Yeah. This is a really, really depressing work of fiction. In involves semi-consensual homosexual relations, graphic language (for me, anyway), violence, and a generally depressed point of view. If you are at a maturity level below that which can handle such things, please go read some poetry or something. Thanks.

Suicidal Tendencies

(I Hate Everything by Three Days Grace)

by Saa

Every time we lie awake

After every hit we take

The soft sucking sound, slow drags on the end of a cigarette lacking in filter, the mute exhale of smoke against a frosty window. It all mingles into a simple mood, a single thought echoing through a mind so fractured that it’s almost – almost – broken.

Every feeling that I get

But I haven’t missed you yet

It’s happened again, just like every other time, like clockwork. He needs me, I need him, and he’s too proud to admit it, and I’m too weak to deny him. Too spineless to stand up to him, and, really, I think I want this as much as he does. The warmth, the ice, the heavy feeling, the stretch of muscles, the crack of bone. Blood and steel, chains that I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to.

Every roommate kept awake

By every silent scream we make

I knew that this was going to happen. The moment I set foot in his building, hell, the second I made the drunken turn onto this street, I knew where I was going, and I sure as fuck knew why. I’m not stupid, just weak.

Happens about every two weeks. I stayed away for almost three months once, a long time ago. I’ve never bled so much in my life as I did the night that I came back to him. He made me promise, promise to always come back. He didn’t even have to ask, but the words placated him, I think.

I’ve never broken that promise. I don’t think I could… even if I wanted to.

One of these days, this is going to kill me. I know that. Through all the heat, all the ice, all the bloody fucking, he’ll kill me eventually. But I would die without it.

All the feelings that I get

But I still don’t miss you yet

He’s standing at the window, blocking from my frame the rays of sunlight that signal a dawn approaching. I was out all night, dancing, drinking. Stumbling, shitfaced, to his apartment and pounding on the door, falling into his arms in a drunken heap of flesh and vinyl.

I didn’t expect him to tuck me into bed, get me a glass of water and an Advil.

And, of course, he didn’t.

I got, instead, the cold comfort of manacles strapped around my wrists, the simultaneous weight and lightness of being hung against the wall, arching against the flaking paint job and whimpering into the heat of his mouth over mine.

And then he left me.

He’s always preferred fucking sober.

Only when I stop to think about it…

The whole situation is a little screwed up, if you ask me. Not that it isn’t all my fault, really. But I never… I never want him until it breaks, until it all gets to be too much. I hate myself, hate myself for what he does to me, what he makes me beg for, but when it comes to the end of the line... I always go back to him. It’s up to him to give me my release.

I remember when we met. I was drunk, half-naked and ready for some psycho to pick me up and kill me. Call it a masochistic tendency, call it assisted suicide, but I wanted it so bad.

He took me home. As soon as the handcuffs snapped around my wrists, I felt the amazing relief of death in its everlasting entirety looming before me, above me, inside me. Death, the sable-eyed man of no more than twenty-five, lithe and muscular, sweat glossing tan skin and dampening already dark hair.

Death was beautiful.
I, on the other hand, was not. Am not. Skinny, pale, wasted. But he could take every inch of me and make it dark, make me scream for release, make me hard enough to hurt. I can’t get it anywhere else.

He didn’t kill me. I don’t know whether I was relieved or disappointed.

I hate everything about you

…

I didn’t get sick; rarely do, hangovers aren’t something that plague me.

Six hours, I’m sober enough to please him, and he’s out of cigarettes. Filters, torn off before the cancerous toxins ever passed his lips, litter the floor. This apartment, it’s disgusting. The paint is spotted with age, water marks on the ceiling, a ratty bed in one corner, a sink in the other. A single doorway leads to the dingy bathroom, a graying towel on the rack, porcelain chipped and cracked.

In the midst of the squalor, though, he is beautiful. The gleam of silver in his hand, my impending high, the dark glint in depths harder than the metal clenched between his digits… it sends icy tendrils up my spine, curling into my brain.

He does it for me, the thing that I am too weak to create for myself. Beautifully tinted fluid dripping off my fingers, crimson grooves moving along a canvas almost white. It takes almost an hour for him to satisfy himself with this use of my flesh, each press of the blade making me moan in something not entirely separate from pleasure. Not quite there, though.

It’s not… not over yet, though. I can’t leave without being degraded further. There is another use for my body, still, that he takes without hesitation.

I hate everything about you

…

Manacles unsnapped, dead weight against the floor. I’ve lost enough blood to be unable to walk, and he’s already anticipated this. Lifted, then, in his arms. Childlike, if not for the knowledge of what comes next, and the sting of patterns engraved into my skin, red feathering and dripping down my skin and onto the faded carpeting.

The bed creaks as he sets me on it, my face already in the pillow. I can’t see what he’s doing, but the soft buzz of a zipper is enough of a hint. I’m already naked; he’d never let me into his apartment without removing my clothing. It’s a power thing; my nudity is a symbol of infantile weakness. I have never seen him without the concealing fabric that hugs his flesh.

It doesn’t matter.

He enters without preparation, the tear of flesh always a part of this ritual. After a few moments, there’s enough blood to let him thrust unhindered into my body, and the age-old rhythm catches us both, I think, because I can hear softly hitched breathing with every shift. My teeth are clenched around the cotton padding, anything, and screams are muffled against the pillow.

I don’t know how long it takes, my mind already shattered into a thousand bits, but the bitter sensation of him hitting that spot deep within mixed with the rush of heat that was his final thrust, and blackened vision spots red. The comfort of him above me, inside me, leaves, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m finished.

He’s never had to touch my dick to make me come.

"I love you." Rattling in my throat, raspy, muffled against the pillow. I don’t expect an answer, and I don’t get one.

Why do I love you?

Only when I stop to think about you

I know

I hate

You hate

I hate… {me}

There’s the rustle of clothing, and the soft click of the door closing.

He’s gone, and I’m alone in this hellhole, curling into his blanket as if I were a child, as if he raped me. As if I hadn’t come for it. Come for him, and he was disgusted with me. Blood and semen staining the sheets, leaking through vinyl as I try to put my pants back on.

More flesh tears before I can get my body into the skintight fabric, a short cry issuing from bloodied lips before I can control myself.

I can’t die in his apartment. Can’t burden him with staying.

He expects me to be gone, and I will be.

I would rather bleed out in the alley than in this bed. In this apartment.

I hate everything about you

Why do I love you?

Goodbye. I won’t be back…

© Samantha Styers

2004