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fellowshippers2004-05-25 03:52 pm
perfect-oasis.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-05-25 03:52 pm
Bloodlust, Part 3/7
Title: Bloodlust, Part 3/7
Author: The Phantom Writer![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silentnumbsmoke
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG-13 -- this subject is touchy for some people, so beware!
Feedback: ... keeps me alive. Forget food, forget water, give me feedback anyday!
Disclaimer: None of that -- *points to the story* -- is true.
Notes: *huggles the wonderfularabella_o*
I'd suggest reading parts 1 and 2 first!
Part III
When this fascination with blood first began, it was a rebellion of sorts, a way to buck the norm, to break away from my usual state of being, to be different than everyone else. It was a way to escape Hollywood, the fucking 'glamorous' lifestyle that had become my every day life. I was beginning to eat, sleep and talk Hollywood, and the nauseating taste in my mouth (that no amount of toothpaste or mouthwash could rid of) could only be described as Hollywood.
Sometimes I ask myself why I stay, but the answer is both simple and oh-so-difficult to explain. Hollywood is, to put it simply, an addiction. Quite like heroin or alcohol. I used to scoff at others who'd say that. I'd tell them that the two weren't even remotely similar, that you don't have to complete 28 days of rehab for Hollywood addiction, and all you had to do was pack up and leave. It didn't take me long to learn how wrong that was.
Bright lights. Big tits. Enormous cocks. Money. Style. Reputation. Fashion.
A spotlight that won't fade.
Besides, I've always been one that easily gets addicted to something or other. Hollywood, cigarettes… this odd blood lust of mine.
The blood. The need to see blood is overwhelming. I'm like… a shark. They get one whiff of the universal coppery scent, and it's all they can think about - they have to have it; they have to have more. Like in The Princess Bride, the book, not the movie. Vizzini takes a knife to his arm, slicing just enough for the blood to drip into the shark-infested waters where Buttercup is trying to escape. Not quite playing fair, is it? Oh well, no one ever said Sicilians played by the rules.
I got one taste of blood from prying the scabs from my skin and, like those sharks, I wanted - no, needed, more. I resorted to cutting.
Pressing the dangerously sharp razor to my calf, slicing an inch or so across, I stare with rapt attention as the small cut pools with blood before leaking down and staining the rest of my skin. I remind myself to get rid of all my shorts - it may be nearing summer, but I won't be wearing those for awhile.
I got addicted to the blood within a month of starting… maybe that's why it's been relatively easy for me to give up my cigarettes, because I had something else to take its place. I'm addicted, not to the pain, necessarily, but the entire situation. The way the too-bright lights glint off of my razor blade, watching the muscle-white turn blood-red, the feeling that I get, the rush, the sting that arrives hand-in-hand with bliss, the breath of fresh air, the feeling of control… I'm even addicted to the sight of watching the blood swirl, mixing with the shower water, before being sucked down the drain, all evidence of my addiction gone, except in my mind and on my body.
Some people wank off when they're bored. I cut. Or, when I feel a lull in my writing, then I go to the bathroom, and, after five minutes of staring at the scarlet puddle of blood, I gain inspiration.
It's not doing me any harm - I always stop the flow with a band-aid before it gets too out of hand. If anything, it's doing good things for me. It keeps my creative juices flowing, and it assures me that I'm human, not unfeeling or numb, like all those other Hollywood bastards. The blood also prevents me from thinking about Billy nonstop. While in the cutting zone, I force Billy out of my mind, because I know what he would do if he discovered my cutting, and he'd definitely be less than pleased. He'd probably make me see a doctor, which is actually the last thing I need right now… doctors breathing down my neck, always watching and asking questions… they annoy the fuck outta me.
For now, I stare after Billy, watching, hoping, praying that he doesn't know of my two addictions… Blood and Billy.
Author: The Phantom Writer
silentnumbsmoke Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG-13 -- this subject is touchy for some people, so beware!
Feedback: ... keeps me alive. Forget food, forget water, give me feedback anyday!
Disclaimer: None of that -- *points to the story* -- is true.
Notes: *huggles the wonderful
arabella_o* I'd suggest reading parts 1 and 2 first!
Part III
When this fascination with blood first began, it was a rebellion of sorts, a way to buck the norm, to break away from my usual state of being, to be different than everyone else. It was a way to escape Hollywood, the fucking 'glamorous' lifestyle that had become my every day life. I was beginning to eat, sleep and talk Hollywood, and the nauseating taste in my mouth (that no amount of toothpaste or mouthwash could rid of) could only be described as Hollywood.
Sometimes I ask myself why I stay, but the answer is both simple and oh-so-difficult to explain. Hollywood is, to put it simply, an addiction. Quite like heroin or alcohol. I used to scoff at others who'd say that. I'd tell them that the two weren't even remotely similar, that you don't have to complete 28 days of rehab for Hollywood addiction, and all you had to do was pack up and leave. It didn't take me long to learn how wrong that was.
Bright lights. Big tits. Enormous cocks. Money. Style. Reputation. Fashion.
A spotlight that won't fade.
Besides, I've always been one that easily gets addicted to something or other. Hollywood, cigarettes… this odd blood lust of mine.
The blood. The need to see blood is overwhelming. I'm like… a shark. They get one whiff of the universal coppery scent, and it's all they can think about - they have to have it; they have to have more. Like in The Princess Bride, the book, not the movie. Vizzini takes a knife to his arm, slicing just enough for the blood to drip into the shark-infested waters where Buttercup is trying to escape. Not quite playing fair, is it? Oh well, no one ever said Sicilians played by the rules.
I got one taste of blood from prying the scabs from my skin and, like those sharks, I wanted - no, needed, more. I resorted to cutting.
Pressing the dangerously sharp razor to my calf, slicing an inch or so across, I stare with rapt attention as the small cut pools with blood before leaking down and staining the rest of my skin. I remind myself to get rid of all my shorts - it may be nearing summer, but I won't be wearing those for awhile.
I got addicted to the blood within a month of starting… maybe that's why it's been relatively easy for me to give up my cigarettes, because I had something else to take its place. I'm addicted, not to the pain, necessarily, but the entire situation. The way the too-bright lights glint off of my razor blade, watching the muscle-white turn blood-red, the feeling that I get, the rush, the sting that arrives hand-in-hand with bliss, the breath of fresh air, the feeling of control… I'm even addicted to the sight of watching the blood swirl, mixing with the shower water, before being sucked down the drain, all evidence of my addiction gone, except in my mind and on my body.
Some people wank off when they're bored. I cut. Or, when I feel a lull in my writing, then I go to the bathroom, and, after five minutes of staring at the scarlet puddle of blood, I gain inspiration.
It's not doing me any harm - I always stop the flow with a band-aid before it gets too out of hand. If anything, it's doing good things for me. It keeps my creative juices flowing, and it assures me that I'm human, not unfeeling or numb, like all those other Hollywood bastards. The blood also prevents me from thinking about Billy nonstop. While in the cutting zone, I force Billy out of my mind, because I know what he would do if he discovered my cutting, and he'd definitely be less than pleased. He'd probably make me see a doctor, which is actually the last thing I need right now… doctors breathing down my neck, always watching and asking questions… they annoy the fuck outta me.
For now, I stare after Billy, watching, hoping, praying that he doesn't know of my two addictions… Blood and Billy.