Candleboy-first start

First start..

I won’t live to see 20. That’s what the doctors say. My body is hot to the touch. My blood could boil at any minute.

I don’t have a home, but I live with many people. Just not all at the same time. Nick is one of the people I live with. He’s 28. He runs a hole-in-the-wall bookstore on 3rd street. I don’t think it even has a name. It just has “Bookstore” painted on the side of the building that we all live in. It’s not a dirty bookstore, either. It’s that actual real bookstore that keeps old, rare copies of Shakespeare and Homer and has sections on Metaphysics, History and Art. Nick loves me. I do not love him. Not like that.

Tansy is a girl. She has huge tattoos of waterfalls on her back and black tribal bands on both her arms, but you can still see the scars. Tansy is 22 and works at a bar. She lives in an apartment with Sean.

Sean is Irish. He steals.

Tamora is a witch. She and her brother Naytan live together and practice their rituals on the ever-changing array of ladies that work this part of the city. I don’t know what kind of rituals they practice.

My Father died in a house fire I set. My Mother ran away after he died and I ran in the other direction. I lived with an uncle for a while here in the city until my Mom sent me a letter. Then I got lost in the city and was never found.

I’ve had that damn letter from Mom for so long. Then one night, it was raining and my body was steaming and sirens were wailing in the background and I decided to burn Mom’s letter.

I didn’t know if I felt freedom or despair as I watched the corners of the paper turn black in my hands. I didn’t want to feel anything. I wanted to cry and to scream. But all I did was watch the corners of the paper turn black.

Then Tansy found me and told me that Nick was dead.

It was raining, and the air was dense with wet hot dogs, wet hot dog venders, gas, oil, vinyl. Wet cats, drenched anthills, garbage and the faint smell of sulfur.

Rain is nice, I decided. I like the way it makes me feel. How everyone else must feel. Lucky bastards. Not that I’m bitter. The fact that a lot of people have it easier than I do doesn’t make me bitter. Going through life as a medical hazard that could spontaneously combust at any moment isn’t enough. Just because my projected life span is less than 30 years. It’s not the length of one’s life that counts, it’s what one does with the intervening time that counts, right?

I was just thinking it would be a good time to go and see Nick. He misses me. I know. I’ve never been in love. I should word that better, I never let myself fall in love. I have enough to deal with.

But Nick does love me, I’m afraid. I’ve tried reason and I’ve tried renunciation. Now I just let him do whatever - he can watch me, he can hold my hand if it makes him happy. But he knows about me, and he knows my days are numbered. And though he doesn’t think I know, he keeps one of those candles in a Jesus jar burning next to that old picture of me.