Recovery

Chapter 2: Painful Encounter

      The sky...so grey and cloudy, the scent of rain fresh in the air. How did he end up like this? What had he done wrong to deserve such...heartache? These were the typical questions a homeless man would ask himself, every and each passing day.  

Francis Bonnefoy, a blonde, homeless French man. He was wondering the streets once again, all he had was a cheap pack of cigarettes in his pocket. That was it...he had quit smoking a few years back, but the temptation of having a nice lit one was starting become too much. He had losteverything...every single thing, that mattered to him. No, his parents weren't the best...in the least. After all, what good parents through their son out on the street because he didn't want to go to college to be a... pharmacist.  

He wasn't as if he hated the profession it just wasn’t for him. Three years...he had been homeless, thankfully he wasn't the worst dressed. He had made sure of that, after all how do you expect to get costumers if you look like pure trash. Not many, being a... a prostitute wasn't easy. He couldn't count the number of times someone had tried to rape him in this, line of work. Thankfully, he wasn't weak by any means.  

"I guess I should go...see Lovi after this." Francis muttered to himself, as he walked to the entrance of the motel. Where his client was waiting...for him in room B26. He gathered up his courage and made his way to the room.  

He knocked on the room door, sadness so dug into his eyes that he wasn't even sure if they could gleam with happiness like they once did. Francis began to fumble with his hands, nervous...anxiously...and most of all scared. He hadn't meet the person before hand all he knew was that a note was left for him on the bench that he...slept on. 

Francis, eyes grew wide as he heard a click and the door began to open. It soon revealed a tall man around 6'7, with light greyish blonde hair. He wore a scarf around his neck and a big burly coat. The coat on the right side had a patch with the Russian flag attached to it.  

He didn't realize that he had stepped back a few feet, until the man said in a thick Russian accent "Ah, where do you...think you're going? Hmm, little rabbit. I got good money with me that can be yours...if you show me a good time." Ending his sentence with a big, scary close eyed smile.  

Francis began to shake slightly. "Ugh....umm...nowhere. S-shall we begin?" He said trying to regain his composer, before the other could notice his discomfort.  

Grabbing the French man's hand, grip tightening enough to dig his fingernails into the pale, soft, white flesh. As the Russian slowly, shut the door before turning his body around. Quickly turning around and pinning the smaller of the two, against the door.  

A small gasp escaped Francis, he wanted to stop the Russian but... he needed money. Tears began to fill his eyes as he let the stranger tear his clothes of and through him on the unsanitary motel bed.  

His brain was running a hundred seconds a minute, as the tears rolled down his face...as the Russian began to thrust in and out of him. He could feel something rip, as blood was incorporated into the mix of bodily fluids. All he did was bite the back of his hand to muffle his screams and cries of distress. The bed began to creak with each and every painfully jabbed thrust. He felt the Russian cease in his harrowing actions, gripping onto the crook of the canaryyellow-haired man's elbow. The other held at a standstill as he came inside the poor French man.  

Francis thought that the man had finished, but he had been wrong as he began to feel the other move his hips out only to ram them back into him. Francis had done removed his hand from his mouth, so there was nothing there to filter his bloodcurdling screams that would chill even the coldest hearted man to the bone.  

The Russian didn't like his screams, at all, no he hated him it made him feel guilty. So, the other man released his grip from Francis's hips, grabbed the blonde by his long, and well-kempt hair. Yanking, pulling, and ripping the blonde locks. Making his scalp sting and burn, the Russian tugged his hair and lifted him up enough to take his left hand and slap Francis.  

"Bitch, don't scream, it isn't like anybody can hear you or save you. Just take it and get the money like the filthy hore you are." He said in a low and thickly laced growl. Quickly letting his grip cease, and fall. Francis's eyes were cold, lifeless, and most of all emotionless. He didn't care ergo the moment, he just let the man hit him and finish up.  

The Russian, removed himself from Francis's presence...grabbing the dirtied sheet and wiping off his now flaccid requirement. The accented man stood and walked to his coat, that he had threw onto the stained, tainted motel carpet.  

With a disgruntled snort, he filed through the ruffles and pockets. He finally smirked, as he pulled out a roll of money. He also pulled out a metal flask that he could only presume was containing vodka, turning around he took the roll of cash and flung it at the naked blonde with cum leaking down his thigh.  

"There bitch, the room has been paid for...now remember to stay in your place." He said as he undid the cap on the flask and took a quick swig. He buttoned his pants, put on is coat, along with the scarf. He walked towards the door, taking the door knob in hand. He opened the door alittle, then turned his head around and muttered a simple "I'm...sorry."  

With that he was gone, leaving a broken, sore, and vulnerable French man. Sitting up, wincing and cringing at the pain that shot throughout his entire lower body. "I... I need...to call Lovi." He said, weakly as he turned on his side, grimacing slightly as he saw the cum and blood...flowing down his thigh. He reached for the phone that was on the side of the bed on a dented and gashed small bedside table. He began to frantically dial the number on the phone as he felt consciousness leaving his body.  

He began to prey in French that he would pick up, that he wouldn't be busy with someone else's case. He began to pant, out of fear. He sighed slightly in relief as he heard noise in the background signaling that he was connected. He was so thankful to hear the angry, cussing Italian.  

"Hola, this Lovino Vargas." Said the Italian in an annoyed voice. "Ah...Lovi, t-thank y-you for answering." Francis whispered in fragile voice, smiling sadly at hearing his friend. "Francis is something wrong? Are you okay? You sound hurt." Lovino began to stampeded him with questions. 

"I... ugh...I hate to ask this but do...do you mind coming to get me?" He stuttered out, avoiding the questions. "Si! Of course, amico. Where are you?" He said his voice drenched in concern. 

"Ugh...B26...Winchester...motel." He said weakly before letting the phone fall as he gave into the darkness, called sleep. "Si!!Yes, I'm on my way with Antonio." He said as he hung-up the phone, him and Toni left within a few minutes. The weakness and vulnerability in the others voice, gnawing at his soul, he was really worried about their amico. 

(Amico-Friend in Italian)