Excerpt: Prince Charming

Prince Charming - Chapter 10;

The sweat drenches his body, filling his nostrils with the vilest of body odours. He can barely breathe from where he’s lying on his back, and opening his eyes feels like more of a challenge than running a marathon. Then he feels the fingers stroking down his jaw, and his body clams up.

Eyes spark wide, and then squint against the glow of the streetlights. Darkness rains down on him, shrouding the face above him. But he can still make out those malicious, yellow teeth. The body is grubby and unwashed, and the stench is more unbearable than his. Greasy strands of a gray beard topple into his vision, and then fingers are tugging at the shark tooth pendant locked around his throat, complete with his front door key.

“Fuck off,” Christian hollers, his voice hoarse. He kicks an aching leg at the elder, watching the homeless man topple backwards to land in a trash can. The rucksack he carries his life around in hits the floor, and in a once white print SEAN is printed vertically up one side.

Feeling around his neck, Christian grasps at the shark tooth. Next to it he can feel the key, and he sighs in relief. He can feel the sweat soaking the top of his shirt, and he looks down at himself to find awkward damp patches covering most of his body.

Sitting up, he instantly feels the world spin around him. He stretches out his arms to try and balance, and breathes in out and slowly until the earth begins to feel more level once again. Then he slips his hands into his pockets, and feels around. His wallet and mobile phone are still intact.

Running his hands through his hair, he grimaces at the feel of it. He releases a slow hiss as fingers pass over a small lump on the back of his head, and his nails accidentally catch at dried blood sealing war wounds. His entire body feels like its on fire, and his scalp is beyond burning point. His stomach flips as he tries to pick his battled body up off the ground.

He sways once on his feet, and he leans back against the wall until he is able to gather his bearings. The streets swirl magnificent colours under the first quarter of the moon, and he realises that someone has drugged him.

“Fantastic,” he murmurs, feeling a dull ache in his throat. No doubt he had caught a cold too.

Using his fingers, he tries to calculate just how long he’s been out. The unpredictability of winter’s daylight hours throws him off, and instead he looks around and tries to work out where he is.

Feeling more stable after a few minutes, he kicks off from the wall and goes to the end of the alleyway. Yellow streetlight pours onto the pavement, and Christian quickly identifies that he is about two blocks from Señorita Ishtar. This also means he’s roughly three blocks away from where he last remembered standing.

His hand subconsciously begins to explore the wound on his head, and he wishes he had a mirror. The lump feels large under his fingertips, but compared to most wounds one might spontaneously receive in the back alleys of Allendale it didn’t feel too bad. It wouldn’t require medical attention.

Looking back over his shoulder, he sees the old man pulling himself up out of the trashcan. He seems a bit bedraggled and frail, and Christian knows that this homeless person could not be strong enough to have carried him three blocks. He would have had to drag him if anything and his bleached jeans show no sign of tear.

Puzzled by the fact that all of his belongings remain intact, Christian walks back into the alley. The area is relatively clean, except for a magazine lying on the tarmac, speckled with blood. Recognising the cover, he picks it up to find that it’s a copy of Vogue. Unsurprisingly, it is this month’s issue: the same one he had left a copy of lying in the garage.

Flipping open the cover, he finds the next few pages torn. The articles are unreadable and most of the models have their faces scribbled out in thick, black marker pen. Christian raises his eyebrows suspiciously as he flips through, until he comes to the middle section where the staples lie.

“I KNOW WHERE YOU COME FROM.”

Christian feels a shiver down his spine as he reads these six words. They are written in a familiar script and in block capitals. Slowly, he swallows.

‘Must be some kids playing a game,’ he thinks.

Throwing the magazine into the recently vacated trash can, he goes to say a farewell to the homeless man, but finds that the elder has supposedly scampered off while he was turning the pages. He simply shrugs at this, and decides it would be for the best to take the bus home.