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fellowshippers2003-02-17 02:35 am
bombscar.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-02-17 02:35 am
Directions
TITLE: Directions
AUTHOR: Aredhel Elensar
PAIRING: Orlando/Viggo. Viggo's POV
RATING: PG-13...I think
WARNINGS: Suicide
DISCLAIMER: Don't own, never happened.
ARCHIVE: just let me know
SUMMARY: Er..suicide.
AN: Rewritten 561 word ficlet; originally written in another rps fandom but I think it fits better here.
Up. Over my fingers like little beads of redemption. Over my lips, into my mouth. Down the curve of my tongue. Into my throat. From there on, I can't trace it. Winding its way down my body, a fairly uneventful journey to whatever part of my stomach they go to. Seeping fluid, rusting organs. Blood reaching the end of its run and turning around, insentient little fish swimming up river, then down. Then up. Then down. I trace over my throat where I last felt them, little time capsules they were. They carried the last segment of my life in them, kept inside me until they find me and slice me open. I wonder if they'll be dissolved by then.
Down. Onto the bed. Run my fingertips over the course of the comforter, little peaks and little valleys running adjacent and parallel to one another, meeting in little plains or deep crevasses to merge and continue onward towards the headboard. The very tips of my fingers are starting to tingle. Not a bad sensation in all, something approaching numb but getting stuck in a traffic jam along the way. It spreads upwards, along the bones and flesh, veins and hidden blood of my hands, like the little pills rolled down them. My wrists are tingling. A new sensation that I decide I don't like, as it infects my legs and feet. I'm not sure now how far I undressed. Raise my arms and feel my hands, the flesh of my limbs now only sending remnants, little shadows of feelings to my brain. It feels like feathers touching me. An angel's lips on my arm.
Over. Moving my body to the side, my torso the only part of my with coherent messages moving through it. Onto something. Poking my side. Oh yes...the knife. I hadn't been sure my gag reflex would have allowed the pills the entrance they needed.
Under. My hand, feeling something of a nub, wrist turned over like a hook, I fish out the knife. The blade had been down, ripping open the little mountains and ocean-dips of the blanket. Poor little surface.
Left. Onto my back. Nubs of hands on my chest. I don't feel anything there anymore. What did I take? Pain killers, aspirin and sleeping pills. Names escape me, but what does it matter? Something made by Pfizer and pushed by CVS and taken by Joe Smith.
Right. The only way I had left to go. Right down where I belonged. I’d seen him again, in the lobby, jovial and ever-minding my presence, he had smiled at me. Bloody smiled! The breath had hitched in my throat, I remember now, when the corners of his mouth turned downward in some sort of grin, mocking in nature I assume. But....wait. Things aren't going 'right' after all. What sort of death was this, anyhow? Painless, save for the obvious numbness, then loss of consciousness. Sterile. Safe. Clean. Pretty. They'd find me here, on my back, on my bed. In my clothes. With my hair done and my eyes coloured and my nails neat and clean. And probably with my eyes closed. What sort of death was that? Not a memorable one. Forgettable. Quite like me. So it’s moving along quite nicely then
Below. Eyes closed, cut off from thoughts soon after.
Above. Where I now lose track again.
AUTHOR: Aredhel Elensar
PAIRING: Orlando/Viggo. Viggo's POV
RATING: PG-13...I think
WARNINGS: Suicide
DISCLAIMER: Don't own, never happened.
ARCHIVE: just let me know
SUMMARY: Er..suicide.
AN: Rewritten 561 word ficlet; originally written in another rps fandom but I think it fits better here.
Up. Over my fingers like little beads of redemption. Over my lips, into my mouth. Down the curve of my tongue. Into my throat. From there on, I can't trace it. Winding its way down my body, a fairly uneventful journey to whatever part of my stomach they go to. Seeping fluid, rusting organs. Blood reaching the end of its run and turning around, insentient little fish swimming up river, then down. Then up. Then down. I trace over my throat where I last felt them, little time capsules they were. They carried the last segment of my life in them, kept inside me until they find me and slice me open. I wonder if they'll be dissolved by then.
Down. Onto the bed. Run my fingertips over the course of the comforter, little peaks and little valleys running adjacent and parallel to one another, meeting in little plains or deep crevasses to merge and continue onward towards the headboard. The very tips of my fingers are starting to tingle. Not a bad sensation in all, something approaching numb but getting stuck in a traffic jam along the way. It spreads upwards, along the bones and flesh, veins and hidden blood of my hands, like the little pills rolled down them. My wrists are tingling. A new sensation that I decide I don't like, as it infects my legs and feet. I'm not sure now how far I undressed. Raise my arms and feel my hands, the flesh of my limbs now only sending remnants, little shadows of feelings to my brain. It feels like feathers touching me. An angel's lips on my arm.
Over. Moving my body to the side, my torso the only part of my with coherent messages moving through it. Onto something. Poking my side. Oh yes...the knife. I hadn't been sure my gag reflex would have allowed the pills the entrance they needed.
Under. My hand, feeling something of a nub, wrist turned over like a hook, I fish out the knife. The blade had been down, ripping open the little mountains and ocean-dips of the blanket. Poor little surface.
Left. Onto my back. Nubs of hands on my chest. I don't feel anything there anymore. What did I take? Pain killers, aspirin and sleeping pills. Names escape me, but what does it matter? Something made by Pfizer and pushed by CVS and taken by Joe Smith.
Right. The only way I had left to go. Right down where I belonged. I’d seen him again, in the lobby, jovial and ever-minding my presence, he had smiled at me. Bloody smiled! The breath had hitched in my throat, I remember now, when the corners of his mouth turned downward in some sort of grin, mocking in nature I assume. But....wait. Things aren't going 'right' after all. What sort of death was this, anyhow? Painless, save for the obvious numbness, then loss of consciousness. Sterile. Safe. Clean. Pretty. They'd find me here, on my back, on my bed. In my clothes. With my hair done and my eyes coloured and my nails neat and clean. And probably with my eyes closed. What sort of death was that? Not a memorable one. Forgettable. Quite like me. So it’s moving along quite nicely then
Below. Eyes closed, cut off from thoughts soon after.
Above. Where I now lose track again.