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fellowshippers2004-03-08 03:16 am
raynemaiden.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-08 03:16 am
(no subject)
Bent
Monaboyd with whisperings of OT3.
pg-13 for mention of cutting.
This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
philomel for being the best beta and friend a girl could ask for. So thank you honey. *hugs*
Summary= Dom is bent but Billy will always be there to put him back together when he breaks. A little angsty but mostly fluffy.
Feedback is more then welcomed it's almost begged shamelessly for.Please. :)
Disclaimer= Certainly not true. Just a product of my life and imagination. All characters are real and owned by themselves and all situations and words belong to me. If cutting offends or squicks you then please refrain from clicking on the link.
And without further ado....
Bent
Sometimes he was broken. Once years ago he had a shirt that said "Bent" and the memory brings a humorless chuckle when he remembers back to those moments when he was bent a little too far. He doesn't think it's an irreparable kind of broken but more of a toy that lies in pieces and forgotten on the floor having been tread on thoughtlessly and left in a slightly damaged condition. Visually he could see in his minds eye the glassy-dead and opaque disks of a baby dolls eyes looking up from the floor the rag body at an impossible angle with the arm bent in a grotesque parody of a broken limb. The sort of removed but still subconsciously sad vision of this metaphor is how he viewed himself in an almost birds eye scope of detachment.
His own mind was a long dead battle field scarred and littered with remnants of past conflicts of epic proportions. It's all silent now except for the forward progression of deceptively languid but inherently destructive thoughts. And as he saw it his life was just a by product.
He didn't verbally tell me this, he didn't have to. I could see it in his eyes, I could see it in my mind, I could feel it in his intense distracted stare.
I know him, I can feel him in my blood, I can hear his thoughts in my mind. We have an organic bond that ties us together so deeply that at times I can articulate what is in his mind better then he can. I can feel his thoughts, his emotions, his hyper reality.
I watch him going through the motions. The real world is going on inside his head the physical reality is just but a dance of necessity. It will not always be like this but for now it is the world we both live in for he sucks me in with him.
I feel the scars before I see them. I can feel them in the denseness of the air and the subtle change of the mood. I ask to see them and without question he pulls on his sleeve until the red welts and lines of grooved and puckered skin are revealed. I know why he does this. I can understand the psychological implications of the actions. I can almost appreciate it as the pseudo art that it becomes for him. And the first time that he allows me to watch a sick fascination takes a hold of me that worships his blood in a spiritual light. The act of self sacrifice stemming from the need not for the glory it garners in history stories and fairy tales. It's passion that flows through a persons body as if the soul itself is purging electrical currents of life and pain and all that is beautiful and dark and dangerous in this world is realized by the drawing of burgundy drops of liquid velvet sliding down golden skin. It is somehow as gritty and real as it is sensuous and surreal. And most of all the sting is like a lovers touch. It ignites nerves and stimulates serotonin and he feels alive. The marks are badges of a warrior, a mental warrior, that lives despite the pain, that fights when the bottom has been reached.
All these things I see through his eyes, through his mind.
I can feel the sharp sting of a fresh cut under my clothes and privately they remind me to be alive. I can see the compassion in Billy's eyes that tells me he feels it too, indeed he feels it, through empathy. But I still crave the thing that marks my sickness. I'm not sure if getting better means I have to give this up. You're not asked to give up tattoos or piercing. It's the same thing to so many people. It's marking yourself with your thoughts and your emotions. It's leaving scars so you never forget what it is to be you. The night that I allow Bills to watch me is the night that I felt myself being soul-fucked for the first time. There is nothing more intense then sharing something so primal, so personal, so intimate that it transcends sex and it even transcends love. It is a binding of souls that can never be undone. It is trust that will never be broken. And it is acceptance that is more rare then all of these elements combined. But this is not all there is. There are moments when the darkness takes me and I cannot even see his light. All there is between me and an eternity of darkness is his arms holding me when I can no longer even feel it. Those times confirm that I am indeed the luckiest person on earth. Not everyone has a person to catch them when they fall, not everyone has the extra strength provided that is needed to pull back from the depths, and even fewer have that person that helps them back toward the horizon and a promise of a new day. His dedication to me is astounding and in the good times when there is laughter in my voice and all the world is filled with a positive vibe we are the happiest people alive. And somehow that is enough for him. Those moments of bliss are enough to sustain him through the bad times when it is his weight alone that bares us both. I cannot fathom how he does it. And yet he never falters. He is truly the savior, and the muse, and the rock that I crash against in fits of mania or despair. His strength seeps into me and I am a better man for it. He thinks I don't see the awe in which he views the spilling of my blood. But I do, I see his eyes spark as mine fade. I know he understands the intensity of the act and it makes the whole thing like a religious experience. I can almost smell the heady aroma and spice of incense in the air and the denseness of the atmosphere as the very air molecules around and in us crackle with energy. I can see his reaction as the blade slices through skin and the slow motion welling of crimson-slick blood seeping to the surface. His eyes are trained on me his gaze narrowed in on the wound as the rest of the world falls away from us. There is something so incredibly primal about the spilling of blood not in accident or in battle but the slow and methodical blood letting of willful self infliction. I know that we are sharing in a moment that will change everything an evolution that has already been decided by events set into motion months maybe even years ago. The inevitableness of it all comes as a relief as much as the act that realizes it.
Dom thinks I never falter. What he will never know is that he has just never been allowed to see it for he would surely be destroyed. If he believes I can always handle it then he can accept but if he feels there is an immense toll being taken out on me then he will retreat and be lost to me forever. We are both very keen individuals. His blue-grey eyes take in everything with an eerie light of maturity, intelligence, and a deep understanding shimmering within. You feel pinned by his gaze as he searches for something and you feel suddenly stripped, inexplicably grasping tightly to any secret being held within your mind and heart. Like a giant beacon, his gaze sweeping looking for any clues. We swim in and out of each others psychological space being mired in issues heavier then any the world can produce the internal conflict more powerful then any reality I've ever seen on the telly. And yet sometimes see each other as if looking across a chess board observing and circling each other once again being wholly separate entities not just the product of one mind melded by love and dedication. We can look at each other face to face instead of side by side when we are apart and the phone lines connect our worlds at the end of a long day. It is in these times that we pick up the other threads of our lives and connect with the people and events around us our lives becoming complete so that our time together cannot suck us into the oblivion of no return.
But always I watch him as he watches me. His fingers worry his rings and bring attention to hands that have a quality about them that fascinate people and draws them closer as if moths to flame. Hands that feel as if they have many secrets to tell. Hands that draw you to the person that can tell them. My eyes wander up the many bracelets and cuffs that adorn his wrists. Somehow strangers find them irresistibly ambiguous in the most mysterious, intriguing, and infinitely seductive way. The dynamic that makes Dom who he is and the magnetism that draws every attention in the room to him is the exact same force that cements him as mine. Because I know all the things that other people wonder, I have the answer to the mysteries that he leaves in his wake. Above all the people that can only sit back and watch an enigma like Dom, a force of nature, a vibrant pulse of electric personality and dynamic presence in stunned wonder it is I that knows the entity intimately. Because I'm allowed into the places that no one else gets to glimpse. Into his soul. And it is a place of honor to be sure. There is a cheeky and quite childlike side to Dom that everyone has seen and some people that truly look have also seen the glimpses of a much deeper darker reality but it is I who has seen it all and felt it upon my fingertips the energy and life buzzing through muscle and skin to simmer just at the surface daring anyone to be brave enough to touch. See within everyone in this world there are innumerable layers of personality many hidden and anyone who believes differently is a fool. But to be cursed and blessed with the heightened super reality of the mad artist, to be the victim of an illness, the recipient of a gift creates a whole other world in which reality is skewed and lines are blurred. This is the world that he lives in and this is the world that he has let me see from the eyes of his mind and soul. I see Dom as a beautiful delicate specimen like a butterfly capable of flying to the ends of the earth but just one wrong touch and his wings are clipped. I treasure him, I watch him as if he is a gift to the world, I protect him like a precious thing, but I admire him and stand in awe of his strength, wisdom, insight, and beauty. I don't think he could know how much I love him.
I find myself wrapped up in Billy's voice curling the edges around myself like a much loved blanket. I get caught up in the warmness of his eyes. I rest in the peace that he brings with his smile. Billy is home. The color of his eyes allow me the feeling of lying in soft fields of green, the warmth of his nature a summer day, and the rumble of his voice the sound of wind blowing across a sweet smelling field of wild flowers an invisible touch rustling leaves on nearby trees. He reminds me of a safe place. A place I want to be. I don't think I could verbally explain to him what he means to my life. Except that I would be incomplete and cold without him. Far away from home not even sure where to find it. So I show him with hands upon skin and communicate with eyes that speak only the truth. But he is here and I am home and together we built a life around each other as it has always meant to be. It is not the absence of this bliss that brings 'round the bleak days. For even with the happiest of times there comes the falling of night when the bleak and bitter winter has arrived and my mind regresses into the death of sanity. It is when the sadness fills my days with unexplainable apprehension, fear, pain, and feelings of failure. When all becomes black and cold, that is when our cycles continues. These are the days that test our vary will to struggle on, when I have not given up but lost hope entirely, when it is up to Billy to find it and hold on for us both. During these moments the world seems to crush the life out of me and every second is filled with angst that seems as thick as soot. I liken it to the passing of seasons. And vaguely to the pagan and even christian concept and reoccurring theme of life and death as a pattern. There is the slow progression of time from the fruitful re growth and hope of spring to the idyllic and joyful times of summer on through autumn and the slowly darkening and ominous promise of winter when everyone is giving thanks for the harvests of life and preparing for the destruction of winter when all things die physically or metaphorically only to be reborn again with the reemergence of spring. The cycle of my illness goes the same way. There is always a rebirth after the long journey into the darkness of emotional deterioration.
So I find myself with this unexpected gift. It seems like ages and ages ago when I first met him. And it seems there almost isn't a life before Dom just the lifetime since I found him. I mean yes there were so many memories and moments that happened throughout my life but when I look at it now he was missing and I didn't know it. It's like he fits into every nook and cranny of my life and completes it where I didn't notice it was incomplete. So please don't misunderstand I need him as much as he needs me. When I feel homesick he reminds me no matter where I am I'm home. When I feel old and tired he wraps his arms around me and I can rest. When I feel small and lost he shows me that I am the center of his universe.
You know if there is one thing, if I could only pick one thing, that separates Dom from the rest of the general public it is that he literally wears his heart on his sleeve. Actually his hands to be precise. He is the only person I have ever known that writes bits and pieces of their lives on their hands and parades it around like some sort of psychoanalysis fashion statement. But somehow it ends up coming off as enlightened and charming. Because lets face it there is something decidedly endearing about everything Dom does and is. He can get away with things the rest of us could only dream of. There was that time that he went to an event with "walking wounded" written across the back of his hands in big block letters. Let me try to give some background explanation, it's one of my favorite terms and has always been a great source of inspiration and contemplation for me. Dom and I have had long discussions on what intense images the term provokes. How I picture an eerie slow motion dream like a scene in the ICU of some sterile overly bright white hospital. I can see victims families floating by like ghosts existing in a fog. These to me are the walking wounded. The vision is so vivid for me I'm almost back there amongst them. But what I was trying to say, as I seem to be wandering in my train of thought here, he wore those words on his hands for a reason. One of my best chums from school days had just died and I was truly gutted for days. He wore those words proudly for me that night to remind me that even the walking wounded will see a brighter day. Because through all my pain I had lost the ability to see and he figured only a blazingly bright display would jar me enough to see that he was there for me. Always there for me. I hadn't forgotten it, I've never forgotten, I just needed to see it to have something to hold on to. He always knows. Another time he had the words "girls lie" visible on his hand during a photo shoot. That really got the rumor mill going. But no one knew except me. No one else understood the pain he was going through as he watched his own best mate going through a terrible breakdown because of a painful and messy divorce. He took his anger and showed it for all the world to see but it was meant for only one person. Have you ever thought about all these pets that Dom has? He has a mantis and maybe it doesn't apply to a leaf mantis but with most people when they hear mantis they instantly think one thing the same goes for the black widow. He has two pets that are known for killing their mates. It's certainly not a coincidence, no this is Dom we are talking about after all, nothing is just a coincidence. He is fascinated, utterly fascinated, with insects. He knows so many facts it makes my head spin and everything about them interests him and sparks his imagination. Once something strikes Dom's fancy he dives into it totally. His dedication and full immersion into the subject is most enviable and commendable. He loves to spend hours explaining to me the different defenses and unique characteristics of the insects we see or telling me about the newest species that was discovered in some obscure woodscape in a still undeveloped island. But he especially loves the specialized behaviors they have that have been adapted or used over millennia that developed in response to their habitat. This sort of mother nature in action appeals to a primal place inside of him that never lost the affinity with mother nature and all her wonder. So it is no wonder such fascinating creatures, that do things naturally in the wild we would see heinously barbaric, strikes a fancy within him and he would want to capture and study these insects. These are the things that make him an object of admiration and awe in my eyes. He brings color to an ordinary day, he can turn a dull thing into something extraordinary, and without that incandescent fire that singes every moment he is around life would be a boring place. And that would be a death to die every day of my life. But that doesn't mean we don't have our bad days. Because we do like anybody else in the world get on each other nerves when stresses run high. Most people find it funny. We tend to snark at each other for hours on end to the utter delight and amusement of current company. Usually that company was Elijah. Oh the stories I could tell.
You know one thing I adore about Bill is his music. He knows I love it too. When I don't feel well and I'm wrapped around a cup of steaming tea I always request he sing the same song for me, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". He always chuckles softly and snuggles up so my head rests on his chest and he sings me the one song in the world that makes me feel safe and deeply sad all at the same time. I always cry the tears running down my cheek soaking into his shirt as I fall asleep to the deep rumble of his chest. At that moment no matter how bad it is there is no place in the world I'd rather be. He never asked me why that song and for that I'm grateful. He knows, he knows as surely as a butterfly knows it's spring, that I need this thing without questions without discussion. I remember one time after a particularly bad day had ended in a fight I had stormed off to Elijah's place to get some space. We spent the night getting quite smashed and talking about everything but why I was there. The next morning Elijah stood by in the shadows of the room with a secret smile on his face as he watched me clutch the phone to my ear as Billy began to sing. He kissed my forehead and pushed me out the door telling me Billy was waiting for me. I love that kid for every second of his life he has given me. So many times has Elijah dried my tears when Billy and I would have a fight. Thousands of hours we have spent together the three of us. Elijah is a third piece of this equation. I can't even remember who brought him in for a while it was just Billy and I, me and Billy, since the beginning of time but sometime during the drunken late night discussions and cheeky high jinks there was a spark. A spark so hot and blue it could have only been smoldering behind the eyes of our American geek boy. As we discovered there should be a temple dedicated just to the worship of his spirit. There is a whole chasm of paradoxes residing in one body that must have been stolen from the whispers of fae themselves as he was created. And how lucky am I that I have them. As I sit here with these thoughts swirling through my head my hand strays down to my thigh where I compulsively stroke the closing wound of thin shallow cut. I stroke it like one would stroke the soft fur of a cat or some other pleasing sensation. I revel in the feeling both from the wound and the texture under my fingertips. I just can't quite see it as wrong. It's me, such a part of me. It reminds me of my thoughts and my feelings as surely as a diary would. It brings back in brilliant detail the passion behind the thought. They remind me of Billy, they remind me of Elijah, they remind me of all the things that are so beautiful they have to hurt. Because not all pain is bad. I admit there are scars on my body that represent negativity they are products of sadness and pain. But sometimes it isn't like that. And yes I'm still bent but what bends in the winds of the bitter winter storm does not break.
No, I am not broken. Not so much that love cannot put me back together again, until next time. This is my life, this is my reality. And I wouldn't change a thing.
Monaboyd with whisperings of OT3.
pg-13 for mention of cutting.
This was written for
philomel for being the best beta and friend a girl could ask for. So thank you honey. *hugs* Summary= Dom is bent but Billy will always be there to put him back together when he breaks. A little angsty but mostly fluffy.
Feedback is more then welcomed it's almost begged shamelessly for.
Disclaimer= Certainly not true. Just a product of my life and imagination. All characters are real and owned by themselves and all situations and words belong to me. If cutting offends or squicks you then please refrain from clicking on the link.
And without further ado....
Bent
Sometimes he was broken. Once years ago he had a shirt that said "Bent" and the memory brings a humorless chuckle when he remembers back to those moments when he was bent a little too far. He doesn't think it's an irreparable kind of broken but more of a toy that lies in pieces and forgotten on the floor having been tread on thoughtlessly and left in a slightly damaged condition. Visually he could see in his minds eye the glassy-dead and opaque disks of a baby dolls eyes looking up from the floor the rag body at an impossible angle with the arm bent in a grotesque parody of a broken limb. The sort of removed but still subconsciously sad vision of this metaphor is how he viewed himself in an almost birds eye scope of detachment.
His own mind was a long dead battle field scarred and littered with remnants of past conflicts of epic proportions. It's all silent now except for the forward progression of deceptively languid but inherently destructive thoughts. And as he saw it his life was just a by product.
He didn't verbally tell me this, he didn't have to. I could see it in his eyes, I could see it in my mind, I could feel it in his intense distracted stare.
I know him, I can feel him in my blood, I can hear his thoughts in my mind. We have an organic bond that ties us together so deeply that at times I can articulate what is in his mind better then he can. I can feel his thoughts, his emotions, his hyper reality.
I watch him going through the motions. The real world is going on inside his head the physical reality is just but a dance of necessity. It will not always be like this but for now it is the world we both live in for he sucks me in with him.
I feel the scars before I see them. I can feel them in the denseness of the air and the subtle change of the mood. I ask to see them and without question he pulls on his sleeve until the red welts and lines of grooved and puckered skin are revealed. I know why he does this. I can understand the psychological implications of the actions. I can almost appreciate it as the pseudo art that it becomes for him. And the first time that he allows me to watch a sick fascination takes a hold of me that worships his blood in a spiritual light. The act of self sacrifice stemming from the need not for the glory it garners in history stories and fairy tales. It's passion that flows through a persons body as if the soul itself is purging electrical currents of life and pain and all that is beautiful and dark and dangerous in this world is realized by the drawing of burgundy drops of liquid velvet sliding down golden skin. It is somehow as gritty and real as it is sensuous and surreal. And most of all the sting is like a lovers touch. It ignites nerves and stimulates serotonin and he feels alive. The marks are badges of a warrior, a mental warrior, that lives despite the pain, that fights when the bottom has been reached.
All these things I see through his eyes, through his mind.
I can feel the sharp sting of a fresh cut under my clothes and privately they remind me to be alive. I can see the compassion in Billy's eyes that tells me he feels it too, indeed he feels it, through empathy. But I still crave the thing that marks my sickness. I'm not sure if getting better means I have to give this up. You're not asked to give up tattoos or piercing. It's the same thing to so many people. It's marking yourself with your thoughts and your emotions. It's leaving scars so you never forget what it is to be you. The night that I allow Bills to watch me is the night that I felt myself being soul-fucked for the first time. There is nothing more intense then sharing something so primal, so personal, so intimate that it transcends sex and it even transcends love. It is a binding of souls that can never be undone. It is trust that will never be broken. And it is acceptance that is more rare then all of these elements combined. But this is not all there is. There are moments when the darkness takes me and I cannot even see his light. All there is between me and an eternity of darkness is his arms holding me when I can no longer even feel it. Those times confirm that I am indeed the luckiest person on earth. Not everyone has a person to catch them when they fall, not everyone has the extra strength provided that is needed to pull back from the depths, and even fewer have that person that helps them back toward the horizon and a promise of a new day. His dedication to me is astounding and in the good times when there is laughter in my voice and all the world is filled with a positive vibe we are the happiest people alive. And somehow that is enough for him. Those moments of bliss are enough to sustain him through the bad times when it is his weight alone that bares us both. I cannot fathom how he does it. And yet he never falters. He is truly the savior, and the muse, and the rock that I crash against in fits of mania or despair. His strength seeps into me and I am a better man for it. He thinks I don't see the awe in which he views the spilling of my blood. But I do, I see his eyes spark as mine fade. I know he understands the intensity of the act and it makes the whole thing like a religious experience. I can almost smell the heady aroma and spice of incense in the air and the denseness of the atmosphere as the very air molecules around and in us crackle with energy. I can see his reaction as the blade slices through skin and the slow motion welling of crimson-slick blood seeping to the surface. His eyes are trained on me his gaze narrowed in on the wound as the rest of the world falls away from us. There is something so incredibly primal about the spilling of blood not in accident or in battle but the slow and methodical blood letting of willful self infliction. I know that we are sharing in a moment that will change everything an evolution that has already been decided by events set into motion months maybe even years ago. The inevitableness of it all comes as a relief as much as the act that realizes it.
Dom thinks I never falter. What he will never know is that he has just never been allowed to see it for he would surely be destroyed. If he believes I can always handle it then he can accept but if he feels there is an immense toll being taken out on me then he will retreat and be lost to me forever. We are both very keen individuals. His blue-grey eyes take in everything with an eerie light of maturity, intelligence, and a deep understanding shimmering within. You feel pinned by his gaze as he searches for something and you feel suddenly stripped, inexplicably grasping tightly to any secret being held within your mind and heart. Like a giant beacon, his gaze sweeping looking for any clues. We swim in and out of each others psychological space being mired in issues heavier then any the world can produce the internal conflict more powerful then any reality I've ever seen on the telly. And yet sometimes see each other as if looking across a chess board observing and circling each other once again being wholly separate entities not just the product of one mind melded by love and dedication. We can look at each other face to face instead of side by side when we are apart and the phone lines connect our worlds at the end of a long day. It is in these times that we pick up the other threads of our lives and connect with the people and events around us our lives becoming complete so that our time together cannot suck us into the oblivion of no return.
But always I watch him as he watches me. His fingers worry his rings and bring attention to hands that have a quality about them that fascinate people and draws them closer as if moths to flame. Hands that feel as if they have many secrets to tell. Hands that draw you to the person that can tell them. My eyes wander up the many bracelets and cuffs that adorn his wrists. Somehow strangers find them irresistibly ambiguous in the most mysterious, intriguing, and infinitely seductive way. The dynamic that makes Dom who he is and the magnetism that draws every attention in the room to him is the exact same force that cements him as mine. Because I know all the things that other people wonder, I have the answer to the mysteries that he leaves in his wake. Above all the people that can only sit back and watch an enigma like Dom, a force of nature, a vibrant pulse of electric personality and dynamic presence in stunned wonder it is I that knows the entity intimately. Because I'm allowed into the places that no one else gets to glimpse. Into his soul. And it is a place of honor to be sure. There is a cheeky and quite childlike side to Dom that everyone has seen and some people that truly look have also seen the glimpses of a much deeper darker reality but it is I who has seen it all and felt it upon my fingertips the energy and life buzzing through muscle and skin to simmer just at the surface daring anyone to be brave enough to touch. See within everyone in this world there are innumerable layers of personality many hidden and anyone who believes differently is a fool. But to be cursed and blessed with the heightened super reality of the mad artist, to be the victim of an illness, the recipient of a gift creates a whole other world in which reality is skewed and lines are blurred. This is the world that he lives in and this is the world that he has let me see from the eyes of his mind and soul. I see Dom as a beautiful delicate specimen like a butterfly capable of flying to the ends of the earth but just one wrong touch and his wings are clipped. I treasure him, I watch him as if he is a gift to the world, I protect him like a precious thing, but I admire him and stand in awe of his strength, wisdom, insight, and beauty. I don't think he could know how much I love him.
I find myself wrapped up in Billy's voice curling the edges around myself like a much loved blanket. I get caught up in the warmness of his eyes. I rest in the peace that he brings with his smile. Billy is home. The color of his eyes allow me the feeling of lying in soft fields of green, the warmth of his nature a summer day, and the rumble of his voice the sound of wind blowing across a sweet smelling field of wild flowers an invisible touch rustling leaves on nearby trees. He reminds me of a safe place. A place I want to be. I don't think I could verbally explain to him what he means to my life. Except that I would be incomplete and cold without him. Far away from home not even sure where to find it. So I show him with hands upon skin and communicate with eyes that speak only the truth. But he is here and I am home and together we built a life around each other as it has always meant to be. It is not the absence of this bliss that brings 'round the bleak days. For even with the happiest of times there comes the falling of night when the bleak and bitter winter has arrived and my mind regresses into the death of sanity. It is when the sadness fills my days with unexplainable apprehension, fear, pain, and feelings of failure. When all becomes black and cold, that is when our cycles continues. These are the days that test our vary will to struggle on, when I have not given up but lost hope entirely, when it is up to Billy to find it and hold on for us both. During these moments the world seems to crush the life out of me and every second is filled with angst that seems as thick as soot. I liken it to the passing of seasons. And vaguely to the pagan and even christian concept and reoccurring theme of life and death as a pattern. There is the slow progression of time from the fruitful re growth and hope of spring to the idyllic and joyful times of summer on through autumn and the slowly darkening and ominous promise of winter when everyone is giving thanks for the harvests of life and preparing for the destruction of winter when all things die physically or metaphorically only to be reborn again with the reemergence of spring. The cycle of my illness goes the same way. There is always a rebirth after the long journey into the darkness of emotional deterioration.
So I find myself with this unexpected gift. It seems like ages and ages ago when I first met him. And it seems there almost isn't a life before Dom just the lifetime since I found him. I mean yes there were so many memories and moments that happened throughout my life but when I look at it now he was missing and I didn't know it. It's like he fits into every nook and cranny of my life and completes it where I didn't notice it was incomplete. So please don't misunderstand I need him as much as he needs me. When I feel homesick he reminds me no matter where I am I'm home. When I feel old and tired he wraps his arms around me and I can rest. When I feel small and lost he shows me that I am the center of his universe.
You know if there is one thing, if I could only pick one thing, that separates Dom from the rest of the general public it is that he literally wears his heart on his sleeve. Actually his hands to be precise. He is the only person I have ever known that writes bits and pieces of their lives on their hands and parades it around like some sort of psychoanalysis fashion statement. But somehow it ends up coming off as enlightened and charming. Because lets face it there is something decidedly endearing about everything Dom does and is. He can get away with things the rest of us could only dream of. There was that time that he went to an event with "walking wounded" written across the back of his hands in big block letters. Let me try to give some background explanation, it's one of my favorite terms and has always been a great source of inspiration and contemplation for me. Dom and I have had long discussions on what intense images the term provokes. How I picture an eerie slow motion dream like a scene in the ICU of some sterile overly bright white hospital. I can see victims families floating by like ghosts existing in a fog. These to me are the walking wounded. The vision is so vivid for me I'm almost back there amongst them. But what I was trying to say, as I seem to be wandering in my train of thought here, he wore those words on his hands for a reason. One of my best chums from school days had just died and I was truly gutted for days. He wore those words proudly for me that night to remind me that even the walking wounded will see a brighter day. Because through all my pain I had lost the ability to see and he figured only a blazingly bright display would jar me enough to see that he was there for me. Always there for me. I hadn't forgotten it, I've never forgotten, I just needed to see it to have something to hold on to. He always knows. Another time he had the words "girls lie" visible on his hand during a photo shoot. That really got the rumor mill going. But no one knew except me. No one else understood the pain he was going through as he watched his own best mate going through a terrible breakdown because of a painful and messy divorce. He took his anger and showed it for all the world to see but it was meant for only one person. Have you ever thought about all these pets that Dom has? He has a mantis and maybe it doesn't apply to a leaf mantis but with most people when they hear mantis they instantly think one thing the same goes for the black widow. He has two pets that are known for killing their mates. It's certainly not a coincidence, no this is Dom we are talking about after all, nothing is just a coincidence. He is fascinated, utterly fascinated, with insects. He knows so many facts it makes my head spin and everything about them interests him and sparks his imagination. Once something strikes Dom's fancy he dives into it totally. His dedication and full immersion into the subject is most enviable and commendable. He loves to spend hours explaining to me the different defenses and unique characteristics of the insects we see or telling me about the newest species that was discovered in some obscure woodscape in a still undeveloped island. But he especially loves the specialized behaviors they have that have been adapted or used over millennia that developed in response to their habitat. This sort of mother nature in action appeals to a primal place inside of him that never lost the affinity with mother nature and all her wonder. So it is no wonder such fascinating creatures, that do things naturally in the wild we would see heinously barbaric, strikes a fancy within him and he would want to capture and study these insects. These are the things that make him an object of admiration and awe in my eyes. He brings color to an ordinary day, he can turn a dull thing into something extraordinary, and without that incandescent fire that singes every moment he is around life would be a boring place. And that would be a death to die every day of my life. But that doesn't mean we don't have our bad days. Because we do like anybody else in the world get on each other nerves when stresses run high. Most people find it funny. We tend to snark at each other for hours on end to the utter delight and amusement of current company. Usually that company was Elijah. Oh the stories I could tell.
You know one thing I adore about Bill is his music. He knows I love it too. When I don't feel well and I'm wrapped around a cup of steaming tea I always request he sing the same song for me, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". He always chuckles softly and snuggles up so my head rests on his chest and he sings me the one song in the world that makes me feel safe and deeply sad all at the same time. I always cry the tears running down my cheek soaking into his shirt as I fall asleep to the deep rumble of his chest. At that moment no matter how bad it is there is no place in the world I'd rather be. He never asked me why that song and for that I'm grateful. He knows, he knows as surely as a butterfly knows it's spring, that I need this thing without questions without discussion. I remember one time after a particularly bad day had ended in a fight I had stormed off to Elijah's place to get some space. We spent the night getting quite smashed and talking about everything but why I was there. The next morning Elijah stood by in the shadows of the room with a secret smile on his face as he watched me clutch the phone to my ear as Billy began to sing. He kissed my forehead and pushed me out the door telling me Billy was waiting for me. I love that kid for every second of his life he has given me. So many times has Elijah dried my tears when Billy and I would have a fight. Thousands of hours we have spent together the three of us. Elijah is a third piece of this equation. I can't even remember who brought him in for a while it was just Billy and I, me and Billy, since the beginning of time but sometime during the drunken late night discussions and cheeky high jinks there was a spark. A spark so hot and blue it could have only been smoldering behind the eyes of our American geek boy. As we discovered there should be a temple dedicated just to the worship of his spirit. There is a whole chasm of paradoxes residing in one body that must have been stolen from the whispers of fae themselves as he was created. And how lucky am I that I have them. As I sit here with these thoughts swirling through my head my hand strays down to my thigh where I compulsively stroke the closing wound of thin shallow cut. I stroke it like one would stroke the soft fur of a cat or some other pleasing sensation. I revel in the feeling both from the wound and the texture under my fingertips. I just can't quite see it as wrong. It's me, such a part of me. It reminds me of my thoughts and my feelings as surely as a diary would. It brings back in brilliant detail the passion behind the thought. They remind me of Billy, they remind me of Elijah, they remind me of all the things that are so beautiful they have to hurt. Because not all pain is bad. I admit there are scars on my body that represent negativity they are products of sadness and pain. But sometimes it isn't like that. And yes I'm still bent but what bends in the winds of the bitter winter storm does not break.
No, I am not broken. Not so much that love cannot put me back together again, until next time. This is my life, this is my reality. And I wouldn't change a thing.
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Still love that so much. The fragility of Dom. Amongst all the speculation with the recently-noted marks on Dom's wrists and hands, it's possible to worry (as
an obsessedconcerned fangirl may do) or it's possible to hope. I think this story has hope. No matter how wrenching the subject, hope remains.Again, the easy flow of this... classic stream of consciousness. Poetic. Somehow it is stark and lush all at once, and I adore both qualities in writing, so I adore this. And you too. ;) Well done, dear!