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fellowshippers2004-05-29 03:42 pm
perfect-oasis.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-05-29 03:42 pm
Bloodlust, Part 5/7
Title: Bloodlust, Part 5/7
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: Pretty please?
Disclaimer: None of that -- *points to the story* -- is true.
Notes: *hugglesarabella_o* Danke, Ara!
I'd suggest reading parts 1, 2, 3 and 4 first!
Part V
The tile below me has a design I could never figure out, in the months I've lived here. It always confused me, and I could never truly outline the pattern out in my brain; it just didn't seem logical. Soft blues crisscrossing randomly with the brighter, bolder greens, a beige tinting the background rather than fucking Colgate-whitening-strips, must-be-perfect, Hollywood white.
Suddenly, as my arms weep crimson tears, I understand the tile pattern. Or the lack thereof. Tile designers don't expect people to be sitting on the bathroom floor after slicing their skin… or at any time, for that matter. They expect their customers to shuffle mindlessly over the design, scratching at various body parts, reaching for the toothbrush and to groggily glance just long enough to be assured that the toothpaste isn't some kind of foot cream, paying no mind to the tiles beneath their slippered feet. It's there to be used, but ignored.
I suddenly feel a strong connection to my bathroom tile, and I feel bad for littering it with my blood. Oh well, I'll clean it later… it would be silly to wash it when I'll just get more blood on it, as I'm still bleeding. Five minutes of slashing furiously at my body, and now, a quarter of an hour later, the blood hasn't clotted yet. It just keeps flowing, out of my body and to the floor. The design doesn't call for any reds, and it feels wrong to be disrespecting the tile designers like this. I'm vaguely aware that this liquid I'm losing is priceless, as if I brought a family heirloom to show and tell, and promptly lost it.
The rush that comes with cutting has long-since disappeared, and I now feel numb. My body is awfully cold, and I make a mental note to call my apartment superintendent to suggest turning up the heat, because it seems to be getting colder with every minute that passes.
That's funny… Mum's a nurse and still I had no idea bodies had this much blood. I think that my fingertips would still have feeling if the blood on these tiles around me was still in my arms, and… maybe I shouldn't just wait; maybe I should help the clots along…
Five minutes pass after staggering, tripping and fumbling, I have bandages around both my arms, and I've changed into clean sweats with a blanket across my shoulders because it's so damn cold. So cold and I'm so tired… Staring at the bloody mess in the bathroom, I dread cleaning it up, but… I'll do it later. Too tired. Too fucking tired.
I definitely won't be hanging with the guys Monday. I can't even remember the next publicity stunt Jennifer's planned for me. Hell, I'll figure it out tomorrow. For now I just need to go to sleep.
Fuck, I see blood leaking through the bandages. Pressing my fingers to the red, I wince, then jump - someone's at my front door.
"Dom! Let me in, we need to talk!"
I freeze. Billy.
Author: The Phantom Writer
silentnumbsmoke Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG-13 -- this subject is touchy for some people, so beware!
Feedback: Pretty please?
Disclaimer: None of that -- *points to the story* -- is true.
Notes: *huggles
arabella_o* Danke, Ara!I'd suggest reading parts 1, 2, 3 and 4 first!
Part V
The tile below me has a design I could never figure out, in the months I've lived here. It always confused me, and I could never truly outline the pattern out in my brain; it just didn't seem logical. Soft blues crisscrossing randomly with the brighter, bolder greens, a beige tinting the background rather than fucking Colgate-whitening-strips, must-be-perfect, Hollywood white.
Suddenly, as my arms weep crimson tears, I understand the tile pattern. Or the lack thereof. Tile designers don't expect people to be sitting on the bathroom floor after slicing their skin… or at any time, for that matter. They expect their customers to shuffle mindlessly over the design, scratching at various body parts, reaching for the toothbrush and to groggily glance just long enough to be assured that the toothpaste isn't some kind of foot cream, paying no mind to the tiles beneath their slippered feet. It's there to be used, but ignored.
I suddenly feel a strong connection to my bathroom tile, and I feel bad for littering it with my blood. Oh well, I'll clean it later… it would be silly to wash it when I'll just get more blood on it, as I'm still bleeding. Five minutes of slashing furiously at my body, and now, a quarter of an hour later, the blood hasn't clotted yet. It just keeps flowing, out of my body and to the floor. The design doesn't call for any reds, and it feels wrong to be disrespecting the tile designers like this. I'm vaguely aware that this liquid I'm losing is priceless, as if I brought a family heirloom to show and tell, and promptly lost it.
The rush that comes with cutting has long-since disappeared, and I now feel numb. My body is awfully cold, and I make a mental note to call my apartment superintendent to suggest turning up the heat, because it seems to be getting colder with every minute that passes.
That's funny… Mum's a nurse and still I had no idea bodies had this much blood. I think that my fingertips would still have feeling if the blood on these tiles around me was still in my arms, and… maybe I shouldn't just wait; maybe I should help the clots along…
Five minutes pass after staggering, tripping and fumbling, I have bandages around both my arms, and I've changed into clean sweats with a blanket across my shoulders because it's so damn cold. So cold and I'm so tired… Staring at the bloody mess in the bathroom, I dread cleaning it up, but… I'll do it later. Too tired. Too fucking tired.
I definitely won't be hanging with the guys Monday. I can't even remember the next publicity stunt Jennifer's planned for me. Hell, I'll figure it out tomorrow. For now I just need to go to sleep.
Fuck, I see blood leaking through the bandages. Pressing my fingers to the red, I wince, then jump - someone's at my front door.
"Dom! Let me in, we need to talk!"
I freeze. Billy.