Free BiteMarks by Drew Cross

your hallway keeps breathing unless you get tired of freedom.”
    We lock eyes for a few seconds, long enough for me to show him a brief flash of what I contain, before I turn away and walk back to the car. As we pull away I can't help thinking, was that recognition on his face? Did he place me as local, or did he see me for what I really am?
    “ That went well. I think you've got a friend for life there, mate.”
    “ Scary fuckers aren't they?”
    “ You think? Now remind me again why that was a good idea, and what it actually achieved?”
    “ They just helped us to narrow down our search.”
    “ How so?”
    “ When Jones was threatening to kill me if we show up again, he said good luck finding your albino friend.”
    “ So we're looking for a guy with pink eyes and chalk white skin then?”
    “ Maybe, but if not, we're definitely looking for someone who is conspicuously pale even if they're not technically an albino.”
    Is that why you're drinking their blood then? Perhaps, but you don't have to tear people to bits to get blood do you? Why is that necessary, and why is it prostitutes?
    Marcus is looking at me expectantly.
    “ What?”
    “ I said what's the big deal with protecting working girls, mate?”
    “ They don't deserve the treatment that they get.”
    “ It's their choice.”
    “ No it's not. They're drug addicts, abused, isolated and alone. All they've got are the sick leeches that live off their earnings and feed them drugs, alternating between telling them that they love them and beating the shit out of them. They're people, not combination pin-cushions and punch-bags with added holes to fuck.”
    “ No one makes them run away from home, and no one makes them continue to take drugs and then refuse help from the Compass workers when they're in custody, do they?”
    “ That's just it. They are made to do these things, running from abusive or smothering homes, making mistakes with who they choose to trust when they do leave. The mistakes that we make shouldn't have to mean torture for the rest of our pitiful lives.”
    “ My old man beat me up all the time, Shane. Trying to make a man out of his faggot son, but I still made something of myself. Most of these people aren't prepared to help themselves, so you can't save them. You get out of life what you're prepared to put in.”
    “ Well congratulations to you, accept a standing ovation and the step back down from your big fucking pedestal. Not everybody can deal with the things that they've done or had done to them the same way that you have. People are like dogs, some get kicked and then retreat into themselves shaking and cowering; others lash out at everything and everyone except the tormentor that they fear, and the last type wait for the next kick and then do their damnedest to rip the whole leg off.”
    We sit staring at each other, faces hard with anger.
    “ We don't need to fight about this, mate. Let's agree to disagree.”
    “ Did you hear what was said after the briefing the other day?”
    “ No.”
    “ Strang told the guys and girls a joke. He said what's the difference between a whore and an onion?”
    “ Go on.”
    “ You can't cut an onion without crying.”
    “ Shit.”
    “ Yeah, if you find that as funny as the others did, you may want to reconsider helping me out on this thing.”
    “ I don't hate them, mate. I just think that they should accept some responsibility for their own situations.”  He holds out a hand, which I accept and give a quick crush.  
    “ What were you folks like, Shane?”
    “ There was never a dull moment.”
     
    * * *
     
    Our memories do not belong to us.
    Most of them are insubstantial, fragile like incense ash, easily disturbed and dashed into soft fragments by a thoughtlessly directed exhalation. Then they are forever changed, still in existence but now in pieces, lost amongst the merciless onslaught of new experiences that are soon to become more fractured memories for the pile too.
    I