DrWorm (drworm) wrote,

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I don't wanna go do the play. Because I'm such a lazy bastard.

And I'm also such a creative prostitute-wannabe.

Jesus Nitelite

There is no such thing as safety. People fool themselves into thinking there will always be someone there to protect them: a parent, a friend, a lover, a policeman. But when it comes down to it, in the heat of the moment—of every moment of every day—the only person who can protect you is yourself.

I was too weak, too scared, too paralyzed with fear to protect myself. In the darkness the clinical scent of urinal cakes combined with ammonia plugged my sinuses as the coppery taste of exhaustion rose in the back of my throat; I thought it was blood at the time. I was sweating, I remember; my hands were so slick that they slid frictionlessly over the cool tile of the walls. There was nothing to give me leverage, to help me support my own weight at the very least. I felt complete and utter helplessness, only trying to endure and endure until it was over.

I’m no angel with pretty wings. I’m not pure or virginal or philosophic. I’m only human; my sins are original. But there was something fascinating about the thin, red blood that coated my fingertips and the backs of my thighs. I stood, locked in a stall and leaning against the door, unable to do anything except look. My thighs were pinkened and blotchy with exertion and I just stared and marveled at how ugly it was. He turned the lights back on when he left. No words, just lights.

It’s a good way to disorient someone, turning out the lights. I looked up from the sink and made a small noise in the back of my throat when I was plunged unexpectedly into darkness. I may have even said someone’s name, Dom’s or Orli’s probably, assuming they were playing a trick on me. Then an unfamiliar hand looped around my waist, pulling me into a cavern of heat and bad breath. Uncomfortable weight settled on my shoulder; the strange man rested his chin there. I could smell garlic strongly as the pulses of his breath ricocheted off the shell of my ear.

I’d excused myself from the table to use the bathroom, almost running into the waiter as he came to take our drink order. I’d smiled and asked for a Coke. Nothing else. Just a Coke.

When I reached my hands back, trying to push him off of me, away from my body, my palms came into contact first with his upper thighs. His slacks were smooth. I moved up quickly, not trying to make the movement erotic or sensual in any way, and my fingers soon brushed over the material of a waiter’s apron with the bump of a notebook in one pocket. I tried to squirm away then, pushing with all my might against his hip so that I could break free and run to the door, run to the safety of the table with its checkered placemats, run to my friends and tell them we had to leave, we had to leave then and there, and I would grab my coat and just get as far-fucking-away as I possibly could. I would run down the streets, not entirely sure where I was going because that wasn’t the point; the point was distance.

But as I struggled, the harsh sound of metal grating against metal invaded my ears. The doorknob jiggled once, twice, three times. “Elijah?” Orli’s voice called me, sounding thin and far away. “’Lijah? Are you still in there?” That’s when I realized the door was locked, really locked, and I opened my mouth to scream Orlando’s name, to keep him there almost within reach. But before I could say anything, make even the slightest noise, a scrap of fabric was pushed roughly into my mouth. It tasted like laundry detergent and I gagged; bile rose in the back of my throat and for a moment I was sure I was going to throw up. I bent forward at the waist, closing my eyes as my body was spun slightly to the right and pressed against the edge of the sink I’d been using when the lights went out.

The sweet and slightly bitter tasting rag that rasped against my tongue and soft palate made me realize that this had been planned, someone had planned this carefully, and not necessarily for me. The doorknob rattled and I felt a hysterical desire to shout ‘Surprise!’ Nervous giggles bubbled in my stomach and I thought I might choke on them. This had to have been planned, but it couldn’t have been planned by this stranger, this employee, this waiter for me and only me. It couldn’t have. So it was simply luck of the draw that I’d chosen to leave the table, to use the bathroom at that particular time.

I wanted to tell Orli that the joke was over, and that it had been a good joke. But it was time to end it because all I really wanted was the comfort of a glass of Coke with drops of condensation forming on the outside of the glass and dribbling down the edges to stain the red and white checked placemats.

One hand stroked the small of my back, while the other pried impatiently from behind at the buttons of my jeans. Orlando’s voice drifted back again, exasperated. “Okay… whatever you’re doing in there, I hope you don’t choose to share it with the rest of us when you get back.”

Don’t worry, Orli, I thought. I don’t really think I will.

I looked up and met my eyes in the mirror. They almost glowed in the dim light that filtered in from above, below, and to the sides of the door, where there was a rim of tiny space. Tentacles of warm, yellow light probed at the linoleum floor and drifted up the sinks, over the mirrors’ hazy reflections, barely touching the stalls. It made the wetness in my eyes shine eerily, two pinpricks manifesting from out of a hazy figure, my face, my body which was entwined with the body that was behind me—holding me—to create a hybrid shadow, a massive deformity.

With a sigh and a shuffle of feet, Orlando left and I felt so alone, incredibly alone. The front of my jeans was open, sagging slightly around my hips.

... 'tis all I have so far. It's slightly embarrassing... I've written so many squicky-ish fics like this that it just doesn't register anymore. And it becomes challenging to keep something so random interesting and slightly original.

I like the lines about the Cokes, though.

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