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fellowshippers2004-03-31 09:53 pm
faded-enigma.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-31 09:53 pm
Dream Into Oblivion
Title: Dream Into Oblivion (1/1)
Author: Athena
Pairing: Dorli
Rating: PG-13 to light R for explicit drug use and character death
Distrubution: I'm not sure...we'll see.
Archived: nowhere at the moment
Summary: You take the paper flower held out to you and smile because you’re finally home.
Notes: This story is unbeta'd so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I haven't written slash in eons, so apologies if it doesn't flow. This is my first attempt at LOTRips (although I've been writing in other fandoms for three years now), so I hope I did it justice.
Notes 2: x-posted at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dorli
Disclaimer: Yes, I am Orlando Bloom. Really! *snort*
The night wears like a rain-drenched sweater, heavy on your body as it pulls you down with its binding weight. The darkness tortures you, with its clandestine caverns, harboring vivid nightmares seen only through your eyes. You sit, shriveled, in a small corner of the living room, teeth drawing blood from your lips as unknown evils sear at your bare flesh. They creep along your skin and you dig your fingernails into yourself, clawing them away.
When you drag yourself up, the pain drowns you in a place where death seems a welcoming gift. The shirt you pull over your head feels like pouring salt on the wounds.
Reaching blindly for your keys, you force yourself out of your house, not remembering if you shut the door on your way out, but not bothering to look back and check.
The silver Camaro sits in your driveway, much too bright to be in this dark place you know only as hell. It’s a large feat to get inside and start the engine. You drive for what seems an eternity, speeding through the Golden Gate Bridge, until the destination is finally reached.
You know the dark alleys well; the path is embedded into your mind. A large steel door serves as greeting and you pound on it, desperately seeking what is waiting on the other side. The man who opens the door takes a glance at you and arches his eyebrow.
“Back again?” His voice intends to belittle you as does the smirk upon his lips.
“Just one more.” Your voice sounds so foreign and for a split second, you’re ashamed. “It’s been a tough week.”
The man merely rolls his eyes and moves over slightly for you to enter. Once inside, he leaves you momentarily and goes into another room. When he emerges, he has a bag in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.
“Been meaning to get you to sign this. It’s for my niece.”
The words are so out of place that you almost find them obscene. He could’ve tried to be a little bit more believable. A seemingly simple question, but the motives behind the request are far from innocent. But at this point, you’d do anything for the contents of that bag. The famous signature is penned on the piece of paper, an autograph selling your soul to this man. You give it back to him, along with the money from your pocket. He smirks again and gives you the small plastic bag. It takes all you have not to rip it from his hands.
“I gave you something a little stronger,” he says. You nod eagerly and eye the wonderful life-giving substance.
“It’s the same stuff he used.”
You stop all movement as the words bring back buried memories of a different time.
“You know, if it weren’t for you, I’d definitely be with Brad Pitt,” he says randomly. You stare at him and start to laugh, even though it’s not funny.
“No, seriously,” he argues. He stares ahead at nothingness, his pupils dilated. “We’d have a house with white picket fences, a big backyard, and big puffy candy clouds of lullaby.”
“What?” you ask, laughing. Always laughing. He doesn’t listen to you and instead stands up, twirling and dancing to imaginary music. You forget your question because you see two of him and it’s almost like he’s dancing with himself. You clap with an awkward rhythm, urging him on for your amusement. He becomes breathless and collapses down beside you in a fit of giggles.
“Yeah, candy clouds,” he mutters distantly. “Big pink cotton candy clouds.”
“You’re fucking weird, Dom,” you say and that’s all it takes to hear more laughter resonating off the walls.
“You know what I dream about?” His tone becomes suddenly serious.
“Um...no.”
“A place other than here. Somewhere where things are better.”
“Like your life is so bad.” You’re becoming annoyed. His gravity is ruining your mood.
“No, you don’t understand. A place where there’s no death.” He turns to face you. “Do you ever think of death, Orli? Of what it’s like to die?”
He isn’t really looking for an answer. Leaning forward, he quickly inhales another line of the powdery material on the table. Dom clumsily drops back on the couch and wipes the remaining residue off his nose.
“I’d live forever in my field of paper flowers.” He turns to you and smiles. “Because paper flowers would never die.” He closes her eyes and sighs contentedly. “That’s what I dream of, Orli.” You watch as he slips into a deep, peaceful slumber.
“Hey kid, snap out of it.” The man’s voice shakes you out of your trance. “You need to get out of here. I got people coming over and the last thing they need to see is some junkie sitting in the living room.”
You almost laugh bitterly at the irony in that comment and with the bag clutched firmly in your hand, you tread out of the house. As you walk, your head hurts, the discarded memories drilling themselves back into your brain. You hadn’t known that night that he would never wake up. It wasn’t until you had woken up the next morning and offered him a cup of coffee that you realized his eyes were rolled back in his head and all you could see was white. You had still been high as a fucking kite then, but you were clear-headed enough to know that something wasn’t right.
When you arrive to your empty house, you drag yourself to your coffee table and pour the contents of the bag onto the surface. Flicking your wrists, you quickly form short lines next to each other.
Twenty seconds later and you’re done. It can only be described as euphoria, what you’re feeling. You lie down on the smooth carpet and close your eyes. Maybe now you’ll be able to find that world he described to you that day long ago. If you could just reach out, maybe you’ll find him again. Find him in that place where there is no death; where there’s just you and him.
Your breathing slows as your eyes focus and all of a sudden, things have never been clearer. You stand up and that’s when you know that you’ve found what you were looking for. You take in the sky and clouds illuminated with pale shades of pink. Soft patters of feet are sounding to your right so you turn to greet who you know is standing there. You take the paper flower held out to you and smile because you’re finally home.
Author: Athena
Pairing: Dorli
Rating: PG-13 to light R for explicit drug use and character death
Distrubution: I'm not sure...we'll see.
Archived: nowhere at the moment
Summary: You take the paper flower held out to you and smile because you’re finally home.
Notes: This story is unbeta'd so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I haven't written slash in eons, so apologies if it doesn't flow. This is my first attempt at LOTRips (although I've been writing in other fandoms for three years now), so I hope I did it justice.
Notes 2: x-posted at
dorliDisclaimer: Yes, I am Orlando Bloom. Really! *snort*
The night wears like a rain-drenched sweater, heavy on your body as it pulls you down with its binding weight. The darkness tortures you, with its clandestine caverns, harboring vivid nightmares seen only through your eyes. You sit, shriveled, in a small corner of the living room, teeth drawing blood from your lips as unknown evils sear at your bare flesh. They creep along your skin and you dig your fingernails into yourself, clawing them away.
When you drag yourself up, the pain drowns you in a place where death seems a welcoming gift. The shirt you pull over your head feels like pouring salt on the wounds.
Reaching blindly for your keys, you force yourself out of your house, not remembering if you shut the door on your way out, but not bothering to look back and check.
The silver Camaro sits in your driveway, much too bright to be in this dark place you know only as hell. It’s a large feat to get inside and start the engine. You drive for what seems an eternity, speeding through the Golden Gate Bridge, until the destination is finally reached.
You know the dark alleys well; the path is embedded into your mind. A large steel door serves as greeting and you pound on it, desperately seeking what is waiting on the other side. The man who opens the door takes a glance at you and arches his eyebrow.
“Back again?” His voice intends to belittle you as does the smirk upon his lips.
“Just one more.” Your voice sounds so foreign and for a split second, you’re ashamed. “It’s been a tough week.”
The man merely rolls his eyes and moves over slightly for you to enter. Once inside, he leaves you momentarily and goes into another room. When he emerges, he has a bag in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.
“Been meaning to get you to sign this. It’s for my niece.”
The words are so out of place that you almost find them obscene. He could’ve tried to be a little bit more believable. A seemingly simple question, but the motives behind the request are far from innocent. But at this point, you’d do anything for the contents of that bag. The famous signature is penned on the piece of paper, an autograph selling your soul to this man. You give it back to him, along with the money from your pocket. He smirks again and gives you the small plastic bag. It takes all you have not to rip it from his hands.
“I gave you something a little stronger,” he says. You nod eagerly and eye the wonderful life-giving substance.
“It’s the same stuff he used.”
You stop all movement as the words bring back buried memories of a different time.
“You know, if it weren’t for you, I’d definitely be with Brad Pitt,” he says randomly. You stare at him and start to laugh, even though it’s not funny.
“No, seriously,” he argues. He stares ahead at nothingness, his pupils dilated. “We’d have a house with white picket fences, a big backyard, and big puffy candy clouds of lullaby.”
“What?” you ask, laughing. Always laughing. He doesn’t listen to you and instead stands up, twirling and dancing to imaginary music. You forget your question because you see two of him and it’s almost like he’s dancing with himself. You clap with an awkward rhythm, urging him on for your amusement. He becomes breathless and collapses down beside you in a fit of giggles.
“Yeah, candy clouds,” he mutters distantly. “Big pink cotton candy clouds.”
“You’re fucking weird, Dom,” you say and that’s all it takes to hear more laughter resonating off the walls.
“You know what I dream about?” His tone becomes suddenly serious.
“Um...no.”
“A place other than here. Somewhere where things are better.”
“Like your life is so bad.” You’re becoming annoyed. His gravity is ruining your mood.
“No, you don’t understand. A place where there’s no death.” He turns to face you. “Do you ever think of death, Orli? Of what it’s like to die?”
He isn’t really looking for an answer. Leaning forward, he quickly inhales another line of the powdery material on the table. Dom clumsily drops back on the couch and wipes the remaining residue off his nose.
“I’d live forever in my field of paper flowers.” He turns to you and smiles. “Because paper flowers would never die.” He closes her eyes and sighs contentedly. “That’s what I dream of, Orli.” You watch as he slips into a deep, peaceful slumber.
“Hey kid, snap out of it.” The man’s voice shakes you out of your trance. “You need to get out of here. I got people coming over and the last thing they need to see is some junkie sitting in the living room.”
You almost laugh bitterly at the irony in that comment and with the bag clutched firmly in your hand, you tread out of the house. As you walk, your head hurts, the discarded memories drilling themselves back into your brain. You hadn’t known that night that he would never wake up. It wasn’t until you had woken up the next morning and offered him a cup of coffee that you realized his eyes were rolled back in his head and all you could see was white. You had still been high as a fucking kite then, but you were clear-headed enough to know that something wasn’t right.
When you arrive to your empty house, you drag yourself to your coffee table and pour the contents of the bag onto the surface. Flicking your wrists, you quickly form short lines next to each other.
Twenty seconds later and you’re done. It can only be described as euphoria, what you’re feeling. You lie down on the smooth carpet and close your eyes. Maybe now you’ll be able to find that world he described to you that day long ago. If you could just reach out, maybe you’ll find him again. Find him in that place where there is no death; where there’s just you and him.
Your breathing slows as your eyes focus and all of a sudden, things have never been clearer. You stand up and that’s when you know that you’ve found what you were looking for. You take in the sky and clouds illuminated with pale shades of pink. Soft patters of feet are sounding to your right so you turn to greet who you know is standing there. You take the paper flower held out to you and smile because you’re finally home.
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