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Beta'd by Erin.
"Slide" (said the little penguin.) - Part 8/11: "fluorescent"
(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.
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.
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.
(--'Yeah, that's it.'--)
Sense and NONsense - nauseatingly sweet.
(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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