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Unconventional

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It didn't matter how or why you got here, all that mattered was the man above you, pounding into you with those desperate little grunts.

He certainly wasn't the first, but he might be the last, if your open wounds were anything to go by. He had tried halfheartedly to patch them, but was distracted by your torn shirt. In the end, men were all the same.

The more your vision blurred and faded at the edges, the more you seemed to not care. The cold cement felt like nothing against your bare ass and lower back, the wet garbage smell coming from the dumpster didn't smell any worse or better than crisp night air.

His hair tickled your face. It was that constant, irritating motion that kept you there. You were in no shape to move, so brushing it away and succumbing to death was not an option. What was a little more suffering anyway?

He finished with a whispered, "I love you" and you actually felt sad for the poor man. No doubt some sort of fast progressing stockholm syndrome.

He pulled out, and buttoned himself back up. It was raining again, and his face paint began to blend together into one runny blob.

"Can you walk?"

You couldn't have replied even if you wanted to. The man sighed and crouched down. For a moment you thought he was going to end your pain, and maybe you could have given a "yipee" right there, but then he picked you up. You let your head loll back. The rain felt nice.

The mouth of the alley was where he stopped. He wiped the majority of his makeup off onto his bright red sleeve, then shed his suit jacket and vest, having to set your feet on the ground for a moment.

He picked you up once more and continued his journey. You were feeling much more in pain and alive then. You wished you weren't.

The bright lights of the hospital hurt your eyes. You felt a swell of confused affection for the man.

He set you down at the empty entrance to the ER, and fled. Your eyes closed.