something new of mine. (not the screenplay, which is still being edited)

Boys Town

It’s twenty below. Three seconds, maybe four, of being outside and the pain cuts straight to the bone. I don’t want to breathe anymore, but I still want to kiss.
It is like this from November on until March. It is like this from when I’m fucked for the first time, and experience the best kind of pain the world has to offer, until Jack disappears, after his best friend bought me from him, giving Jack three-hundred dollars and some pot (an amount that weighed the same as a matchbook) and Jack went off, somewhere in Illinois, and I numb the pain with numerous lovers. I don’t care how rusty the pipes get; the water does the trick, quenching the thirst.
I could jump to spring when things get better. But I want you to feel my pain. So let’s start with November, shall we?

November.

A voice inside my head says ‘Look at that blood. You should do something about that.’
But the rest of the voices cackle. ‘Let them see, maybe they’ll finally notice you exist.’
I know my sister and her bratty roommate are having a movie marathon in the living room later, where my mattress is with the bloodstain right in the center. I leave it there for all to see.
The train smells like snow and potato chips. I am underdressed. Its easier to stay awake that way. Jack kept me up all night, fucking away, the pain was excruciating, but enjoyable. And it had to happen. I can’t exactly be a virgin and still fuck now can I? And I like the pain. I wish it could stay that way. But I know it won’t. At least not by just sex, Jack says he has other ways to hurt me. We’ll see.
It’s ten till ten and I’m supposed to be at the shop in ten minutes. I’m not even at my stop – Belmont Avenue. It’s snowing, too, and the sidewalks are icy. It will take me forever to walk. I don’t have bus fair or coffee money. Today will be brutal.
There’s a kid I know passing out condoms. He works at the hospice. He tries to give me some. They’re too small for Jack, though. I wish he was passing out coffee. I move on.