South Park
Dip
Ungodly Addiction
Characters: Phillip 'Pip' Pirrup, Damien the Antichrist.
Rating: M for strong language, adult themes, nudity, violence, sexual… stuff… and a really crappy storyline.
Thoughts are in Italics
I have a universal Disclaimer in my Profile, so all angry mobs bearing pitchforks and torches are unnecessary.
**DIP**
Three days.
Three. Fucking. Days.
That's how long it's been since I've seen him, smelt him, touched him, heard his voice, had any contact with him whatsoever.
I can't do this.
I can not deal with this.
Damien has been gone for three days – three measly fucking days – and already I'm on edge, snappy and irritated. I'm pathetic, pining after him after so short a time. But at the moment I'm too stressed to give a shit about how I must look to everyone else – how pathetic and girly and gay I look.
Hell, I probably seem as gay as a handbag full of fucking rainbows right now, but I don't care.
All I care about is the feeling that isn't there, the unmistakable feeling that I only get around Damien. I have no idea what it is; only that it isn't there. It's not there and no matter what I do I can't get it back.
And it's killing me.
I hurt.
Everything hurts.
My head, my stomach, my legs and arms and chest and… Ugh. Everything just aches, and I have no idea why.
I feel heavy and sore and ugly and sick and I just want to die.
And it's all Damien's fault, the bastard.
He's been gone for too long. It's been three days and I need him. I physically need him right here, right now, before I spontaneously burst into flames or magically implode or something.
Stupid Damien, stupid business calls. Stupid Damien's dad; making him leave me alone for three whole fucking days…
Three days, six hours, twelve minutes and forty-seven… forty-eight… forty-nine seconds, and counting.
Always fucking counting. Counting the seconds since he's gone, and 'til he comes back and takes way this ugly, horrid feeling and replaces it with the good that only he can give me.
Stupid addiction, stupid cravings, stupid withdrawals…
Stupid Damien.
Stupid me.
I shouldn't need it this much. I shouldn't need HIM this much. Wasn't I thinking, less than a week ago, that he could very easily leave me once he gets bored? How the hell am I going to live with permanent separation if a mere three days has me shaking and sweating and refusing to leave my house?
How the hell will I survive a lifetime if I can barely survive half a week?
Pathetic, stupid me, addicted to something so dangerous, so carefree and spontaneous and unpredictable. I'll never survive at this rate. Someone just shoot me now.
Ugh, I hate this.
I hate that he makes me like this, without even trying, the bastard.
He could so easily just leave me, walk away and leave me behind, panting after him like a dog in heat until I pine away to nothing, waiting for him to come back…
Shit, that's what he's done, isn't it?
He's gone and left me, he's found some bird in an alternate world and has forgotten all about me, leaving me here to die.
Or at least, suffer excruciatingly until further notice.
That bastard!
Oh I'm gonna kill him.
Scratch that. I'm gonna kill myself first, to get rid of this bloody awful feeling in my gut, and then I'm gonna spend the rest of eternity in Hell giving him... well... hell.
But first I gotta get rid of this sickening tinge to my stomach, the heaviness in my chest, the ache in my head and arms, the stinging behind my eyes…
Now how to do it…?
I could take some pills, swallow half a bottle of painkillers and not wake up.
I could do it the stereotypical ways: cutting, hanging, suffocation, drowning, jumping off a building…
I could drink myself into coma.
That could work.
Anything – ANYTHING – to get rid of this feeling. This absence of the nice feeling that only Damien can bring.
I stumble from the bedroom and down the hall, aiming for the stairs. I overestimate by a few feet and find myself tumbling down, down, down, down…
Ouch.
That hurt.
I stagger to my feet, nursing my now pounding head and stumble towards the sitting room – in particular, towards the small cabinet in the corner of said sitting room. The liquor cabinet; God's gift to the pathetically lonely and needy. Horny, too…
I slowly fall to my knees in front of the blessed little box and open the doors to see a neat line of nearly-full bottles winking up at me, welcoming me, inviting me to drink my fill.
I pick up the nearest bottle – UK's finest single malt whiskey, oh yeah – and open it up, breathing in the heavenly scent of the alcohol. I lift the bottle to my lips and take a swig, shuddering as the fiery liquid slides down my aching throat and coils in my pained stomach.
That's some good shit.
I move to the nearest chair and slump down, nursing the bottle between my thighs and trying to find a comfortable position on the bloody piece of furniture. Giving up on comfort quickly, I focus on imbibing as much of the alcohol as I possibly can in as short a time as is humanly feasible.
This is some strong shit…
Well, at least the aching in my head and stomach has softened some, now if only the bloody pain in my chest would take a cue card and fucking stop already…
More alcohol. That'll help.
…
…
It didn't.
The pain in my stomach may be gone, but there's a new feeling – one that's not nearly as pleasant as one would expect. I lurch upright, only to stagger to the side.
I'm not drunk; I just have a slight case of vertigo. Or something.
I stagger to the nearest sink – kitchen is close to the sitting room, thank fuck – and empty the contents of my stomach into the basin. Bloody waste of good whiskey that.
Damn.
I sink to the floor beside the kitchen table and bury my head between my knees, breathing through my mouth in an attempt at decreasing my sudden nausea. I take a look at the bottle in my hand.
Probably not a good idea to drink more, is it?
Eh, fuck it.
AN ~
Hello, my faithful readers!
I told you it wouldn't take long for this next one! And my plans for the next one are already under way.
So yeah, Pip is missing Damien – not that he'd admit it – and is drowning his sorrows :D
Anyhow, until next time!
Zanchev.