I Am Your Tourniquet
Chapter Four
“The person you are trying to contact is not available at the moment. Please leave a message after...”
Marilyn slammed his phone onto the worktop. Rather than leave another drunken, tearful message on Twiggy’s answer machine (for what felt like the millionth time) he rubbed his damp eyes until his vision dissolved into stars and put his aching head back on the pillow to think.
What hurt him the most was that Twiggy didn’t think he loved him. Oh, God did he love him. He loved him so much it hurt, it felt like his insides were shredding each time they were apart – the only thing that had kept him going was knowing that it wouldn’t be long until he had this beautiful man at his feet again. He had him right where he wanted him – worshipping him – and as wrong as it was, oh God it felt too good to stop.
What did he want from Twiggy? Forgiveness? He knew deep down he didn’t deserve it. He was the bad guy in this story, and the bad guy always gets what he deserves. He didn’t die – he just had to live with it. He was forced to live with the pain, the loss, tormented endlessly by regrets and feelings of guilt far stronger than he’d ever experienced.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and his forefinger. Christ, it had only been a week but he felt like he was dying, this was killing him. Fuck this, he fumbled for the light switch and then for the knife he knew was in his top drawer. He thought back to the last time he used it...
“Shut up.”
“Marilyn...”moaned the smaller man underneath him. “I want you to...I want you to cut me.”
“I said shut up.” Straddling him, he drew the knife from his shoulder down to his waist, hard enough to leave a line but not enough to draw blood. The gasps from underneath him heightened.
“Ma...Marilyn....ffffuckkkkkk.....”
“I said shut the FUCK up!” pinning his arms above his head, he twisted the blade inwards, red liquid seeping from Twiggy’s side. The bassist’s eyes widened in pain and finally in bliss before he broke from the older man’s hold and grabbed onto his shoulders, bringing him near. The feeling of his blood running between their chests was enough to send him over the edge.
“I...I-love-you!” he gasped, climaxing and soaking them both from between his legs. The singer’s stony face showed no emotion but satisfaction. He knew that would leave a scar...
He brought the knife slashing down to his wrist. He cut deeper than he’d ever cut before, relishing every drop of red liquid he could get out. Physical pain seemed to be his only escape from this fucked-up reality he’d managed to plunge himself into, and oh God did he need an escape. Frustrated and needing an outlet, he pressed down deeper and further now, alcohol having disorientated his pain perception. He dropped the knife to the floor as the tears began to flow from his already reddened eyes. He stood up a little unsteadily and turned around to see a total stranger stood in front of him, staring back. The stranger looked dreadful – his hair hung messily around his shoulders, his face looked grey and drained of colour, his expression one of pure madness. Marilyn realised with horror he was staring at his own reflection, this revolting stranger was no more than the image reflected by the bedroom mirror on the wall. “FUCK!” he screamed, angrily lashing out at it with bloodied fists clenched. Fragments of glass shattered all around him, falling to the floor like the pieces of his life. His hands were now bleeding profusely, covering his arms, and it wasn’t long before he felt the world around him begin to swirl and eventually turn black.
Marilyn slammed his phone onto the worktop. Rather than leave another drunken, tearful message on Twiggy’s answer machine (for what felt like the millionth time) he rubbed his damp eyes until his vision dissolved into stars and put his aching head back on the pillow to think.
What hurt him the most was that Twiggy didn’t think he loved him. Oh, God did he love him. He loved him so much it hurt, it felt like his insides were shredding each time they were apart – the only thing that had kept him going was knowing that it wouldn’t be long until he had this beautiful man at his feet again. He had him right where he wanted him – worshipping him – and as wrong as it was, oh God it felt too good to stop.
What did he want from Twiggy? Forgiveness? He knew deep down he didn’t deserve it. He was the bad guy in this story, and the bad guy always gets what he deserves. He didn’t die – he just had to live with it. He was forced to live with the pain, the loss, tormented endlessly by regrets and feelings of guilt far stronger than he’d ever experienced.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and his forefinger. Christ, it had only been a week but he felt like he was dying, this was killing him. Fuck this, he fumbled for the light switch and then for the knife he knew was in his top drawer. He thought back to the last time he used it...
“Shut up.”
“Marilyn...”moaned the smaller man underneath him. “I want you to...I want you to cut me.”
“I said shut up.” Straddling him, he drew the knife from his shoulder down to his waist, hard enough to leave a line but not enough to draw blood. The gasps from underneath him heightened.
“Ma...Marilyn....ffffuckkkkkk.....”
“I said shut the FUCK up!” pinning his arms above his head, he twisted the blade inwards, red liquid seeping from Twiggy’s side. The bassist’s eyes widened in pain and finally in bliss before he broke from the older man’s hold and grabbed onto his shoulders, bringing him near. The feeling of his blood running between their chests was enough to send him over the edge.
“I...I-love-you!” he gasped, climaxing and soaking them both from between his legs. The singer’s stony face showed no emotion but satisfaction. He knew that would leave a scar...
He brought the knife slashing down to his wrist. He cut deeper than he’d ever cut before, relishing every drop of red liquid he could get out. Physical pain seemed to be his only escape from this fucked-up reality he’d managed to plunge himself into, and oh God did he need an escape. Frustrated and needing an outlet, he pressed down deeper and further now, alcohol having disorientated his pain perception. He dropped the knife to the floor as the tears began to flow from his already reddened eyes. He stood up a little unsteadily and turned around to see a total stranger stood in front of him, staring back. The stranger looked dreadful – his hair hung messily around his shoulders, his face looked grey and drained of colour, his expression one of pure madness. Marilyn realised with horror he was staring at his own reflection, this revolting stranger was no more than the image reflected by the bedroom mirror on the wall. “FUCK!” he screamed, angrily lashing out at it with bloodied fists clenched. Fragments of glass shattered all around him, falling to the floor like the pieces of his life. His hands were now bleeding profusely, covering his arms, and it wasn’t long before he felt the world around him begin to swirl and eventually turn black.