darker_london | Sinking slowly (Flynn) (Reply)

It had happened. Flynn had reached the point where he was hungry and there was no money left to buy food if he was going to be able to pay the rent on his sad little room the next time it was due. Flynn didn't want to lose the room. It was the one thing he had left that separated him from the miserable life he had led when he was sixteen and for the six years after that, and the miserable life he led now. He needed the roof over his head to prove that he wasn't just nobody. That he had had a life and people who loved him and if he hadn't fucked up, he still would.

That old life was starting to creep in. And as resolved as Flynn was not to spent his rent money on food, the painful gnawing in his stomach was wearing his resolve thin. Flynn had looked for jobs in desperation, but no one wanted to hire someone who refused to talk about his past. Flynn even tried busking, but it was clear that his music was about as filled-with-life as he was. No one gave him anything for his trouble. Flynn had very few choices left to him if he wanted to keep his house and eat food not pulled from a dumpster somewhere.

He could sell his guitar, which was a short term fix, or he could sell himself.

He didn't belong to anyone now. Quinn had signed the papers, or so he believed. It meant that whatever he did now, he wasn't violating anyone but himself. And considering he had now murdered two people, he didn't think prostitution was really all that bad. How much more violated could he really get?

All he had to lose was himself.

Flynn stood from his chair and he grabbed his shoes so he could once again head out into downtown Liverpool, resolved.

He had to eat to live. If this was how he could eat, so be it.