What's there to say... I got really touched by a script, couldn't sleep and wrote this to get it out of my skull. I kind of liked it. Not much else to mention about it, I guess.
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One more tear runs down his cheek as he lies gasping on the floor. Did it happen? He can't believe it actually happened. It happened? It was over no more than minutes ago, already it feels distant, feels too much like a fantasy, a nightmare, a false memory, and nothing more.
But the wounds, the pain, the tears, the shame. It's unquestionable evidence.
It happened and he hadn't stopped it. Had he been too weak? Too slow? Too trusting? Hadn't he tried hard enough? Had he deserved it? Wanted it? He had gotten it. Was that the only answer needed? Don't care about why, the point is, you got it.
The stuffed air in the room smells of blood, sweat, dust and rot. The stench is becoming much easier to handle with every passing minute, the thought of being able to getting used to a smell like that is disturbing.
The blood seems to be everywhere. The floor is stained with it. A few large splotches, already cooling, already drying, yet in his eyes it covers the walls, it's splattered over the ceiling, it drips from his fingers as he raises a hand to dry the tears from his eyes. There are more bleeding wounds in his mind than on his body, but they are no less real.
No less bleeding.
He rolls over onto his back with a grunt of pain. The tears run down and are soaked up by his hair. He doesn't cry, the tears just won't stop running. Let them. What does it matter if he can't stop them now? It seems he can't stop anything.
Can't stop anyone!
Fury. Fury, Fury, Fury! Why all these new emotions?
He can still feel the fingers tracing over his skin, just almost caressing him.
The laughter.
With every single thing he had said, had screamed, had begged, Fury had laughed.
The cuts.
Fury had a fascination for knives, for sharp steel, and how many ways you could hurt someone with the right movement at the right moment.
The movements.
Always too fast, too hard, too rough, too teasing, too intense, too much. Too much everything.
The sensations.
Done Fury's way, everything means incredible pain, incredible pleasure. Fury could make him believe that heaven is hell.
The eyes.
Cold eyes, warm lips. They remind him of suicide notes no one has written yet. Where did that thought come from?
The smiles.
Always smirking. As if life is a joke and Fury is the only one to get it. Is he? Who knows more of life than the dead?
The torture.
He had been taught over and over that there is more than one kind of torture.
The emotions.
He can't explain it. He can't understand it. He doesn't want them, yet they are there, undeniable.
The tastes.
He had licked his own fresh blood off a cold knife. He had tasted sweat on his lips after brushing them over Fury's pale skin, not daring to kiss Fury's lips without being told to. He had licked Fury's defiled fingers clean of blood, sweat and cum, and been told to describe how much he liked it.
He forces himself up on his knees, feeling his innards revolting. A sour taste in his mouth is all that happens. The pain feels dull, throbbing, distant. His entire body is numb again.
Again? Why that word? Had Fury done this before? Fury had done this before. It wasn't the first time. It keeps happening.
Again. Again, again, againagainagainAGAIN!
He forces himself to get dressed. He entertains the thought of going out like he is. Naked, bruised, filthy, defiled, and let everyone see what has been done to him, what he is forced to go through.
Why not? Why not? Not his fault, so why not?
He continues to dress himself. He has to clench his teeth together so he won't scream. The humiliation feels like it's crawling inside of him. It wants to be seen. It wants everyone to know.
Humiliation. What had he done? What had Fury made him do again?
He had gasped for air, begged, cried, screamed (waitwhyamineverheard?), struggled, touched, twisted, licked, threatened, enjoyed, hated, loved, fought, winced, moaned.
Begged.
Begged for mercy, for pleasure, for Fury to stop, for release, for forgiveness, for revenge, for change, for reconsideration, for an end. Begged for anything he could think of. Fury liked it when he begged.
Death? Had be begged to be killed?
Just being alive with Fury in his life was begging to be killed. He didn't have to do anything. The fact that he is alive is a crime, yet he is never killed.
Why all these new emotions! Why did Fury do this to him, to them? He could see it. There was something new in Fury's eyes that frightened even that snake.
Why the lust? Why did he have to keep doing it, again and again without stop?
Why this obsession?
Just pain, over and over. Is it so? Fury can't kill him?
He is fully dressed. His shirt misses most its buttons, the gap revealing the many small cuts, fresh or not. Everywhere.
His hair is a mess, he has no mirror. He turns to the door, hesitates.
Fury left only minutes ago. Can he go out? Is Fury out there? Why would he be? Fury is finished with him, for this time.
He stops again, remembers. He can't let anyone see he is suffering. Not everyone should think him weak.
He isn't weak. He survives. Whatever he is forces to endure these nights, he can hide behind smiles the next day. He will survive everything. He takes a couple of staggering steps, gasping in pain.
Strangers will see a drunk. Friends are always far away.
Far, far, further away. They can't see him. They mustn't see him. They would see weakness, perversion, crime, betrayal.
Because that's what it is. Below all the new emotions, that's what it is. They both know it, do it, love it, hate it, enjoy it, endure it.
Who does what?
The keys are in his pocket. His car is right outside. Get out, get in, get home. He can handle the pain. The friends are far away. He is not weak.
Lei Wulong is not weak!
The door is open, and he walks.