Pleasures of Pain - Chapter 2
Jun. 19th, 2010 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
liquidtearsTitle: Pleasures of Pain
Rating: NC17
Summary: All he wants is a reply... but hears nothing from her. It makes him snap and then he discovers the pleasures of pain.
Warning: not your average story, so be warned.
The following day I checked my email first thing in the morning, but stil did she not reply to me. Yes, 40 emails of newsletters and my livejournal buddies, but still not of the one actress I would sell my soul for to be with. I strangely thought of maybe going gothic and acquiring a spell book that would have an incantation to invoke a demon or entity I could sell my soul to.
Strangely I also didn't cry at the loss of that poster. I didn't feel like a part of my soul had been ripped from me like it had been from that wall.
So I continued to live my life in anticaption of that one email, or maybe more of those.
My birthday was finally there and my mom had surprised me with a new copy of the poster I had crumbled into a ball last month. "Thanks, mom." I said to her and gave her a hug, when I actually didn't care about that poster any more. Still the actress I was in love with and had sent so many emails to hadn't replied to me. I remember telling her that my birthday was approaching soon and that it would be extra special if she could send me an email on my birthday. Yet my dad was the one who gave me a far more interesting present: a razor. I was starting to show some stubble. And so I got my first lesson from my dad. I was further away to becoming a man, or so my dad told me. And that girls didn't want a bushy guy's face to look at. No, it had to be baby soft without one touch of stubble.
The experience was interesting. It hurt a little bit, but (disappointingly) I didn't cut any skin.
The empty space on my bedroom wall hadn't been replaced by the poster that I had gotten for my birthday yet.
~~~~
One day at school I got bored because I had a free period. So I went into the men's room with my backpack and selected a free urinal booth, but instead of dropping my pants I pulled out my pocket knife. I placed it on my clothed knee as I rolled down the shirt sleeve of my right arm and then picked up the object I had placed on me.
I hesitated before I sank the knife into my wrist. Again I didn't scream out but a tear slid down my face as I thought why she wouldn't reply to me. I had always suspected the 'too busy' card as the number one reason... why was it always so hard when I chatted with people who said that they had sent an email and got a reply or even an autograph from her? And then when I try to send her an email she never replies to it.
Maybe she thought I wasn't worthy of a reply. Maybe I was strange. It wasn't like I went to my facebook page and write "I cut myself for the very first time and it felt so good. I recommend it." on my wall.
I briefly wondered what would happen if I was in a hospital room and she was there... but not because I had an accident, no, her boyfriend had gotten an accident and we happened to be in the same room. How would I react? How would she react? Yeah right, as if that would ever happen. And I had never sent her a picture of myself so of course she wouldn't know the other guy who was in that hospital bed was her number one fan.
Buying pictures and posters that had her signature on it off on eBay just wasn't the same. She had signed them for someone else and they were setting those pictures and posters up for sale. Never would I have the pleasure of standing in that long queue and have a picture signed by her.
I thought about all of this as I watched the blood trail from my inflicted wound. I pulled my knife back and lapped up the blood before it could spill on the tiled floor. Again I reached for my backpack where I got a piece of gauze tape to seal off my inflicted wound. Then I rolled up my sleeve again.
I got up from the seat and flushed, so if there were any boys in the men's room, they would have thought I had been there because I had to use it for an emergency of nature. After I had put the roll of gauze tape and the pocket knife back in my backpack, I left the bathroom.
Very reluctantly I taped the four corners of my "new" poster and applied it to the wall.
I looked at her and felt myself fall for her once more, back when I had first bought the poster. I put my lips against hers for a short period of time. "I'm sorry." I whispered because of having yanked the previous one off the wall a month before.
Yet a few days later I was having another episode like that. Instead of choosing a poster, I chose a photograph and tore it into pieces.
*Try to find this one, Mom.* I thought after I had watched the small pieces of the photograph fall into the trash can...
Rating: NC17
Summary: All he wants is a reply... but hears nothing from her. It makes him snap and then he discovers the pleasures of pain.
Warning: not your average story, so be warned.
The following day I checked my email first thing in the morning, but stil did she not reply to me. Yes, 40 emails of newsletters and my livejournal buddies, but still not of the one actress I would sell my soul for to be with. I strangely thought of maybe going gothic and acquiring a spell book that would have an incantation to invoke a demon or entity I could sell my soul to.
Strangely I also didn't cry at the loss of that poster. I didn't feel like a part of my soul had been ripped from me like it had been from that wall.
So I continued to live my life in anticaption of that one email, or maybe more of those.
My birthday was finally there and my mom had surprised me with a new copy of the poster I had crumbled into a ball last month. "Thanks, mom." I said to her and gave her a hug, when I actually didn't care about that poster any more. Still the actress I was in love with and had sent so many emails to hadn't replied to me. I remember telling her that my birthday was approaching soon and that it would be extra special if she could send me an email on my birthday. Yet my dad was the one who gave me a far more interesting present: a razor. I was starting to show some stubble. And so I got my first lesson from my dad. I was further away to becoming a man, or so my dad told me. And that girls didn't want a bushy guy's face to look at. No, it had to be baby soft without one touch of stubble.
The experience was interesting. It hurt a little bit, but (disappointingly) I didn't cut any skin.
The empty space on my bedroom wall hadn't been replaced by the poster that I had gotten for my birthday yet.
~~~~
One day at school I got bored because I had a free period. So I went into the men's room with my backpack and selected a free urinal booth, but instead of dropping my pants I pulled out my pocket knife. I placed it on my clothed knee as I rolled down the shirt sleeve of my right arm and then picked up the object I had placed on me.
I hesitated before I sank the knife into my wrist. Again I didn't scream out but a tear slid down my face as I thought why she wouldn't reply to me. I had always suspected the 'too busy' card as the number one reason... why was it always so hard when I chatted with people who said that they had sent an email and got a reply or even an autograph from her? And then when I try to send her an email she never replies to it.
Maybe she thought I wasn't worthy of a reply. Maybe I was strange. It wasn't like I went to my facebook page and write "I cut myself for the very first time and it felt so good. I recommend it." on my wall.
I briefly wondered what would happen if I was in a hospital room and she was there... but not because I had an accident, no, her boyfriend had gotten an accident and we happened to be in the same room. How would I react? How would she react? Yeah right, as if that would ever happen. And I had never sent her a picture of myself so of course she wouldn't know the other guy who was in that hospital bed was her number one fan.
Buying pictures and posters that had her signature on it off on eBay just wasn't the same. She had signed them for someone else and they were setting those pictures and posters up for sale. Never would I have the pleasure of standing in that long queue and have a picture signed by her.
I thought about all of this as I watched the blood trail from my inflicted wound. I pulled my knife back and lapped up the blood before it could spill on the tiled floor. Again I reached for my backpack where I got a piece of gauze tape to seal off my inflicted wound. Then I rolled up my sleeve again.
I got up from the seat and flushed, so if there were any boys in the men's room, they would have thought I had been there because I had to use it for an emergency of nature. After I had put the roll of gauze tape and the pocket knife back in my backpack, I left the bathroom.
Very reluctantly I taped the four corners of my "new" poster and applied it to the wall.
I looked at her and felt myself fall for her once more, back when I had first bought the poster. I put my lips against hers for a short period of time. "I'm sorry." I whispered because of having yanked the previous one off the wall a month before.
Yet a few days later I was having another episode like that. Instead of choosing a poster, I chose a photograph and tore it into pieces.
*Try to find this one, Mom.* I thought after I had watched the small pieces of the photograph fall into the trash can...
Tonight would be my very first time that I would shave all by myself. So I applied some shaving cream on my face. I tapped the razor in the water and then went my business of shaving myself. I was almost done when I tapped the razor in the water again to remove it off any facial hair and then it happened. A place that I had already shaved perfectly clean was the place I now slid the razor over and I felt the sting from the cut that I made.
I watched in the mirror the deep line of blood that slid from my self-inflicted wound.
Again I didn't cry out. No, I smirked as I watched the stream of crimson... until I reached for the roll of toilet paper, dabbed it with water and applied it to my cheek to clean the stream of crimson until it stopped bleeding.
One thing was for sure.
SHE is the cause of my pleasure of pain...
to be continued...