Harmon Little hung his head as he stared down at the stained sheet he’d dragged across his lap. He smelled of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and sex. He hid his face to conceal the tears as the woman on the opposite side of the bed got dressed. She’d screamed when she’d awakened to find him watching her sleep. He’d started to brush her soft blonde hair from her face.

He’d just wanted to touch her. He liked touching—it made him feel like he was real. Not just a thing. Disposable and broken, that’s what he felt like after all the men and women used him. At fifteen, he didn’t know anything but the life he had lived since he’d run away. He didn’t much care for the sex. He always regretted it afterward, but the touching was nice. He’d suffer just to feel loved even if it was a lie.

The girl had wanted him last night. She’d held him close and said his name. Whispered it like he was special, but now she looked at him as if he were disgusting.

Choking back a sob, he turned his body away and attempted to hide behind the sheet he pulled up to his chest.

“Are you fucking crying? What kinda man cries like a baby?”

He flinched and tried to make himself smaller—invisible. Even as the tears quickly slipped down his cheeks, he watched her from the corner of his eye. He wanted to pull the memories of the night closer to shield himself from the disdain.

“A boy with a dick your size, shame you can’t use it. Such a fucking waste.” She spat the vile words in his direction as she hopped around while she was slipping her shoes on.

He jerked his gaze to the front and stared at the peeling paint and crumbling wall. He didn’t look at her as he listened to the click of her heels when she left his dirty room in an abandoned warehouse. He had a filthy mattress on the floor that he’d covered in trash bags. His clothes were shoved into a duffel. He’d have to scrounge change later to hit the laundry mat.

He’d considered that place home for almost two years since his last foster family called social services to come get him. He’d run before they had arrived. He didn’t mean to wear out his welcome. All he wanted was someone of his own—a family who wouldn’t throw him away.

He remembered a mom. She had hair his favorite color—yellow. Or at least he thought it was yellow. He’d sat on the floor of the social service’s waiting room drawing a picture.

The nice lady had asked his mom was she sure, he hadn’t understood until his mom had said that she hated him and didn’t want to be his mommy anymore.

The lady held him as he cried and tried to call her back, but she hadn’t even slowed down. Her heels had tapped a lot like the woman who’d just left.

He just wanted to be loved.

The men were worse because they just bent him over and fucked him. When they were done, they’d pushed him to the ground. They’d do up their pants and walk away after throwing money at him. At least the women let him have a night on occasion. He’d have to wait until they were asleep and he’d ease across the bed, slow as not to wake them up. He’d press his forehead against their arm, if he was lucky they smelled sweet and their skin would be soft. But again, it usually ended the same, a wad of money on the nightstand and forgotten as quickly as he was out of sight.

The woman who’d just left him, he’d thought she liked him. She’d smiled at him. Touched him and had even pressed her lips to his. He loved the kisses so much. He didn’t get those very often. He couldn’t remember the time before last night.

The tears started to fall again, and he angrily swiped at his cheeks. He shoved his bare feet into his unlaced boots and pushed the sheet aside. He surged to his feet and stomped over to his pack he’d hidden in the wall. He moved a piece of sheetrock to the side and pulled out his bag, and then he dug out a clean, threadbare towel and his only set of clean clothes.

There was a spigot where he could clean up, the water was cold, but he couldn’t show his face at the shelter anymore this week. Suspicion grew every time, and he couldn’t afford for them to call the cops or social services. His life was hell. Yet he didn’t want to go back only to be rejected again.

An old friend of his got himself an apartment. Sometimes they’d allow him to come by and take a shower. A real one where he didn’t have to be on a time limit. He had gone a few weeks ago, so he didn’t want to wear out his welcome.

He strode naked through the warehouse. The steps creaked and swayed a bit under his feet. He darted through the break in the wall and ran for the little enclosure he’d made. He hung his clothes on a few metal hangers he’d found, then pulled the mat down he’d cleaned and dried from hooks after his last shower. The broken hose he’d salvaged from the dump worked well enough with the old rusty bucket.

If nothing else he survived okay, but he wanted to do better than okay. He had a sliver of soap remaining, and he’d used it to wash the stench and memories away. He didn’t look at himself or let his touch linger; he didn’t want to know what they thought was so disgusting about him.

He knew he wasn’t pretty. He was too big and hairy for his age, but he thought he was nice. Maybe he wasn’t right in the head sometimes, but—he lowered his head as the tears started again. He reached for the rusty razor, drew it lightly across his wrist and wished he could do it this time.

He just wanted to know, why couldn’t someone just love him?