One of them, a big burly fellow, the one who least smelled of strong alcohol, was elected to take me by the arm. And lead me into his sanctuary.

His land. His world. His haven. His hangout.

I stumble a little as he drags me without much of a care. The rest seem bored, tired, drunk.

Why did they have to do this, they seemed to say with their eyes. With their minds. But they were too clouded to think straight.

The junkyard is all open air, save for a small abandoned railcar that was left in the far corner to rot. And it became his castle of his kingdom of junk.

He. My boyfriend.

Why he is my boyfriend is quite a long story.

A story so long that I find myself lost in its whirlpool of memories, past and present.