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Abbacchio stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill, searing away the ever-growing layers of damp residue forming on every surface in his dingy, cold apartment.
Being unemployed, without friends, family or pride was something he had never anticipated being faced with. Especially not so young. But there he was, his unruly white hair tangled, and knuckles bruised. There were dents in the fixtures around his house from where he'd lashed out. Bandages made of old shirts and socks to cover bloody scrapes and the cuts he'd made on his skin when he wanted to feel in the haze that was attempting to stay alive. He’d cashed in his pensions at twenty-two to afford rent for another month, and was using the food bank across the road that was in the church.
He had forgone his medication, unable to afford to renew his prescription, and had had almost all of his amenities cut off. He had no electricity, heat and was just days off having his hot water cut off. All he had was his tab at every other bar in the city, and any alcohol he could steal from off the shelves. He was faster than people gave him credit for.
All valuables had been pawned, sold or stolen for food, rent and booze. Mostly booze, and he had limited his belongings to the most essential of items, most of his shirts were now stained with bad decisions, and the ratty blanket that laid on his bed had more blood and bile on it than not.
He was wasting away, a prolonged suicide; dying in the coward’s way. He didn’t deserve an honourable demise. He couldn’t face death by overdose, just as he was too afraid of failing a genuine suicide attempt, like jumping off a bridge. At least malnutrition, mixed with alcohol poisoning was bound to work.
It was just a matter of time, and until then, he had to just carry on dragging heavy bones toward his grave.
He’d stumbled out into the slip road outside his house, his limbs buckling, struggling to hold himself up. He fell out of his doorway, breathing haggard as he attempted to swallow the bile that was crawling up his throat. The road was barely lit, the only streams of orange came from the streetlights and their limited reach. Most of the buildings shrouded the slip in darkness from its own shadow, leaving Abbacchio as a shadow in the night.
He heaved, kneeling down on the pavement, his trousers colliding with the hard concrete, knees splashing in a puddle of rainwater, congealed blood and stale piss. The smell travelled up to his nose and he struggled to keep the contents of his stomach down.
He retched as the smell consumed him, lurching forward, having to prop himself up on the wall. He retched until he was finally sick, clamping his golden brown eyes closed, and wrinkling his nose. He swallowed, hard and reached for a bottle that wasn’t there, wanting to wash the taste out of his mouth with spirits.
It was when he opened his eyes, that he realised that the limited light that entered the slip road, was being obscured by a shadowy, back-lit figure.
Abbacchio turned his head, his overgrown, long, greasy hair swishing behind him as he faced the person who was watching from the entrance to the slip. There was a trickle of spit and bile on his lip, and he swallowed hard to keep himself together. He glared with glassy eyes over at this stranger.
Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, maybe it had finally gone and stopped his heart. Perhaps his body was lying face first in the puddle of blood, vomit and piss, and he had ascended, about to be marched to purgatory to be banished to eternal damnation in Hell. This person, this man, was too godly and gorgeous to be a mortal man. A ring of golden orange light burned behind his cleanly cut jet black bob. Eyes too blue to be anything but crystals in the sockets of the heavenly. Sunkissed skin was being shown all the way past his lace-covered chest, to his midriff. He wore an open white blazer with black teardrops, and matching trousers, beneath the jacket was an intricate lace bralette, covering two defined scars across his pectoral muscles. He was toned, lean but had a defined ‘v’ line by his abdomen. Hips so small and thin Abbacchio reckoned he could cup each side of his hips in one hand. His collarbones were equally as prominent, deep enough to hold wine and drink from like a fountain. The man before him looked like a statue carved from the finest of materials. In one hand was an umbrella, being held out to the side, so he could see, and the other hand was outstretched and open.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice smooth like velvet. Chills covered Abbacchio’s body as he trembled under his gaze.
With wide, frightened eyes, Abbacchio gazed up at the kind eyed man. He had no words worth saying, his tongue in knots as he gaped at the figure of perfection in front of him. Surely a man this perfect was slumming it if he were speaking to him!
Abbacchio’s lips trembled, brows drawing together, nostrils flared. He bowed his head, waiting to be struck by the umbrella and sent to the netherworld.
Instead, the man glanced toward the open door to Abbacchio’s flat, and drew a box of matches out of his pocket, striking one on the side of the box, illuminating his face. He strode into his space, stepping over all of the mess, until he found what he was searching for. A candle, mostly a pool of wax on the sideboard beside his bed, but it still had enough in it to burn for just a bit longer. The man, lit the candle and headed back into the alley. He handed it to Abbacchio.
“My name is Bruno Buccialeti. What’s yours?”
“Abbacchio. My name’s Leone Abbacchio.”
“Nice to meet you, Abbacchio.” With one hand on the candle, he held the umbrella up over both of their heads. Together under the cover from the rain, the two men were mere inches away from each other, their eyes warm, like molten metal and jewels, being cast together to make fineries unknown, “I think you deserve a chance to make things better for yourself, don’t you?”
“No.”
Bruno didn’t hesitate, despite the raised eyebrows, he leaned just a bit closer to Abbacchio, his inky black hair just inches away from the burning flame. The wax was dripping onto his skin, he was holding it too high, above Abbacchio’s hands. But despite the searing pain he must have been in, his eyes didn’t leave the man who knelt in the puddle.
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“I don’t deserve to live.”
“Who says any of us deserve to be alive?” Bruno said, pulling away. He left the umbrella over Abbacchio, and released his hold on the candle. He stood up again, offering him a smile, “The reality is that we are here by chance and we have choices to make. We can’t always make the right ones, and sometimes, you need to redeem your mistakes with balance and change. Let’s take a leap, shall we?”
He took a few steps forward, and turned back to face him, “Come along, Abbacchio, you never know what awaits until you jump. You’re not afraid of heights are you?”
Redness burned on the paler man’s face, as he shook his head, flabbergasted. Regardless, he lifted himself up, and wobbled toward the man who was now being drenched by the assaulting rain. It was his turn to hold the umbrella over his head. The two men nodded to one another, wordless.
“Come with me,” Bruno said.
Abbacchio nodded, taking the first step.