Held (with Tines and Prongs), Pt. 2

Photography by Greg Girard. warning: strong language

I woke with watery eyes and a head blessed with weight. Nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing, nothing happened.

"He's unconscious."

Chris had a short stature befitting his diminutive and timid nature. Despite his fair hair and skin, he never grew accustomed to the private-school intelligentsia of which his stock were reared from. Rather, the rebellious little cretin often spent time alone on the streets, becoming a minority among minorities, the only blonde white kid who could understand the intricacies of gang signs and street speech. Here, against the salt of the sea, the bleached pale of the beach and the distinct taste of summer in his mouth, he felt at home, a part of the world and completely apart from it. 

Across the IV injection center, which despite outward appearances was always packed, lay St. Adelaide's, an island of respite in what was otherwise an ocean of depravity and destruction. Though service was quiet and attended mostly by the elderly, Chris would often walk in between the flying buttresses on his way towards the center, and with every intrusion through the columns he felt celestial. He wasn't academic by any means, but knew that the structures were just rock. Myths were told among the urchins that pure belief held the house of worship together. From this perspective Chris felt warm, but, only on the inside.

Outwardly he marched militarily towards the center, pissed off after last night's deal.

He halted and knelt before the center. 

"Fix me."