The wino shifted in his frigid sleep. The autumn moon looked down with disfavour at his body, protected from the elements with nothing but other people's hand-me-downs that went no further. His dreams pursued him. He started awake with the sudden noise of a police siren careening dangerously close. Instinct willed his muscles to pull himself closer to the brick wall. For a moment he seemed smaller than usual. The siren flashed by, interested in other fare this evening. He blinked, noticed the moon's disdainful gaze, and flinched. Not my fault, he thought angrily.

The night was still strong, but he could not return to sleep. There was little waiting for him anyway. His left leg stretched out, and a bottle rolled down the concrete alley. He saw too late that liquid was dripping out; his energy level did not permit a hasty rescue. He could only shrug with a resigned dismay. His butt ached. I should get a Lazy-Boy. Another voice intruded. You should get a life. He gave thanks to the memory of his mother, may she rest in fitful agony, amen.

After a few minutes, he managed to stand up, albeit a bit unsteadily. For some reason, his head always hurt more when it was at a higher elevation. How had I gotten the bottle? Oh yeah; I borrowed some bucks from Old Jimmy. He shook his head, which hurt, and smiled, which did not. Borrowed. Right. And I'm the President. There was a streetlight at the mouth of the alley, and he moved slowly towards it, stumbling on some damp boxes. He noticed the coolness of the night, and pulled his hand-me-downs closer together.

The light blinked at his arrival, then went out. Whispering a damn, the wino sat down on the curb, tired again. The street was not busy. A group of teenagers was approaching, and he could see them a couple of blocks away. As they came closer, the leather jackets and cowboy boots (shitkickers, his father used to call them) became more evident. The wino slid closer to the edge of the building, hoping that the gang would not notice him and beat him up. They were laughing. The sound pierced something in the wino's soul, and for a quick second he felt envious anger. But the emotion was cut short by another: fear.

"Well, what the fuck do we have here?" The boy put out a restraining hand, and the others stopped. He really was only a boy, his hair short, his face containing only softened edges, his eyes still innocent and young. The shame of it was that he believed his life was a normal one. And this wino offended him.

"I guess it's a piece of shit, Roddy." The group laughed.

"Nah. A piece of shit wouldn't look this bad." The laughter echoed down the empty alley. "So what should we do with this fuckin' cocksucker?"

A boy who had been in the back came forward and spit something at the wino's face. It was a half-chewed piece of hot dog. It landed on his cheek, and slid downwards, leaving a trail of warm saliva. "He ain't got shit, man. Maybe he got religion!"

The leader's fist flashed, and the wino's nose was bleeding. Just don't kill me, his mind shrilled through fantasies of violence and gore. Another fist, and another, and the wino was choking on his own blood.

"Yo, man, let's leave this shit. I ain't gonna get fucked if I'm standing here kickin' the shit outta some fuckwad." The leader walked away, and the others followed, yelling nasty things, laughing, punching each other.

The wino watched through blurry eyes.

He woke up a few hours later, his nose and chest crying for attention. His face was next to the gutter, and he thought, well, now I'm finally in the gutter. A voice crept up and whispered softly.

(here down here its better for all better for you here down here)

The wino closed his eyes and slept for want of something better to do.

He dreamed of his mother. She stood over him like she always did, speaking in that incredibly soft voice, telling him what kind of shit he was, how he couldn't do anything without her help, how his life was nothing. The softness of velvet, but years of training teaches you. Teaches you to shut your fuckin' trap while I'm speaking to you, do you think I'm talking to please myself? I don't work fifty hours a day at that laundry so you can jerk off! She would always get bigger, like someone was inflating her, her shadow blocking the light, her eyes glowing. Her mouth continued the tirade, the wooden spoon whipping back and forth. There was no escape. The walls of his bedroom would warp and bend to fit her in, his bed would shake, her voice would rise in volume, building to a climax.

It would be then that she would order him to take his clothes off.

He would always wake up crying, but was it for the memory or for the bulge in his pants, he could never decide.

It was still dark, but the fingers of light were trying to grab the horizon and hold on. The streetlight was still out, and the pavement was still cold.

(here down here see for yourself its so much fun here down here maybe you could love again)

There it was again. It was no dream. Somehow he expected it to be more exciting, to hear a ghost. The whisper triggered something in his soul, something elemental. He tried in vain to identify the feeling that he knew this whisper. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the sky. The stars were fading, had been for years. He coughed, and felt real pain. The sweet taste of blood made him cough again, and he turned his head and spit, although he took some care in missing the gutter. The bars of the drain looked cleaner than anything else in this Godforsaken city.

(here down here we never stop all night here down here there is fun there is love there is wonder here down here)

He was scared, now. His head came up and looked up and down the street. I'm going fuckin' nuts now, isn't that great? His mother again: only crazy people hear voices, Andrew, only crazy people, you understand? Now take... With great effort, he shut her off. That was getting so hard these days.

He had to get a hold of himself. Hearing voices was not a good thing. He sat up, and immediately his pain neurons went off like internal fireworks. A moan issued from his lips, and the voice called once more.

(here down here time never stops never starts we wait for you here down here fun and games and love and lust here down here)

This is getting too goddamn freaky for me. He tried to dismiss the whispers, but then his mother would come steamrollering in. He swore softly. A mind is a terrible thing to control.

(here down here you have a better life a new life here down here your mother)

He started in surprise.

(is gone we banished from here down here friends no enemies down here no bullies no nasties here down here)

My mother? I am making this up, I must be.

(here down here join us and you will be free here down here please just touch the grate here down here life will be here down here)

His will weakening, he focused his gaze on the grate and the darkness below. He could see nothing, his hearing only picked up the silent chuckling of running water. What harm could there be in touching? His arm began the long slow trek to the gutter.

His mother yelled. Where once was silence, now was deafening noise. You're nothing, you're shit, you're just like your father, and he was a queer-lovin' faggot, you deserve nothing but what I think you should get, and that's a lot more than most people would give, you mouldy hunk of shit, now take your clothes off and show mommy what you got.

It was now a quest: to get his hand to touch the grate while enduring the hardship of fighting back his mother's bullshit. Closer, closer.

(here down here love is king lust is queen sex is god here down here nothing is more than you here down here)

His hand grasped a rusty metal bar.

He sighed in relief.

And screamed.

He felt his body being sucked into the tiny space between the bars, first his hand, then his arm, then his shoulder, and the pain was deafening. Bones snapped and crunched, and blood flowed free and true.

(here down here there is nothing but death here down here)

He looked down and was sure that his mother was pulling him in, and he screamed out her name.

(here down here come to mommy here down here)

Before he passed out, he thought he heard his mother moaning with delight.

It was not his mother.

It was something worse.

After it was finished eating, it licked its fingers clean.