If you are walking down the street in a certain district of LA, as you might be, depending on what kind of person you are, you will see a distinct group of people.

You will see them standing in groups of four or five, or getting out of a car, or walking off with a person they hope never to see again.

And then, on the corner, bathed in the light of a flickering street lamp, you will see Joshua.

Joshua is the ruler of these people. Joshua is the duke of this district, the prince of those who sell themselves to strangers on the street.

Joshua is the king of the night.

And if you look into his eyes- his fiery blue eyes- you will not see a person. You will not see a heart, you will not see a soul.

You will only see his kingdom.

You will only see the night.

He leans against the side of the building and his blue eyes are cold, detached. He flicks his cigarette and watches the embers drift into the air and fade.

He smiles and his lips are dark red and the smile is as distant and remote as the rest of him.

He is painfully beautiful. He is lean and muscled and his stomach muscles are rigid through his mesh shirt. His features are chiseled and elegant and his eyelashes are long and curled and his skin is lit green by the streetlight. He is tall, and his hands are graceful and his arms have no scars on them. His eyes are intensely empty.

They whisper about him behind his back. They say he is not human any longer. They say he is a machine.

They say he does not have emotions.

And that is why they’re afraid of him.

His voice is soft, smooth, musical. Some say it is the most beautiful part of him. Some say that if he didn’t smoke, he could have been a singer.

He sits alone at night sometimes and writes, his pen scratching on paper or, if he can’t find paper, the floor of his apartment. The floor is covered with his chaotic poetry that weaves images of blood and stars and glitzy fairies whose wings have been torn off.

The walls of the living room have been turned into a canvas and on them he paints fallen angels and strangers on the street and the thirteen-year-old whore who had overdosed on heroin the week before.

And the bathroom walls are covered with newspaper articles that speak of rape and murder and drugs and show pictures of missing children and serial killers and hate crime victims.

And on his bedroom wall in black paint are the words, “I was not always as I am.”

He grinds the cigarette beneath his polished shoe and catches one of the others smirking at him.

“What?” He asks quietly.

The man shrugs. “You think you’re so high and mighty. You act like you own the universe.”

He smiles, laughs a little. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

The man shrugs again.

“You’ll learn.” He takes a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it, and begins to walk away. “You’ll learn.”

There is a picture in a frame on his nightstand.

It is a picture of a smiling boy with soulful blue eyes and brown hair that sticks out in all directions and he looks like the happiest boy in the world.

If someone saw that picture, they would smile and comment on how cute it is. They would think, that boy is going to grow up and be successful and he will never lose that smile, that smile that lights up his entire face and makes everything around him that much more cheerful.

They would say, this boy is beautiful. This boy is real. This boy will never be unhappy.

If you are walking down that certain street in that certain district, as you might be, you will see Joshua.

And you might want to talk to him, might want to talk to this ethereal and glaringly beautiful creature of the streets.

You will talk to him and hear his musical voice and think that the world is missing out on a singer and a person because just in these few sentences you can tell he is cultured and educated.

You look into his eyes and are saddened by the emptiness. You have seen this haunted look before, but you can’t remember where.

Then you remember that he reminds you of you.

You might ask him why he is here, on the streets, why he sells himself to strangers, why he thinks he is only worth what they will pay for him, why his eyes reflect the night.

And he will answer, because this is who I am.

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