Before you read this, you must download "It Just Won't Quit", by Meatloaf. Don't play it. Wait till the end of the story, then listen to it all the way through.

This is not an option. This is imperative.

It Just Won't Quit

Chapter One

Girls liked Mush.

And who wouldn't? He wasn't the smartest of the pickings, nor the quickest by far. But the boy had charm. When that grin lit up his strong, well defined face, he could make the knees of any girl from Queens to Manhattan shake. His big, sad brown eyes brought out the maternal instincts that they were dying to lavish upon some lucky boy, and his quick laugh and sympathy often won the hearts of many. So why was Mush sitting alone on the roof top, no girl by his side?

His handsome face took on a burnished, golden glow as he struck a match, watching it crackle to life. As soon as the flame softened under the late night, mild wind, he pressed it against the wick of the candle, half burned, crooked, and foul in scent, but warm. Warmth that he now had. The smell of fish and oil heated into the air, and he wrinkled his nose slightly, but couldn't help smiling.

The rooftop harboured the light gently, like a secret. And it was. He paced over to the chimney and began counting down bricks from the top, brows furrowed, tongue poking out slightly from between his lips. He wished Blink was up there, he was good with numbers. But Blink was downstairs, fast asleep, blissful, as he had not been in weeks.

He hit the thirteenth brick and he smiled, slightly. Feeling through the semi darkness, he dug around it with his fingers and managed to wiggle it loose, and pull it half way out. Lying, wedged between it and the brick on top, was a smudged, greying piece of newspaper, long scrawling lines scratch over the neat print.

Mush slid it out and shoved the brick back into place, hoping the scraping wasn't waking any one up downstairs. He paused a moment, listening, but all he could hear was the far away clop of horses hooves, and the sobs of a woman in the next building.

Cautious, he crept back towards the candle and dropped, cross legged, beside it, making the flame wave gently. An orange spark leapt from the wick and dropped onto the roof, then promptly died out. Mush shouldn't have been burning the candle at all, Kloppman didn't allow fire in the lodging house. He had said as much when he caught Racetrack with a half smoked cigar in his mouth.

"What've I told you?" He had yelled, taking the cigar from his mouth and giving him a sharp smack over the head.

"Ow!" Racetrack had yelled, rubbing the back of his head ruefully.

"No fire! No cigarettes! No candles! You boys want to burn this place to the ground? You wanna go find another lodging house?"

"It was just a cigar…"

"You lissen to me! The next one a' you I see with a lit match'll be thrown outta here before you can say snap! Understood?" He had yelled in that wrinkly old voice, with the accent that sounded as though his jaw was thrust forwards a few inches more than it should have been.

Resentful of the old man's regulations, they had taken to frequenting the front steps with their cigarettes. Mush sometimes joined them, and he was always careful to put it out before he went back inside. The candle in front of him made him feel rather guilty.

I ain't exactly breaking the rules, he told himself, contrite. I'm not burning anything in the lodging house. Sighing, he averted his sight from the flame and began unfolding the paper.

It wasn't exactly an old piece of paper, but it's time wedged in between the chimney bricks had worn it down, smudging the ink and blackening the edges with soot and ash. The type had faded, and was pale enough to write over if you had a strong, dark ink. Mush let his eyes linger on the weakened type, catching a word or two here and there. Street. Brutal. Johnny. Orphan.

Quietly, taking a furtive glance around the roof top, he pulled the cork from the bottle of ink he had swiped from the front desk, cursing as the ink splashed onto his fingers. He wiped his hand on a shirt that Itey had left up there to dry over night, and set the bottle down on the cement. Then, he grabbed his battered pen, fit it comfortably between his fingers, and dipped it into the ink.

The dark, badly printed lines were hard to read, smudged with tears, rain, and soot. He brought it to his face and inhaled deeply. The dark scent of smoke swirled over his senses. The ink smelled stale and thick. It made him hungry, as though he wanted to take the night in his arms and hold it, like a lover.

If anyone else had seen the dirty, ragged piece of paper lying on the sidewalk, maybe burned by cigarette butts, maybe plastered to the cobblestone with rain, they would have written it off as a piece of trash. Even if they had stopped and deciphered the lines. But if they were able to read between the lines, they would see how many nights he had taken to scrawl down the words. How he had tirelessly collected the lines, storing them away in his mind, and painstakingly printed them out hours later. How gritty his eyes would get into the small hours of the morning. How low the candle burned and how much it smelled of fish oil. How warm his back would feel as he leaned against the chimney, heaven engulfing him in an embrace, the poem inches away from its subject. How satisfied he'd be when he finally gave it away, finally gave it to the one who he loved the most.

He laid the pen down and bit his lip. He'd never been a writer, no less a poet, had never even begun the day journal that one of the boys had stolen from Kloppman, then had given it to him. He didn't know if what he had down was any good, any worth the time of the one he wanted to give it to.

Blink wasn't his. You couldn't hold a boy in your arms and tell him you loved him like that. He'd get scared. Mush would get scared. But…he sighed and blew out the candle, too tired to read it over. But it didn't matter. He knew it off by heart.

He went over it, tracing out the words in his mind, as the stars hung above him, staring down at the sleeping city.

And I never really sleep anymore

And I always get those dangerous dreams

And I never get a minute of peace

And I gotta wonder what it means

Maybe it's nothing and I'm under the weather

Maybe it's just one of those bugs going round

Maybe I'm under a spell and it's magic

Maybe there's a witch doctor with an office in town

And there used to be such an easy way of living

And there used to be every hope in the world

And I used to get everything that I went after

But there never used to be this girl

Maybe I'm crazy and I'm losing my senses

Maybe I'm possessed by a spirit or such

Maybe I'm desperate, and I got no defences

Can you get me a prescription for that one perfect touch?

Is this a blessing?

Or is it a curse?

Can it get any better?

Does it get any worse?

Can it go on forever?

Is it over tonight?

Does it come with the darkness?

Does it bring out the light?

Is it richer than diamonds? Or just a little cheaper than spit?

I don't know what it is

I don't know what it is but it just won't quit

There was a time when nothing ever really mattered

There was a time when there was nothing I didn't know

There was a time when I knew just what I was living for

There was a time and the time was so long ago

And I never really sleep any more.