FLASH FICTION FRIDAY
LADY KILL-A
Trigger Warning: Contains raw depictions of addiction, violence, and recovery

Gutter Birthday

I came to on my sixtieth, face-down in a gutter behind Piccadilly Circus. January snow was spitting on my back, my skin was numb, and my clothes were soaked.

Someone was rifling my pockets.

My eyes snapped open.
“Get lost, you thieving little shite,” I growled.

It was that Colombian street rat—thin, twitchy, always lurking. He flinched, then lashed out, booting me hard in the ribs. I wheezed, rolled, pain splitting my side. He punted me square up the arsehole and legged it, hissing over his shoulder,
“You filthy pig. You stink. You make me sick.”

He wasn’t wrong.
I’d shit myself. Piss, vomit, and shame clung to me like a second skin. The stench burned my nose.

I lay there, shaking, gagging, frost gnawing at my bones. For a second, I thought I was dead. Thought they’d already dumped me in the morgue. I coughed up a lump of bloody phlegm and spat it on my shoe. That rat had nicked off, but the damage was done.

I dragged myself up, slumped against a wall beneath a flickering neon sex sign. Piss stains, bin juice, crushed cans, used rubbers. My kingdom. The street had eaten me alive.

That’s when I saw it.
A needle stuck in my arm.

Ice shot through me. I yanked it out and hurled it in the bin. It rattled off the sides.

I’d walked out of Wormwood Scrubs six months back and swore blind that I was done. I wasn’t. I’d gone crawling straight to the Lady. Straight back to the needle. She’d buried harder men than me, and I’d let her drag me down again.

But something shifted that night.
I’d hit the last rung.

I stank. I’d shit myself. I wanted to cry, but I’d burned through all my tears years ago.

I used to box. Couldn’t read, but I could fight. Won some, lost more. But once I met the Lady, I was done. Thirty years of crawling after her. For thirty years, she ruled me.

That night, I lay there, nothing but bone, scars, and regret.

And something inside snapped.

I might’ve had twenty summers left. If I were lucky. What was I doing? Who was I waiting for? There was no one left.

There was nothing left to lose.

Dragging Myself Out
I hauled myself up, cinched my filthy coat, and limped into the freezing dark. Cars screamed past, smoke pouring from exhausts, twisting through the streetlights.

Found a piss-soaked doss house off Tottenham Court Road. The stink hit me the second I stepped in—sweat, mould, old piss baked into the walls.

Bloke behind the desk, heavy-set, boxer’s nose smashed flat, tired grey eyes. He sized me up.

I spun him some blag about sorting the money later. He folded his arms but didn’t kick me out. Maybe he saw himself in me.

“Follow me, lar,” he grunted in that Scouse drawl.

As we walked, a Thai ladyboy strutted past, caked in makeup, acne popping through the powder, gold tooth flashing. He winked.

The Scouser tossed me a key, didn’t say much else.

The room was a dump. No curtains. Windows filthy. Bed, chair, cracked toilet, battered tub. But it was mine.

Scrubbing the Streets Off
I stripped off, dumped my stinking rags on the lino. Gut-twisting, I hit the bog.

I ran the scalding hot bath and sank into it. The water turned black. I drained it and ran another.

Caught my reflection in the cracked mirror. Grey skin, ribs poking through, hollow eyes, busted brow. Old scars slashed across my face. A few teeth left, at least.

Dried off, crashed on the bed. Let the dark pull me under.

Woke hours later to the headboard banging next door. The ladyboy was busy earning his keep. I sighed, dragged the pillow over my head, and slipped back under.

Fighting for My Life
Kicking the Lady nearly killed me. I shook, I sweated, I puked till my ribs ached. Bowels emptied day and night. Bones screamed.

The cravings chewed me raw. The Lady whispered, begged me to crawl back.

But I didn’t. I held.
Two weeks of crawling through the fire. Two weeks of chewing my own fists.

When I finally stood, the Scouser came sniffing for his money. I needed graft. Fast.

Took anything. Cleaned bogs. Shifted bins. Scrubbed dishes. Didn’t matter. I worked.

Landed a part-time gig at a local gym. Rough place, cracked gloves, hard mats. Taught kids to box. Full of fight, their eyes lit something in me I thought I’d buried.

When Maria Walked In
That’s when Maria appeared.

Her boy, Hugo, trained with me. Maria lit up the room the second she walked in. Caramel skin, fierce black eyes, that soft North London lilt.

When she showed up, I glowed. When she didn’t, I sank.

She invited me round one day to cut my hair. Shaved me, cleaned me up. I barely recognised the bloke staring back.

“You look like Christian Meier,” she said, smiling. No clue who that was.

She cupped my face and stared deep into my eyes.
“I’m very interested,” she whispered.

Then she kissed me.

Her lips scorched me. Her hands steadied me. She kissed my battered knuckles and murmured,
“Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll be fine.”

I couldn’t believe someone like her could see me.

Building a Life
Maria dragged me back. She made me train. Made me eat. Taught me to read, to write. She pushed me. She saw me.

And somehow, we fell in love.

She pulled me out of the gutter. She gave me a life.

Five Years Clean
Five years. No needle. No Lady.

I’ve got a roof now. Hot food. Peace.

Hugo’s seventeen—boxing for England. Olympic squad. He’s got the fire, but he’s got something I never did. He’s got family in his corner.

So if you’re down there, face in the gutter, no way out—listen:

All things are possible if the mind is so.