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Beta'd by Erin.

"Slide" (said the little penguin.) - Part 8/11: "fluorescent"

by Ralu

(Days and nights and days becoming nights and nights flashing white - the clearest, most depressing white... Countless hours of unchanging, untouchable colors. Slow flowing, unstoppable, fluorescent baths of light - blinding dead-white gazes.)


Okay. Sooo... Lockdown - day eight, or nine; or maybe seven. Who the fuck's counting? Days and nights caught into something resembling a neon vortex spinning waaay too slow...it almost seems like time stands still sometimes. Those times when you think you can't take it anymore; the times when you're close to plunging yourself head on into that dizzy, nerve-wracking, fucking *exhilarating* need to BREAK everything - starting with yourself, finishing with the walls of this fucking rathole.

Sure, time dissolves also when you're asleep; strangely enough, dreamless sleep - probably only normal since you're locked down in a small box with nothing to do all day, having the natural ingredient of prison life - fear - roughly taken away from you and placed in the refrigerator...for the time being. No wonder I wanna sleep the fucking lockdown away!...

Then again - time explodes into small, sparkling, breathtaking particles of stolen pleasure; okay, maybe 'pleasure' is not exactly the most appropriate term to use, given the circumstances, but getting off never EVER held so much power, so much need until NOW. Something which - looking beyond the momentary orgasmic thrill of having your podmate fingering you to death - is kind of...SCARY, truth be told.

'Cause - if *finally* getting into my high school sweetheart's panties, or having Gen fucking my lights OUT during that alcohol-extended honeymoon in Paris, doubled by countless Harvard-related more or less dubious female encounters - if *that* doesn't TOP *this*, then...there really IS a *very* serious reason to be freaked out.

Do I want to... Hell! *Want* to?!... Do I fuck Chris because he's Chris? As in - sex-on-a-stick Chris; as in *I'm gonna make you come so hard you'll be SCREAMING my name like a bitch in heat* Chris? As in...*I LOVE you; look at me, look into my eyes, fucking LOOK AT ME when I'm doing this to you* Chris?!... Would I be doing it with any other guy smart enough to know...what there is to know? About myself...

See? THAT's what I'm talking about. Scary, huh? Scary enough for *me*.

Like splitting into two separated sides of reality; two separated, completely incompatible sides of Tobias *Toby* Beecher: the *sort of* responsible (ex) lawyer and father and...husband (--'Widower, Toby; *widower*.'--), and...THIS. Whatever THIS is. And the REALLY weird thing is that it all seems so natural, so real. With Chris beside me - my sober, conscious choice. (Whatever THIS is.) Barely recognizable to my own parents, the people who made me, the people who (should) know me. My own flesh and blood. Have I changed this much? Have I drifted this far?... Drifted from WHAT exactly? 'Cause I sure as hell didn't know where I stood *before* either. Just like I don't have a clue *now*. The difference lays probably in the fact that I DO take full responsibility NOW for where I am. And with who I am. More sober than ever.

And...sobriety - in this goddamn Plexiglas cage - would be certain DEATH without Keller. The fastest way towards relapse. Which makes Chris...what? (--'Kind of... Okay, yeah.'--) But at least Chris is flesh and blood and skin and hot, moist breath; Chris is really funny jokes and long fluorescent hours drowned in hilariously easy chess games. An arm around my shoulder, strong body pressing against mine; smooth, caressing, comforting voice brushing all over me like the nicest, most intimate flow of... Chris is HERE. And - as fucked up as it might sound - he feels *safe*. Giving me all I need - for now.


("Is she weird, is she white, is she promised to the night and her head has no room...")


Yeah... Oh, yeah! This feels nice; nicest. Fucking MINDBLOWING!... Don't ask me how I've ended up like this, I don't have a clue.

That small shred of self control (never had much of it before, to tell you the truth), all the carefully mastered skills of bullshitting people into giving me what I wanted; that *find-get-HAVE-get-rid-of* pattern that has been my life so far - all thrown away for this rich, cushy Harvard lawyer brat/freakish stone-cold scheming monster/insecure, soft, *ALL*-self-doubting twisted little walking contradiction.

*Congratulations*, Chrissie! You've finally found yourself that 'better half' you we're looking for... Hah! In the shape of a (presumably) backstabbing, nasty individual who can fuck -- hey, hey... Wait! Who *constantly* FUCKS with your mind a whole lot more than Angie and Kitty and that two-timing Bonnie ever did. You've finally met your match, Chris.

Except that...(--he's not.) Not exactly. Not in all those shitty, horrible ways you yourself would wanna erase completely from your memory, from yourself. All those things that make you who you are - whether you like it or not. All that separates you from him. That which you love about Tobe in the first place.

But...ugly aspects or NOT; who the fuck cares? Beecher doesn't know about that; he never will. So...it's like they don't even exist, most of the time. Best way to keep yourself TO yourself - bad things have to stay buried deep down underneath thick layers of bullshit. Maybe that way...(--they'll eventually disappear.) Like NOTHING ever happened. No use in digging them up; Sister Pete should know better.

And Beecher - staring at me with that short-sighted gaze of his enhanced by the pod's razor-sharp white light, crystal blue gradually flushed by an unmistakable, pulsating warmth - Toby smiles that little half-shy/half-doubtful smile of his. Bare feet swinging over the edge of his bunk, landing on the floor with a quiet *thud* - one, two small steps and everything FINALLY makes sense. For once. Both of us giving as much as we're capable of; as much as it is *earthly* possible, at this particular time. Whispering inside my mouth, giving himself; taking me whole.

I can't stop myself; I DON'T wanna stop myself. I just... (--'Yeah, that's it.'--)

Sense and NONsense - nauseatingly sweet. Painfully real.


(And then darkness and light collide for a small second, the brief, seductive thrill of unconsciousness... Give me more, so I can pass out and forget everything.)

---end of part 8/11---

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