived and finding out my mother died because she gave me life. The second time I was struck, it was by Rashid after I'd lamented my existence as worthless. I was told to 'take pride in myself'. This coming from the man who attacked our transport and took us hostage. Then, he punched me. I was thirteen. He was thirty and five times my size. I didn't think much of it at the time. Once I got past the shock of getting knocked on my ass, I ended up taking a bullet for him and then leading his troop, his Maguanacs to battle in his mobile suit since he was too injured to do so. Looking back, it's hard to see someone who would do that to a child as any kind of respectable man. Granted, he was one of the better ones, especially in comparison to the kind of scum I had to deal with later on. Where he came from, raising your hand to a disrespectful child was a suitable punishment, just as much as losing your hand for theft, or death for being anything but heterosexual. I managed to keep that little tidbit secret until I fell head over heels with another boy and was unable to pretend I wasn't. Becoming an addict isn't something anyone can predict. That is, no one sets out to be one. People like to paint us with their own interpretation of what being an addict is. Weak, sick, evil, low-life. The reality is it can happen to anyone at any time. I never thought it would have such an impact on my life until it did. An injury and having no choice about what drugs I was given opened up a can of worms that turned my life in a direction I'd never imagined. I never really had time to recover from the abandonment of the people I trusted, or of what I had to deal with while helplessly strapped to a bed before I was thrust out into the world, alone, to fend for myself with nothing but the clothes on my back. I learned rather quickly that my intelligence, my skills, meant absolutely dick and the only thing I had going for me was my face and what was between my legs. Men liked me. And it wasn't for who I was. It was more how I looked laying on my back and they went at me like starving animals. I've lived enough now, experienced enough that I can honestly say there was no shame in what I did. It kept me alive, even if that life wasn't ideal. Oh, let's face it. It was shit. It was a horrible way to live and once upon a time, I might have said I'd rather die than subject myself to that. But, when you're actually living it, you realize how deep that instinctual desire, that need to stay alive is. Those times when I had my head in a John's lap, or when I was bent over the foot of a bed in some roach-infested motel, I understood what it meant to crave life. Really crave it. So much that you would do anything to sustain it. Was I jaded? I never used to think so. But I realize now that I've been jaded my whole life. First, I was jaded about where I came from, what my purpose was. I changed after that fist to the cheek from Rashid. I developed an appreciation for life and the beauty of it. I used to think Earth was a boring planet, but after that incident, after I fought my first battle and actually stepped foot onto the rich soil, I was in love. It was so different, so...unpredictable. Wild, in comparison to the carefully controlled ways of the colonies. I had such faith in humanity. That they would always do the right thing when given the chance. Even after two wars, that faith didn't waiver. It wasn't until I was laid out on top of a filthy bedspread with my legs open, choking as a pair of meaty hands squeezed my neck, that my view of the world began to taint. I was lucky enough to have met a group of boys who were in the same predicament that I was. They took me under their wings, so to speak. Showed me the ropes, gave me safety tips, told me which regulars were on the up and up and which ones to stay away from. We squatted in one of the many vacant homes within the city. There was no electricity, or running water. It was primitive, but it was shelter and relative safety. We looked out for each other and I cared for them the way I'd cared for my comrades, my friends who'd faced the death and atrocity of a war they didn't start with courageous hearts. I missed them terribly. My copilots, I mean. I would think about them often, whether it was when I was soliciting a John, or getting fucked in a motel room, or nursing one of my fellow hookers back to health after a mean run-in with an overzealous customer. They were never far from my thoughts. They comforted me during those times I wanted to give up. They had all survived unimaginable horrors in their lives and came out the other side stronger and better than ever. I was proud of them and I hoped, wherever they were, that they were finally at peace. Happy. I hoped Trowa was doing well. He'd become quite the popular attraction at the circus along with his "sister" Cathy. I wondered if there wasn't more going on between them, though I was pretty sure their relationship was platonic. I couldn't help but hope that was the case, even though it was none of my business. Trowa was what I dreamed about when I went to sleep at night. Curling up on the beat up mattress I'd dragged home from someone's trash pile, Trowa was the one I saved for those precious moments before I drifted off. Fantasies about love that went right, of coming together after the war and making a life for ourselves. Even though I knew it wasn't meant to be, it was a tiny comfort after a long day of rough sex. And I craved. I craved the call of the monkey on my back. Something to make the days bearable. Something to help me forget what I was going through. My body had already had a taste of it and it wanted more. I resisted despite ample opportunities, remembering what I'd gone through to get free of the clutches of addiction. Memories of sickness and misery, of seizures, restraints, and sexual assaults were what kept me from going back. In that I could honestly say I'd rather die than go through that again. I'd already lived it and I refused to go back. So, I worked my corner with an uncluttered mind. I was not ashamed. I survived and I did rather well. I was a popular whore with scores of regulars, many of my one-timers coming back for more. What can I say? I made them feel good. Made them forget about their troubles. In a way, I was a drug to the men I slept with. I had a few that came back every few days, insatiable in their desire and I indulged them. It put food in my belly and clothes on my back. I had strict safe-sex policies and got myself checked regularly at the clinic to be sure I was clean. I had no pimp. I refused to even entertain the idea, even when a few of them tried to force it on me. A dislocated shoulder, broken femur, and having to eat through a straw for six months was enough to convince them to leave me be. It was also enough to convince them to leave the boys I lived with alone. I may have been a whore, but I was nobody's bitch. I used my money to buy only the absolute necessities to survive and I saved the rest, tucking it beneath a floorboard in a remote corner of the house. The boys I lived with respected each other's space, their privacy, and their belongings. There were rules that we had to follow and one of them was keeping your hands off another person's money. Anyone caught stealing was kicked out as I found out when I'd discovered one morning that the money I'd placed inside my mattress was gone. The culprit was almost immediately identified and told to leave. I felt kind of bad, but rules were rules and there was no place for that. I got particularly close to one of the boys, so much that he became my best friend. We developed a bond after I had to take care of him when one of his customers was too rough with him. I tell you, you just can't clean and stitch someone's anus without it irrevocably changing your relationship. First aid and treating injuries is an intricate part of prostitution. He trusted me and I him, with our lives. It was as close as I'd been to anyone besides my war comrades. His name was Colin and he was a year and a half older than me. He'd been on the streets since he was twelve, escaping an abusive father. I confided in him my own story and even told him my real name. I'm sure he didn't believe me at first, but after we'd talked more, I think he realized that I actually was who I said I was. He couldn't believe someone of my status could wind up in this position. But, that's just the way of things. Anything can happen. After a year, I'd saved up enough money for a down payment on an apartment and Colin and I agreed to be roomies and split the cost of living fifty fifty. Within a week, we were in our "new" home, sans furniture, but it had running water and electricity. No more ice cold baths with buckets brought in from outside. We had a fridge and a working stove and even a microwave. It was probably one of the most exciting and hopeful days of my life. Things were finally looking up. Now that I had an address, I'd set a goal to regain documentation and a registered identification number. I was looking forward to gainful employment. It wouldn't be easy. Gundam pilot, junkie, and prostitute weren't exactly good resumé material. Still, I was one step closer. That gave me hope that I could turn my life around and make something of myself.
~ * ~ |
