This is a wee little fic cooked up in the early hours of the morning. It's a dedication to my favourite thing to watch, read and listening to; mindfuck. It's a dedication to films such as 'Fight Club' and 'American Psycho', and internet stories such as 'Schadenfreude', and virtually unheard bands like 'Hednoize (Psykosonik)'. It's about madness, sex, drugs, alcohol, abuse, Stolkholm syndrome, insanity, self-harm, and more disorders than you could shake a stick at. The writing is disorganised, disorientated, choppy, repetitive and vague for a reason. It's taken from the drug-and-alcohol drowned, fucked-up mind of a certain individual in some AU I made up. I reccommend to watch, read or listen to the tracks that inspired me while you read. It'll fuck with your head and might just put you into the right mindset to sit right where Ludwig is, and understand what the fuck is going on. Me? I'm perfectly, boringly sober when I wrote this, as always in my life. If you can pick up on the last track, dotted with lyrics at the end of the story, cookie for you. You like cookies, dont you, Americans like cookies right?
Enjoy!
It dull, rippling, curling around his body like chocolate smoke. Rich and wisping but thick through his veins.
A clink of glass as the small crystal container is touched back to the wooden desk.
His head feels thick and full of cotton, cotton steal, weighing it down. Tresses are free from their gel cage, a few of them, dangling, now and then lining a few parts of his vision. His head lolls up and stares with halflidded eyes.
The house is riddled with glass. The mirrors have been smashed in. His knuckles are burning far, far away, and smell of brandy. There's blood on the glass and on the wood, on his cheeks where he kneaded. The carpets and lumber flooring littered, littered, with shards; jagged and perfect. Something he would use. Something He would use.
Heinrich's in the mirrors, his chest rumbling in an animal sort of pur. He is an animal. A beast. A monster. The blonde had pined at the reflective glass, fingering into the barrier that seemed to segregate them. He smashed it, tried to free them. Heinrich hid away onto the next one.
He heard his laughter when he tried to sleep, whispers in his head past the hush of the shower. Fingers raked like ghosts down his back and along his ear cartilage, lips at his, but never there. Whenever he masturbated it was loud and he could feel Him, joining it, only when he kept his eyes closed. Only when he used assistance.
He had a small bag of expensive pills in his bedside table, which he dissolved on his tongue as he tugged at himself, his heart beating savagely at his ribcage and prompting Him to help him finish. He cried and shouted and was soothed only by Him in the darkest of nights, when it was quiet, and he was alone.
He chased Heinrich through the corridors, broke the mirrors. Wrenched off the doorhandles, through one through a window. Went back to bed and suffered a half dream, half hallucination of Heinrich bringing back any sensation, something. He hated being hurt, despised it, but wanted it so thoroughly now. The welts had healed and he hated himself for it.
He tried to induce it to himself, tried to stay sober and so surreptitious shopping for unconventional items. Tried to recreate some of the situations his very innards pined for. But the pain and the fleshwounds were controlled and predictable, and he could stop it whenever he wanted. It wasn't the same, and the guilt was immense.
That's when he went to the bottle.
Alcohol and drugs mixed awfully the first few times, causing him to be hideously sick into the toilet. Still did now and then, ruining the illusion. The illusion only seemed to be when he was sober.
Anything stronger than beer was preferred. It hurt more going down, churned up his organs. There was no enjoyment in something that attacked your throat and kicked your stomach, and it was a necessary sensation. The sharpness on his tongue complimented the panicked heartbeat and the lethargy in his blood.
He went to the desk. It was littered with mirror shards and pills and empty bottles and old glasses and a loaded Luger. He'd lean back in his chair and sink into hysteria and euphoria all at once. Occasionally too much alcohol made him sweat profusely and drive him into raw panic, he screamed a bit because no one was there to sooth his frantic terror when the walls started to melt and Heinrich was replaced by jagged figures attacking his eyes. But when he got the balance right he was hot and he felt Heinrich caressing his jaw and any pain blossomed like pleasure behind his eyes. He'd submit to it because this was Himmel and Heinrich was stuffed the nozzle of the gun down his throat and he felt it getting cocked and He could kill him anytime he liked. The metal ached his jaw and he kept his eyes closed, obediently let Heinrich grip the trigger and there was a resounded click that rattled his skull.
It was always loaded though.
He didn't care if Heinrich mashed it to his skull and dug away at the skin because that was what he deserved.
Some times he wouldn't see sunlight for days because Heinrich would bind him somewhere, suffocate his senses with cigarette smoke, alcohol and a leather finger pressing some unstable, black market hallucinogen onto his tongue. He'd cry and scream and sleep and doze under the attentive touches of Heinrich. There were adoring and brutal and Ludwig approved. His murmurs echoed through his head like moths whispering about his mind, fluttering in his ears and laying eggs. That made him shake uncontrollably, not wanting insects to lay eggs under his skin, on his skin, it was rotten. Heinrich promised to cut off his ears if that ever happened, and Ludwig sobbed in thanks.
Voices and sensations thrumming through his body, shivering like his eardrums and making him shake. Ever fibre was unsafe from this unearthly invasion and violation, something he had always been familiar with in other shapes and forms. Beats irregular to his heartbeats and his fists and His fists, a clock and a rhythm ticking out of time, out of beat with the gun trigger. His skeleton shook with pressed rumbling, rattling his fibres and muscles, gasps and an explosion of pain and euphoria, and he sobbed.
By day when Heinrich was rarely there Ludwig tried to stay intoxicated in any means possible. His money went into feeding the black serpent that vomited out drugs for his eager hands, he had to remember to eat less he black out or slip into a coma. He ran his hands over every scale and knot, dug his nails into any healing scabs compulsively to rake them away and bother the wound. The bumps his fingerpads ran over swept relief and peace through his body with every caress, making the food taste less like ash. Bothering a wood to the point of good bleeding made his senses feel less drowned from the world, made everything feel like a raw nerve and his eyes were out of his head he could see so clearly.
By evening Heinrich was back in his head and his body and sucking away any clean air, leeching at his perpetual boredom with everything that didn't involve Him.
Heinrich seemed to ask him a lot of things with a predators smile, edges that crept up into his ears and eyes that betrayed a cruelty. Ludwig often didn't hear them over the drumming of his own heart or the noises coming out of his mouth, but most of the time Heinrich looked pleased Ludwig wasn't interested, was too far gone. That he wasn't concerned with _ or how _ was, or what he thought of the _. They didn't exist anymore.
So imagine his surprise when _ turned up at his doorstep, _, sweet _, his name…._, flowed right off the tongue. His big brown eyes were full of horror and terror and all kinds of emotions Ludwig had seen before but not so saturated on another living, solid beings face for a long time. He simply stood in the doorway, wondering what possessed him to open it, zoning out from the crying and the questions and the pointing at his scars and the dark under his eyes and how thin he'd gotten. This small figure rattled off and tugged at his arm but even after starvation he was immovable by such a slight male. His eyes finally found the persons face again, Ludwig's head throbbing as he watched _ pleading for someone to come help over the phone. He grimaced, gripping his temple, at the noise and a sudden dizziness.
Before the boy could protest he violently slammed the door shut and fled back into the house. He went back to the cabinet beside his bed and swallowed down some more pills with a mouthful of icey water that made him choke. He waited for his skin to feel zipped with electricity, staring at his feet where he stood in a pile of shattered glass, admiring how they cut into his soles and saw his demented reflections staring emptily back.
For a little while he went to go sit at his desk and mouth at the neck of one of his bottles of alcohol, panting into it to create fog on the glasses, willing Heinrich to come home. Nail him to a wall so no one would find him or bother them again. To drown out all the feelings.
It was there, at the desk, mashing the Luger into his femoral artery, was when the ambulance people came inside the room. He watched vaguely as they put their hands up and moved forward, _ calling the police next. He stopped grinding the little metal ring into his inner thigh, and lifted it up and pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The person hit the floor and a spray of blood spat across his wall. There were screams.
It was always loaded.
The gun made a harmless click, and the two ambulance people simply removed it from his slack grasp, his line of sight lazy and slow.
They urged him to his feet and he was guided out of the home, staggering, the sunlight lancing pain through his eyesockets and he adjusted, blinking, not caring _ was to his left crying 'Germany, Germany' and asking if he was ok. He looked to his right, seeing his neighbours, bespectacled and hair flowered, staring anxiously after him. Eyes were widened at his condition. His eyes were squinted in the sun and he looked away as he was packed into the ambulance. He sat down and let all manners of things be administered, brooding and feeling lightheaded and lightbodied as things entered his system, clearing the smoke from his blood and instead filling it with sterilized, numbing cotton.
A track played on the radio, light drums, ironic lyrics. He listened to the person sing of his mind swimming out in the ocean, hiding behind the rock, squabbling at the end of his sentences. A rare feeling of delight, and he smiled, innards filled with excited butterflies, and he chuckled, tapping his foot and letting himself drown in the song as the van rattled.
He hummed the chorus as he was walked around, earning glances.
They did tests. Ludwig wasn't sure. He was so very far away. Feet in the hair and head on the ground, humming the lyrics to himself. Too far away to care.
Extended, brutal drug abuse. Alcohol abuse. Self abuse. Delusions.
Apparantly Ludwig was suffering. He simply squinted at the professionals as they listed off rehabilitation, counselling, therapy. He was a danger to himself. It was always loaded.
He was intoxicated with new drugs that took away the feeling and his energy, and he felt him rot away in the hospital bed. Heinrich was probably waiting at home for him. He looked around and was sure everyone but him was raving mad. The others came to visit him, old foes and old friends. They all had a look of regret and pity. They all asked if he was ok. They all brought gifts, all were sombre, all quietly left with backward glances.
His eyes slipped closed and craved his drugs and His touch and the melting walls because He would hear his screams and sooth him.
He got up and murdered everyone in the hospital. He left with the gown on his back, blood up the walls and dead people everywhere.
He went home and combed back his tresses messily, sat in his desk, drank down the icy water and the unfound pills under a floorboard, before going to his bed. He woke up to Heinrich in the middle of the night gripping his head and knelt over him. Ludwig sobbed inside but he just smiled, listening to the chuckle praises, the thrumming in his bones, the echoes, the wet fwip of metal into flesh and the Luger pressed into his jaw.
The bed smelt of the hospital.
It was always loaded.
Bang.
That little click, breath on his cheek, tears, laughing, laughing, gripping at Heinrich, all alone, beep beep.
Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it, and you'll ask yourself-
_ _ _ _?