Notes: Oh my god, I'm so depressed. Sort of. Sort of depressed/hyperactive. Wheeeee. Title of this chapter is from Linkin' Park's "In The End". I think I swore that I'd never like them at some point in my life… oh well. I lied. So there…
Thank you to all who read and all who review especially. It helps me get my ass in gear.
I Had To Fall To Lose It All (And In The End It Doesn't Matter)
He fell asleep in my arms. I honestly didn't think that happened outside of Harlequin romance novels and sappy made-for-tv movies. But he did, head nestled in the crook of my shoulder. I could hear him breathe and sigh as he dozed, the bodily exhaustion finally catching up with him. As I lay back, slowly adjusting his limp arms and legs for our maximum comfort, I wondered how long it would be until withdrawal caught up with him. How long until his arms were rough with goosebumps and his skin clammy with a cold sweat? How long until he was crouched over the toilet, frantically trying to vomit with nothing in his stomach?
I remember reading somewhere that the affects of withdrawal from heroin abuse are worse than the affects of the abuse itself. How ironic. How bitterly, bitterly ironic. How fucking sickening and ironic. Maybe things would have been ok if we'd kept him on the heroin, just a little bit a day, enough to calm him down. Enough to survive until he died. And then maybe we could have died together, like brothers.
Such a romantic dream. I never knew how much of a sap I could really be, until I decided that I was in love with Pietro. Suddenly I was filled with these silly, little girl visions of kittens and babies and white weddings. Happiness. But, deep inside, I also wanted gothic castles, vampires, blood, and erotica. Literary romanticism. I think there's a little part in all of us that wants mystery and bad things, that wants to be unhappy because it's dramatic.
I used to have rape fantasies and dreams. I never told anyone; it was too strange. Not until they dangled it over my head like blackmail. Like torture. Here was this horrible act that was supposed to strip you of your humanity… and I was getting off on it? I imagined the pain and I liked it. I imagined being naked and beaten. I imagined the anal penetration. I imagined being pushed to my knees, having my mouth pried open by huge, hairy hands, and having some guy's cock forced down my throat. And I enjoyed it. Hell, I even masturbated to that thought, occasionally.
Until I saw what it had done to Pietro. He had lived it; what right did I have to find rape appealing or sexually arousing? He hated that part of himself so much… it made me pity him. It made me wonder what had actually happened. No, he never wanted to talk about it. Never did talk about it. Maybe he thought it was his fault? And in a way it really was. I guess the pamphlets always scream in great, huge letters "IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT!", but I don't think that was really true for him. After all, he'd been the one putting himself into the dangerous places. And he knew they were dangerous.
It was all his fault. If he had wanted to place blame, I think he'd have great difficulty finding a scapegoat. And we always want scapegoats don't we? We always want someone to take the responsibility for something that we should be able to. We want to point fingers. We want lawsuits, shouting matches, and cold silences. We always want justice for the bad things that happen.
The funny thing is, he was so right. "Sometimes things happen. It's nobody's fault, really, but things go wrong…" Yes. What a mature way to put it. So mature, and yet so naïve. A normal person would have tried to blame someone else, but he just took it all onto his shoulders. No comment. Or maybe he really thought that no one was at fault for his rape. It was so hard to tell.
No. No… it wasn't all his fault. It was his fault for putting himself in the situations he did. But… but, he didn't want it. He didn't ask for it. They didn't have to touch him. They could have stopped if he'd said 'no'. Couldn't they?
I can't think about it. Are there really people out there who would ignore someone pleading with them, shouting, kicking, biting, crying? Are there people heartless enough to laugh and say 'fuck you'? It hurts to believe that. It hurts to think that they could have stopped and didn't.
The counselors later told me that my rape fantasies stemmed from repressed sexual abuse I'd suffered at the hands of my foster father. I didn't want to believe it. I don't know if I do believe it. Maybe they say that to everyone. Maybe it's just another way to divvy up the blame. They kept talking about blackouts, hypnosis, talking in my sleep. But I really suspect they couldn't prove it. Hell, they even said it might have contributed to the shape of my homosexuality.
Isn't that funny?
I'm not laughing though.
It hurts to think about that too.
I held him and watched him sleep. Sometimes I think that, subconsciously, I was actually watching over him. Protecting him. The world… the world is so big, you know. And he was so small. I felt like maybe that was what he really needed was someone to take care of him and protect him. And I could do that. I could be big, I could be strong, I could stop the bad things if they came. I knew I could. And I knew we could get rid of the drugs.
And I knew things would be ok, eventually.
Late afternoon, Todd came knocking timidly on the door. He said he and the others had heard yelling earlier and were concerned about us. I assured him that everything was fine; he left reluctantly.
People often underestimate poor Todd's intelligence. He's quite observant, beady little toad-eyes taking notes on the entire world. I know he knew something was wrong. I also suspected that he knew Pietro and I had gone beyond friendship; or, if he hadn't before, seeing us curled together on my bed must have raised suspicions. But he was observant, not mean. I doubt he said anything to worry Freddy and Tabby when he went back downstairs. And I know he didn't tell them that my lips had been brushing Pietro's forehead when he'd entered with minimal warning, or that one of Pietro's thighs was nestled between my own, his ankle curved around mine. Todd's just not that kind of person.
Sometime just after sunset, Pietro woke up, shaking from head to toe. Within minutes he was in the bathroom. I could hear him gagging. With an infinite amount of calm, I went down to the kitchen, found the phone book, found the number of the nearest free clinic, and called for an appointment the next day.
Then I went back upstairs and into the bathroom where Pietro was kneeling on the tile floor and gripping the sides of the toilet with white knuckles. A cool sweat had broken out on his forehead; his skin was deathly cold and clammy as I brushed my palm over his pale face. He looked up with wild eyes that begged me to end this torture. "I know," I whispered, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and placing my hand on his back. I could feel the bumps of his spine. "I know."
With no warning at all, his entire chest heaved beneath my hand. I felt every muscle tense and clench; I felt the sharp kicks within his body as his stomach attempted to regurgitate its contents. It was startling and painful to watch as his throat spasmed and tears dripped from the eyes he had clenched shut down to his open mouth. I swallowed my own fear and rubbed his back, trying to ease the pain of the vomiting slightly.
When he had finished, leaving the toilet painfully empty once again, I embraced him. He was sobbing hoarsely, every noise that left his mouth sounding oddly like the bark of a dying seal.
I rocked him gently, back and forth, back and forth, and wished frantically that I could absorb his pain. His muscles were twitching, one of his legs was kicking involuntarily at the floor. It was so painful to watch, to feel. And he was so small… so small.
And I couldn't protect him. I could protect him from the outside, but not from the inside.
"Just hold on," I hissed into his ear as he clutched at my shoulders with claw-like fingers, "Hold on until tomorrow. It'll get better."
"I promise it'll get better."