This drabble was inspired by the Brit indie flick 'Shank', directed by Simon Pearce. The word 'fag' is used in the text. It is not meant to offend anyone, but merely to recreate the tone of the film. Also, a warning goes out to whoever hasn't watched the movie. It is quite graphic and not for the faint-hearted. - Kel


No thought, just action.

He would have to live with his actions for the rest of his life. Or for however long he had, to be more accurate. He didn't know what had saved him just now. Surprisingly, they hadn't killed him - only beat him - which wasn't even close to what he really deserved. Not close to what he deserved for going against his family of friends, for being a fake and for doing...just...horrible...things. Awful. Unspeakable things.

He puked into the grass - blood and what was left of what he'd eaten earlier. Pizza. No symbolism there at all. They hadn't killed him but they must've really done a number on him for he was hurting inside and out, shaking and he could hardly see. This was not where he'd wanted things to go. Not what he'd longed for for so long. What was he supposed to do now? He had nothing, no one, nothing.

A kiss. Soft and tender. Lips against lips. Then, lips to nipple. Tongue darting out, licking, biting, teasing that dark nipple with the hot nipple ring. Licking. Tasting. Tasting sweat and cigarettes. Hands reaching, undressing, touching in all the right places. Fondling. Tasting again. Sexy. Arms embracing, pulling down, hugging, holding down. No! ...hugging, enclosing, protecting. Soft skin, so perfect. Body to body. Heat. Love. Sex. Release. Kiss. Soft and tender. Sleep.

He was shaking badly now. Moaning with pain. Why? God, why did he do that? How could he do that? How? Tears ran down his face. Tears must be why he couldn't see. Why didn't he see it? How could he not have known... Why was he the only one that couldn't have him? He loved him then, he loved him before. He still loved him. Why wasn't love enough?

He'd been at a loss what to do when Cal disappeared. He didn't share the others disdain, it didn't matter that Cal had gone against Nessa, against the gang. It just didn't matter to him. What mattered was that Cal was gone and that friend had turned to foe. Not his foe, but his family's. He didn't want to lose Cal, but he couldn't lose his family. He'd been so confused.

Then his phone calls were denied and never returned. All he wanted was to talk. He didn't know what about, but he needed to hear his voice, ask for him to come back to them. To him. But signal after signal trailed off into voice mail. Never an answered call. Then the truth hit. The painful, hurtful, honest truth... His ache might've been returned had he uttered it. But he'd stayed quiet, a fucking coward, and so Cal had gone and fucked just about every guy in Bristol. But not him. Not him. The gang would never take him back now. Cal had left and it would be for good. And left for him was only a sweater that he would smell time and time again for it still held the smell of sweat and cigarettes...and Cal.

The biggest betrayal was his replacement. A guy so far from him it wasn't even funny. Soft, lean, thin to the point of looking anorexic, girly and so obviously OUT. It left a bad taste in his mouth and a hollow fear in his belly. He would never have him now. Never. What was wrong with him?

He missed hanging out, smoking weed together. He missed cruising around with Cal in Cal's car. He missed the parties, the laughs, the dirty looks. He missed going out for pizza because Cal loved pizza. He missed it so much it hurt.

His life changed dramatically. The things he did with Nessa and the gang had no meaning any longer. What had been fun once, was draining now. He'd always been alone but now he felt alone. He hurt. He missed. He ached. And as time passed by, hurt turned to anger turned to rage and wanting revenge. This was where he truly lost it. His footing. And everything was a blur after that.


The unspeakable. His fear. His sobs. His tears. The blood. The pain. The memory.

A kick. Hard and brutal. Foot to ribs. Then, lips bit in pain. Pain leading to screaming, sobbing, heavy breathing, dark voice belonging to his love. Kicking. Hating. Hating smell of sweat and cigarettes. Voice booming, accusing, stained with loathing. Painful answer. Hating again. Sickly horny. Arms reaching, pulling back, holding down. Holding down, ripping clothes, forcing. Hurting. Soft skin, so perfect. Body to body. Begged not to. Love. Rape. Release. Kiss. Knife. Sharp and deadly. Crying. Both of them crying.

He ate his friend alive, teeth ground him into little pieces. He swallowed him down and spat him back out like puked up pizza. No symbolism there, just plain truth. Love lost forever in one random, brutal act. He would never forgive himself. Nor would he ever be forgiven. He was outted, hated, a fake, a fag, a rapist. Even the gang, a group of souless thugs, were disgusted by him and his violent act of revenge and twisted affection. He was beside himself with grief and self-loathing. How could he do that? Why did he do that? He loved Cal. He loved him more than anything. He wanted to take it back. To caress instead of kick. To kiss instead of hurt. To make love - not rape. To hold that body close to his to comfort and protect.

He would never forget Cal's screams with pain, his sobs, his grief... He had been savagely attacked, his body taken by force in front of everyone. There was no coming back from this. He would be marked for the rest of his life. Both of them would be.

He cried when he was pulled away and pushed into someone's car. The beating came shortly after. 'Fag'! 'Traitor'! He thought they would kill him. Wished that they would. But they didn't.

He was thrown away like garbage. Badly beaten. Banned forever. He puked again. Crawled into a fetal position. He had nothing. Empty. No more tears to cry.