(no subject)
::posts fic and hides::
Warning: This is quite graphic.
I.
Billy stepped carefully over heaps of bloody clothing mingled with broken glass. His footsteps were echoing dully on the tile below. He had walked down this hallway innumerable times: sometimes wearily, fisting his eyes as he yawned; sometimes domestically, with fistfuls of paper towels and ammonia; sometimes lustily, with his fist tight around Dom's cock. Never had it seemed so long though.
He couldn't hear anything at the end of the hall except the yowling of the cat. Billy swallowed and shut his eyes tight as he swung the door open.
The scene was worse than he even imagined. Everything breakable in the room was shattered. The bed was against one of the windowless walls. Dom was lying naked under the sunbeams. Each of his fingers had star shaped gashes. Words were carved on the top of his Sharpiephilic hands. Billy saw vaguely familiar lyrics.
Billy keeled over when he realized why Dom's belly was so bloody. After wiping the vomit away from his cheeks with the back of his hand, Billy crawled forward as best he could. Dom's stomach glittered with pieces of glass where he had tried to open his abdomen up. Billy silently thanked god that Dom appeared to have passed out from blood loss before doing too much damage to the area.
The cat opened its mouth wide and mewled. Billy shooed it away before he picked up the phone and calling the ambulance.
II.
"I don't know what you want me to tell you."
"Just tell me why you hurt yourself."
"Well, I wanted to go under the trees, but there aren't any that were close enough."
"..."
"..."
"Please continue Dominic."
"I was just sitting there playing with my hands..."
"By playing you mean cutting them, yes?"
"Yes."
"And was this after you wrecked the house?"
"Did I wreck the house?"
"Yes Dominic."
"I don't remember that. Well, I was playing with my hands and I wanted to go outside to the trees and the sunshine."
"Would that have made you happy?"
"Of course not."
"Why then."
"I wanted to get everything out and wash it with warm water. Let it air dry in the sun. Have you ever been swimming and then just let the sun evaporate away all the water?"
"Back up, please. When you say everything, what do you mean?"
"Everything inside."
"Your feelings?"
"No."
"Your innards?"
"Yes."
"Okay Dominic, I think that's enough. I will see you tomorrow."
"When will I see Bi..."
The doctor stopped the tape.
"Does he ask for me often?"
"Every time."
"Will I ever get to see him?"
"Maybe soon."
"Thank you, doctor. Can you tell him...I still love him?"
"Of course not. He doesn't know that you even know he's here."
"Yes, doctor. I'm sorry."
III.
The doctors told him they didn’t read his journals, but Dom knew they did. They were sneaky, and tried to put it back just like they had found it, but they couldn’t trick him. It was his journal, he knew what it looked like, what it felt like, how the dust settled on it.
He never wrote anything important in there anyway. If he did, he would write it secretly, making the first word of each sentence the only things that really mattered. He started those entries with the phrase, “I miss Billy.”
The first day that they gave him the journal, he tore a page out. He drew a circle on it. Then two dots. And then a “u.” He labeled it “BILLY” and hid it in his sock. It was shaky and uneven because of the bandages and the dullness of the pencil, but he took it out every night nevertheless and kissed it before going to sleep.
One night the nurse saw him. She asked him what he had. Unwillingly he held out the drawing in his hand. She smiled and closed his fingers back around it.
The next day, with his morning injection, she gave him a picture of Billy printed from the internet.
IV.
It was storming outside. Billy was on the sofa with his feet tucked next to him and the cat lounging on his thighs. She purred and squeezed her eyelids together as he pet her.
He hadn’t even bothered trying to find something on the television, opting instead for a battered paperback he’d read a hundred times. He paused from stroking the cat every once in a while to sip from his mug of tea. She looked up at him and blinked every time.
When the phone rang he flinched, disturbing the cat enough to make her jump off. He let his book drop to the floor as he walked toward the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Billy. This is Emma from the clinic.”
“Oh god, what happened?”
“I have no idea. The doctor just wants to see you tomorrow at four.”
“Yes, of course.”
V.
Dom was lying next to his bed, but the carpet just had too much give. He tried pressing harder, splaying his limbs further, but still the ground cushioned him beyond his comfort.
Dom looked around his small space. Nothing sharp in the toilet. The bed was attached to the ground. But underneath…
He grabbed his pencil triumphantly. It was nothing close to sharpened, but perhaps it would work.
He started with just a line. He pressed until the thin carpet began wearing. Soon he had a hole that he could squeeze his finger through. He sat and played with that for a while, watching his finger turn from red to purple to white after he removed it.
When they came in to give him the noon injections, he sat on top of the hole so they couldn’t see.
By the end of the day, there was a small square, just big enough for his cheek. He felt the cool concrete cradle his face for a few moments before the night nurse came in.
Warning: This is quite graphic.
I.
Billy stepped carefully over heaps of bloody clothing mingled with broken glass. His footsteps were echoing dully on the tile below. He had walked down this hallway innumerable times: sometimes wearily, fisting his eyes as he yawned; sometimes domestically, with fistfuls of paper towels and ammonia; sometimes lustily, with his fist tight around Dom's cock. Never had it seemed so long though.
He couldn't hear anything at the end of the hall except the yowling of the cat. Billy swallowed and shut his eyes tight as he swung the door open.
The scene was worse than he even imagined. Everything breakable in the room was shattered. The bed was against one of the windowless walls. Dom was lying naked under the sunbeams. Each of his fingers had star shaped gashes. Words were carved on the top of his Sharpiephilic hands. Billy saw vaguely familiar lyrics.
Billy keeled over when he realized why Dom's belly was so bloody. After wiping the vomit away from his cheeks with the back of his hand, Billy crawled forward as best he could. Dom's stomach glittered with pieces of glass where he had tried to open his abdomen up. Billy silently thanked god that Dom appeared to have passed out from blood loss before doing too much damage to the area.
The cat opened its mouth wide and mewled. Billy shooed it away before he picked up the phone and calling the ambulance.
II.
"I don't know what you want me to tell you."
"Just tell me why you hurt yourself."
"Well, I wanted to go under the trees, but there aren't any that were close enough."
"..."
"..."
"Please continue Dominic."
"I was just sitting there playing with my hands..."
"By playing you mean cutting them, yes?"
"Yes."
"And was this after you wrecked the house?"
"Did I wreck the house?"
"Yes Dominic."
"I don't remember that. Well, I was playing with my hands and I wanted to go outside to the trees and the sunshine."
"Would that have made you happy?"
"Of course not."
"Why then."
"I wanted to get everything out and wash it with warm water. Let it air dry in the sun. Have you ever been swimming and then just let the sun evaporate away all the water?"
"Back up, please. When you say everything, what do you mean?"
"Everything inside."
"Your feelings?"
"No."
"Your innards?"
"Yes."
"Okay Dominic, I think that's enough. I will see you tomorrow."
"When will I see Bi..."
The doctor stopped the tape.
"Does he ask for me often?"
"Every time."
"Will I ever get to see him?"
"Maybe soon."
"Thank you, doctor. Can you tell him...I still love him?"
"Of course not. He doesn't know that you even know he's here."
"Yes, doctor. I'm sorry."
III.
The doctors told him they didn’t read his journals, but Dom knew they did. They were sneaky, and tried to put it back just like they had found it, but they couldn’t trick him. It was his journal, he knew what it looked like, what it felt like, how the dust settled on it.
He never wrote anything important in there anyway. If he did, he would write it secretly, making the first word of each sentence the only things that really mattered. He started those entries with the phrase, “I miss Billy.”
The first day that they gave him the journal, he tore a page out. He drew a circle on it. Then two dots. And then a “u.” He labeled it “BILLY” and hid it in his sock. It was shaky and uneven because of the bandages and the dullness of the pencil, but he took it out every night nevertheless and kissed it before going to sleep.
One night the nurse saw him. She asked him what he had. Unwillingly he held out the drawing in his hand. She smiled and closed his fingers back around it.
The next day, with his morning injection, she gave him a picture of Billy printed from the internet.
IV.
It was storming outside. Billy was on the sofa with his feet tucked next to him and the cat lounging on his thighs. She purred and squeezed her eyelids together as he pet her.
He hadn’t even bothered trying to find something on the television, opting instead for a battered paperback he’d read a hundred times. He paused from stroking the cat every once in a while to sip from his mug of tea. She looked up at him and blinked every time.
When the phone rang he flinched, disturbing the cat enough to make her jump off. He let his book drop to the floor as he walked toward the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Billy. This is Emma from the clinic.”
“Oh god, what happened?”
“I have no idea. The doctor just wants to see you tomorrow at four.”
“Yes, of course.”
V.
Dom was lying next to his bed, but the carpet just had too much give. He tried pressing harder, splaying his limbs further, but still the ground cushioned him beyond his comfort.
Dom looked around his small space. Nothing sharp in the toilet. The bed was attached to the ground. But underneath…
He grabbed his pencil triumphantly. It was nothing close to sharpened, but perhaps it would work.
He started with just a line. He pressed until the thin carpet began wearing. Soon he had a hole that he could squeeze his finger through. He sat and played with that for a while, watching his finger turn from red to purple to white after he removed it.
When they came in to give him the noon injections, he sat on top of the hole so they couldn’t see.
By the end of the day, there was a small square, just big enough for his cheek. He felt the cool concrete cradle his face for a few moments before the night nurse came in.