Caged - a short standalone
Also posted on LPF.
Not real. Duh.
It's a bitter taste that you hate. Hate with it a passion. But you take it in anyway and he smiles. You're no chicken, you say to yourself. The whole time you have an argument with yourself in which you seriously consider spitting it out. The taste is foul and bitter, and it makes your mouth fill with saliva, and your vomiting reflex is in a complicated tango because you're still wondering what the best thing is to do. He's looking at you intensely. In fact, it's more of a piercing, demanding glare. You swallow.
Yuck. Now the horrible flavor won't go away for hours. Doesn't matter if you consume a ridiculous amount of breath mints, drink water or any other type of beverage, eat until you're ready to burst at the seams, or brush your teeth twice--it lingers on your tounge and in your throat until it's ready to fade.
He sits on your bed and tells you to "come here." Never a request but a command. The way he beckons you is even more sickening than his seed on your taste buds because you know that you'll give in. You've said that the both of you were going to quit countless times. Sometimes you and him would go for weeks, even months, without sexual contact at all. But most of the time your "fuck fast" would last less than a week and then he'd shut you up by shoving his dick in your mouth. He says you sound better that way as he thrusts hard, making you choke and cough. Somehow he mistakes your moans of discomfort for pleasure and feels the need to push your head closer.
You realize that you can't breathe and try to regain control by lifting up to counteract his hand gripped tightly around the back of your skull. It never works. He comes in your mouth and you can feel it running down your throat like mucus. Then he slaps you once he see the tears falling from your eyes.
"Why the fuck are you crying?"
You don't answer because you know that he's tearing you down and doesn't care about you. At least, not anymore. Not like he used to.
There was a time when it wasn't like this. When the both of you were just friends, sex seemed more romantic. One could even call it love-making. Also, you remember being on the receiving end of it quite a few times. Not like now, where the skin of your knees chafe and feel like concrete no matter how much lotion you slather on. You got together because both of you thought you were in love. Truly, madly, obsessively in love. And you were... when you were friends. Being in a relationship changed everything. Taking the next step took away the very thing that made you move ahead.
In order to get the spark back, you had sex. Lots and lots and lots of sex in the hope that maybe it could repair what went wrong. Every night you'd find yourself tangled up in sheets with someone (him) next to you, the unmistakable scent that sex leaves behind clinging in the air, permeating through anything made of fabric. Air freshener and lube hidden in your baggage. Condoms in your pocket. You being left to sink in the bed, still able to smell his essence on the linens until one of the hotel housekeepers comes by. Love was literally fucked away. Lust is the only thing that keeps you two together.
Maybe it's a bit more than that. Actually, it is more than that. You come back because there is no one else. Or you think there's no one else. You're afraid that you'll never find anyone like him again. The fear of being alone is greater than the hurt of being in your destructive relationship.
Often you wonder what made him change, how things got so complicated. Sometimes, for a split second, his eyes look warm and inviting, like they used to; his smile is genuine; his touch is caring. It's when you feel his breath on your ear that all of that changes... He doesn't even have to say the words because you know very well what he wants.
The light of the television had cast a calm, cool blue on his face, but as he's nearing you can feel the hellish heat as he asks,"Are you going to give it to me?"
Of course.
You can't believe you're doing it. It's only something that teenagers do. You haven't been a young boy for at least ten years, but you feel so small and naive with him. The cuts you inflict upon yourself are superficial. They sting. You wonder if you should go a bit deeper this time. Your door is cracked and you don't know that he's looking inside as you finally do decide to go deeper... too deep. 911 is called and as you are tended to, you see his face, unable to make out how he's reacting. He's scared, shocked, numb, confused all at the same time. Why? he wonders.
Maybe if he thinks hard enough he'll figure it out.
He looks back into his lover's eyes and it all clicks together for a moment.
He dismisses the thought and turns his back.
"You need counseling," Brad says.
"I'll be fine."
"You won't."
"I will."
An exasperated sigh escapes from Brad. He knows you've had some issues ever since you became involved with Dave.
Brad doesn't want to admit that Dave is the source of the problem, though everything else clearly points to him. He'd rather convince you to tell a professional the truth rather than himself. Hearing him say that Dave is physically and verbally abusive is one of Brad's worst fears. Brad can't take it. Well, not directly, anyway.
"Get some help, Mike," Brad implores.
"I don't need any fucking help! I'm fine," you lie. You storm out of room, slamming the door harshly, which makes the delicate and expensive red vase (a gift from you) in Brad's home shake and fall to the floor.
Severing ties and drowning memories. That is what's going on. You know it, Brad knows it, but can't fix it. Slowly he walks to grab a broom and dustpan for the gleaming glass mess you left from the vase. If only he could clean up the friendship in the same way.
You are not stupid. Just beaten. You are not foolish. Just caged. You're not the type to just walk away from him... But he's made it easy for you to walk away from everything else. And even if your friends may occasionally label you as stupid and foolish and get headaches on account of your behavior, it's because they know you used to be so much better. They know that Mike Shinoda used to be alive. So did Dave Farrell.
Chester, Brad, Joe, and Rob remember the way things were. They remember when you were focused and in control of your life; how you laughed with Jay-Z and other celebrities. They remember Dave being lighthearted and righteous. Oftentimes, the both of would be working together and making 'joke songs' in your studio. You would secretly tell Brad about how you would kiss Dave, his bass still in hand, because you thought he looked so beautiful. The four men had actually sat up late at night, like Mike would sometimes, thinking about the sparkle and kindness that used to beam from Dave's eyes. Now all of that was replaced with a possessive, chilling glare that seemed to read: Mike Shinoda is my property. It was frightening. And they all knew it was getting worse.
Neither of the men saw any visible bruises on you. The marks Dave leave are on your back and stomach. You know he will become careless one day soon and just start hitting anywhere he can. His abuse is not a secret, it's just not discussed often.
Dave is sleeping. His arms are wrapped around you, but there's nothing romantic about the embrace at all. The pillow your head is resting on is damp from sweat and tears. There are specks of blood, too because he hit you so hard that it made your nose bleed. You hope that maybe, if you're lucky, Dave will beat you so bad you die. The life you left behind is the very thing you know you won't be able to get back.
End.
Not real. Duh.
It's a bitter taste that you hate. Hate with it a passion. But you take it in anyway and he smiles. You're no chicken, you say to yourself. The whole time you have an argument with yourself in which you seriously consider spitting it out. The taste is foul and bitter, and it makes your mouth fill with saliva, and your vomiting reflex is in a complicated tango because you're still wondering what the best thing is to do. He's looking at you intensely. In fact, it's more of a piercing, demanding glare. You swallow.
Yuck. Now the horrible flavor won't go away for hours. Doesn't matter if you consume a ridiculous amount of breath mints, drink water or any other type of beverage, eat until you're ready to burst at the seams, or brush your teeth twice--it lingers on your tounge and in your throat until it's ready to fade.
He sits on your bed and tells you to "come here." Never a request but a command. The way he beckons you is even more sickening than his seed on your taste buds because you know that you'll give in. You've said that the both of you were going to quit countless times. Sometimes you and him would go for weeks, even months, without sexual contact at all. But most of the time your "fuck fast" would last less than a week and then he'd shut you up by shoving his dick in your mouth. He says you sound better that way as he thrusts hard, making you choke and cough. Somehow he mistakes your moans of discomfort for pleasure and feels the need to push your head closer.
You realize that you can't breathe and try to regain control by lifting up to counteract his hand gripped tightly around the back of your skull. It never works. He comes in your mouth and you can feel it running down your throat like mucus. Then he slaps you once he see the tears falling from your eyes.
"Why the fuck are you crying?"
You don't answer because you know that he's tearing you down and doesn't care about you. At least, not anymore. Not like he used to.
There was a time when it wasn't like this. When the both of you were just friends, sex seemed more romantic. One could even call it love-making. Also, you remember being on the receiving end of it quite a few times. Not like now, where the skin of your knees chafe and feel like concrete no matter how much lotion you slather on. You got together because both of you thought you were in love. Truly, madly, obsessively in love. And you were... when you were friends. Being in a relationship changed everything. Taking the next step took away the very thing that made you move ahead.
In order to get the spark back, you had sex. Lots and lots and lots of sex in the hope that maybe it could repair what went wrong. Every night you'd find yourself tangled up in sheets with someone (him) next to you, the unmistakable scent that sex leaves behind clinging in the air, permeating through anything made of fabric. Air freshener and lube hidden in your baggage. Condoms in your pocket. You being left to sink in the bed, still able to smell his essence on the linens until one of the hotel housekeepers comes by. Love was literally fucked away. Lust is the only thing that keeps you two together.
Maybe it's a bit more than that. Actually, it is more than that. You come back because there is no one else. Or you think there's no one else. You're afraid that you'll never find anyone like him again. The fear of being alone is greater than the hurt of being in your destructive relationship.
Often you wonder what made him change, how things got so complicated. Sometimes, for a split second, his eyes look warm and inviting, like they used to; his smile is genuine; his touch is caring. It's when you feel his breath on your ear that all of that changes... He doesn't even have to say the words because you know very well what he wants.
The light of the television had cast a calm, cool blue on his face, but as he's nearing you can feel the hellish heat as he asks,"Are you going to give it to me?"
Of course.
You can't believe you're doing it. It's only something that teenagers do. You haven't been a young boy for at least ten years, but you feel so small and naive with him. The cuts you inflict upon yourself are superficial. They sting. You wonder if you should go a bit deeper this time. Your door is cracked and you don't know that he's looking inside as you finally do decide to go deeper... too deep. 911 is called and as you are tended to, you see his face, unable to make out how he's reacting. He's scared, shocked, numb, confused all at the same time. Why? he wonders.
Maybe if he thinks hard enough he'll figure it out.
He looks back into his lover's eyes and it all clicks together for a moment.
He dismisses the thought and turns his back.
"You need counseling," Brad says.
"I'll be fine."
"You won't."
"I will."
An exasperated sigh escapes from Brad. He knows you've had some issues ever since you became involved with Dave.
Brad doesn't want to admit that Dave is the source of the problem, though everything else clearly points to him. He'd rather convince you to tell a professional the truth rather than himself. Hearing him say that Dave is physically and verbally abusive is one of Brad's worst fears. Brad can't take it. Well, not directly, anyway.
"Get some help, Mike," Brad implores.
"I don't need any fucking help! I'm fine," you lie. You storm out of room, slamming the door harshly, which makes the delicate and expensive red vase (a gift from you) in Brad's home shake and fall to the floor.
Severing ties and drowning memories. That is what's going on. You know it, Brad knows it, but can't fix it. Slowly he walks to grab a broom and dustpan for the gleaming glass mess you left from the vase. If only he could clean up the friendship in the same way.
You are not stupid. Just beaten. You are not foolish. Just caged. You're not the type to just walk away from him... But he's made it easy for you to walk away from everything else. And even if your friends may occasionally label you as stupid and foolish and get headaches on account of your behavior, it's because they know you used to be so much better. They know that Mike Shinoda used to be alive. So did Dave Farrell.
Chester, Brad, Joe, and Rob remember the way things were. They remember when you were focused and in control of your life; how you laughed with Jay-Z and other celebrities. They remember Dave being lighthearted and righteous. Oftentimes, the both of would be working together and making 'joke songs' in your studio. You would secretly tell Brad about how you would kiss Dave, his bass still in hand, because you thought he looked so beautiful. The four men had actually sat up late at night, like Mike would sometimes, thinking about the sparkle and kindness that used to beam from Dave's eyes. Now all of that was replaced with a possessive, chilling glare that seemed to read: Mike Shinoda is my property. It was frightening. And they all knew it was getting worse.
Neither of the men saw any visible bruises on you. The marks Dave leave are on your back and stomach. You know he will become careless one day soon and just start hitting anywhere he can. His abuse is not a secret, it's just not discussed often.
Dave is sleeping. His arms are wrapped around you, but there's nothing romantic about the embrace at all. The pillow your head is resting on is damp from sweat and tears. There are specks of blood, too because he hit you so hard that it made your nose bleed. You hope that maybe, if you're lucky, Dave will beat you so bad you die. The life you left behind is the very thing you know you won't be able to get back.
End.