Work Text:
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.
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… are the fingers touching my neck really too cold, or am I imagining?
It is better not to think. Don't think at all.
Why am I thinking now?
Why do I want to watch, carefully, through eyelashes tinted with mascara, look through the shadow, blur, haze, defocus... Just see the silhouette behind. Because there is a mirror in front, which means that this piece of glass with dusting, capable of reflecting all the photons that hit it, also contains someone else's reflection.
I want to watch, but I'm afraid. I'm only afraid of one thing, because if I see what I'm afraid of... I'll break down, honestly, for good.
It's better not to know, but the fingers slide a little lower, under the collar of the shirt in front, touching the Adam's apple, catching the button...
I open my eyes reflexively. I see the reflection of the boy behind me. He looks unfamiliar, and it's easier. Much easier than it was once before, when the face was recognizable. Some situational acquaintance, somewhere in the past, but whatever…
I see someone unbuttoning my plaid shirt, but I don't know who is doing it.
Definitely.
It doesn't matter.
Better not to think.
Because my body reacts to the touch to the skin, which is still covered with the fabric of the longsleeve, and I lean my head back, sigh humiliatingly lustfully. It’s so… quick…
This addiction is the most terrible.
They, he, one of them (it doesn't matter) figured it out, I guess. This is worse than the chemistry that is poured into me constantly, without which it is already difficult, almost impossible, for me to feel well.
Not sure when it started. From the first show? Before?
Complexity.
I am lost in memories, drawn in by the foggy gloom of a longing for closeness. I hate myself for it, did I mention? The kind of weakness that I would call the most terrifying.
The most humiliating.
Do they know about it? Which one of them? Do they, or one of them, just want me? Uncontrollably, greedily, biting my ear…
It gives goosebumps, I bite my lip, dissolving in weaknesses, in listlessness...
The gaze pulls to look at the reflection again.
The classic mirror of the dressing room, framed with neon lamps... There is a cold glare in my eyes. I look the way I feel - dead.
But, unfortunately, this is not true.
They always take the best. The most beautiful. This guy… Who was he when he was alive? What did he dream about?Where are he now? Imprisoned in a glass bulb?
The freckles suits him, was, or...(???)
It doesn't matter, his hands touch my body, pulling the fabric. I touch his hands with my own, dig in with my fingers, guide down…
I would unbuckle the belt myself, but I want to be undressed. The illusion of need, redirecting one's desire to another, to someone...
Please don't think, it's so simple... It's as simple as forgetting my name, giving it up, but I have nothing to replace it with.
Don’t mention
Don't mention him
(the one who renounced his name)
.
Do not think about anything beyond the feeling of arousal, the body's reaction to the way someone else's lips touch your neck, kiss it, disgustingly-pleasantly wet.
I will kill them. I will kill them all. Because, if not - I’ll do it to myself.
I will not be able to live with this, to exist, after what I have experienced, I only hope that I can survive it now.
The clack of a belt buckle. I'm afraid that sound will startle a shadow that shouldn't be in this room. I hope, really hope, that he really isn't there.
That he won't see it, that he haven't seen it...
I don't know, I'm not sure… Maybe it happened before? In those times that were erased from my memory? But he remembers. Tyler remembers everything, he knows more about me than I do... But please, don't let he see this now, I beg you.
Because I beg them to touch me, in a low voice, hoarse, broken. I've been singing a lot, and now it's like… A reward for my efforts?
If I think about it that way, it will be easier for me. Not so ashamed of how lustful, wet, addicted to the movements of someone else's hand I am...
I throw my head back, lean forward with my hips, breathe hard, stifle a groan...
Uncontrollable, high, addictive...
I don't want to hear it. I want to run away from this, close my mouth... I lean in for a kiss, I find it, I dissolve in the touch of my lips to the dead...
It doesn't matter.
It
Pleasant
This brings me to the limit, beyond everything is slowed down, stretched out, I cum on my thighs, on the floor...
The end
Everything else will end soon too,
there will be no foreign, close, comprehensible presence next to me, which I lack, because the one I want to see next to me, who I see next to me, because I am weak, in whose name I am confused, because the image is chromatically assembled, generalized, I need it...
But I can't touch him. It annoys, it pleases, it means that he... he is alive, somewhere out there, his body is not used, I just imagine him, partially idealize him, and I am not ashamed of this weakness.
"Hug me”, I ask, begging.
I hope he won't hear this, won't see how strange hands wrap around my exhausted body, that there is no shadow on the periphery of my vision, that all this seems to me...
Is this all part of our plan? Is it all temporary? Am I sure to take revenge for all this?
I would like to believe.
I'm being fucked, and it's only through the efforts of practiced derealization and life-saving drug intoxication that I avoid the word "rape" ringing in my head.
just missed it, but…
not
important
I won't open my eyes. I do not want to see in the reflection of empty dead strangers the hideous reflection of enslavement. Is that… yellow, too? Do they know I can see colours?
It doesn't matter.
I will not open my eyes. The footsteps will subside, I will be staying alone, for a while. They will come for me. They will bring me back to normal condition, as far as possible, help me to take a shower.
I will get new, clean clothes. And also – a new dose of the synthesized substance.
.
because
I’m not allowed
to sleep
.
