GUARDIAN ANGELS

By AJ & Nelson

He hurt. God, how he hurt. He lay huddled against the door of the car, barely conscious, aware only of the way each bump, each turn, sent fiery sheets of pain coursing through his body. His pulse beat in time with the wipers, his head throbbing with every beat of his heart. He didn't move as the car came to an abrupt stop, or as rough hands dragged him from it and shoved him to the ground. A cloak of blackness fell over him, mercifully shutting out the pain as he hit the wet sidewalk.

It was the rain that woke him, a fine, cold drizzle that felt good on his bruised and swollen face, smearing the dirt and blood and semen while soothing his parched lips. He groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, trading the darkness in his mind for the darkness of the street.

He lay still for a long time before hazily untangling one hand and reaching up to gingerly touch the exposed cheek. He cried out as the gesture sent new waves of pain through both face and hand, but he struggled first to his knees, then to his feet, vaguely aware that he had to get off the street and out of the rain. He finally stood, despite labored breathing, panting against the pain, and gazed about as well as he could.

His vision was blurred, with one eye swollen shut and the other unable to focus clearly, but he could tell that it was well after midnight. The street was deserted. Even the hookers and drug dealers had quit for the night. Or perhaps, the rain had driven them in, the rain which was soaking his hair and shirt, turning one into dank tendrils and pasting the other to the bloody welts across his back. His shirt was probably ruined, he thought inconsequentially, and it was his best one, a fine, white linen that accentuated his chest and fit across his shoulders just right. God only knew when he would find another one as nice.

He squinted in the night and could see enough to know that he was in front of his own apartment building. The door seemed an impossible distance away, but he started toward it determinedly, one wavering, staggering step at a time. He reached it without falling, but his triumph was cut short as he stubbed his bare toes against the threshold and sprawled into the hall. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, rocking back and forth against the excruciating pain, vomiting up the blood that he had swallowed, along with various other liquids, during the evening. He tried to get to his feet but instead toppled slowly over onto his side and curled into a tight ball on the cold tile. The vomiting had opened the cuts and abrasions in his mouth again; he could feel fresh blood trickling over his cheek and chin.

After several failed attempts to stand, he crawled to the stairs and used the newel post to pull himself upright, gritting his teeth against the renewed pain surging through his body. His teeth! God, please don't let him be missing any teeth! Clinging to the post, he ran his tongue over them as well as he could. They all seemed to be intact, although one or two were loose enough to rock with his tongue, and all were coated with a thin, nasty film that he didn't want to contemplate.

He turned his attention to the stairs instead, stairs that seemed to stretch an infinite distance overhead. His attempt to lift his right foot high enough to reach the first step failed and he almost fell; only a desperate grab at the railing saved him. Gulping for air, almost in tears, he tried again with his left and succeeded. Step by slow, agonizing step, he made it up the stairs and began the final stretch - the normally short distance to his one-room apartment.

The floor was strangely uncooperative, sometimes leaping toward him so that his foot met it with a jarring thud, other times receding and leaving his foot hanging in mid-air. The door to his apartment faded, then doubled, as he struggled to focus on his destination. Finally he reached the door and collapsed against it, sliding weakly down the wood to land on the floor. He stifled an involuntary scream as his buttocks hit the floor and he immediately rolled into a fetal position, fighting the blackness as the pain coursed through his body with sickening intensity. He retched, spewing up what little was left in his stomach, leaving his mouth tasting of bile. As his stomach settled and the pain subsided for the moment, he slowly became aware that he was staring at the door, his mind vainly attempting to determine the next step.

In. He had to get in, he thought vaguely. That meant he had to open the door, which meant he needed his key. He tried to reach into the pocket of his jeans, once his best pair, now ruined beyond repair. They were too tight; he couldn't get his fingers into the pocket. Sobbing with frustration and despair, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to give up, he struggled to undo enough buttons to loosen them, get his fingers into the pocket and work the key free. He struggled to his knees one more time, aimed the key as well as he could with only one functioning eye and jabbed it toward the center of the keyhole. The key missed both the lock and the doorknob, his injured knuckles banging sharply against the wooden door. He tried again and again, his hoarse sobs echoing in the narrow hallway, until finally the key connected with the lock and he was able to turn the knob and slowly fall into the room. He retained enough sense to pull the key free and push the door closed behind him before his courage and stamina at last gave out. Collapsing to the floor with a long, shuddering groan, he let the darkness carry him away.