(damaged boys) 1

There were five of them in the row of townhouses, and underneath the sheen of public normalcy and personal success lived the gaping damage within.
Braden
Braden lived on the east end of the line of the five townhouses. His tidiness went unnoticed, except to the occasional visitor, or trick. His penchant for orderliness coupled with his obsessive-compulsive disorder made for an interesting package. At 29, he was a successful accountant, friendly and chatty…although socially awkward and inappropriate at times. His behavior ranged from general, generic politeness, to an unjustified and uncomfortable familiarity with everyone on the street. Neighbors would wave hello and then dart inside as to avoid conversation. Once trapped, you might be forced to carry on an inane discussion for the better part of an hour. It was much wiser to simply acknowledge him, and move inside. No one really knew him, but they observed him, noting his habits, his tastes and opinions. They kept a mental database. Watching. Noting.

He liked younger men, in general, scruffy with facial hair and tousled locks. The types without fathers, young 19 and 20 year-olds without much experience…boys looking to become men…the boy-men from urban streets, from broken homes, from abuse and injustice. From illiteracy. He took them all in at one time or another. To feed and fuck them, to be their savior for a night. He promised love and pleasure intertwined…making them fall deliriously in love with him.
And they had loved him, of course. They had loved him a thousand times over, but it was never enough. Some of them had loved him genuinely, but it was never enough to let them stay, to let them get closer, or let them get inside at all. When he was finished with them…after one night, or a week or even a month, he pitched them out like the week’s garbage, only to be collected by such men who comb the gutters looking for….things. Or lovers. He discarded all of them because none could fit into the strict compartments of his life. If you didn’t fit into the medicine cabinet, or in the wardrobe, there was no space for you.
And so, they’d leave, each time with heads low, or screaming or crying or saying nothing at all. And Braden would just stand inside the door, peering out, making sure the trash was collected. Nothing was permanent there, although he seemed to long for it. And he would stand there looking out at the street, half expecting something to happen, knowing he could do nothing to break his own cycle. It would only be days until another one would be lured there under the same pretenses…and dismissed of in the same manner. Braden’s disposable boys. Like remaindered books and retail sale racks…damaged goods.
Daniel would see them, too. He lived at the opposite end of the rowhouse with his wife, Jeanine. As they would go through the mundane routine of their lives together, Daniel would notice the boys. He’d noticed Braden, too. He’d noticed and he’d wondered secretly…