Title: I Crucify Myself

Author: Jessie-chan

Pairing: none

Rating: R

Warning(s): angst, drug abuse

Summary: "His fingers caressed its skin, silky-smooth skin, the pool inside sloshing around as he moved it up the length of his arm, that smoothness cold to his touch. Swaying back and forth, the remnants of his life, his dreams, his hopes, his confidence..."

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own them. Sorry.

Feedback: Welcomed and appreciated. ^_^

Beta: Grey

Author's Notes: This is likely a tad bit disturbing, but that's what I was going for. This one is a bit old; it's been sitting on my computer for a while, and I thought I'd go ahead and post it. It's up to you to decide what happened after the end of the story.


I Crucify Myself

"It keeps my temperature from rising
My blood is pumping through my veins..."
("Medication," Garbage)


Watching the liquid move in such a hypnotic manner left his eyes cold and focused, and he took in a slow breath, the breath filled with excited air and trembling momentum. The liquid swirled around inside its tube, thick and magnetic, warm and soothing. To see it slithering so delicately right before his eyes, tumbling over itself, crashing in waves of clear, unfeeling patterns, enclosed in such a tight encompassing ship, and as he continued to watch, his heart pounded ferociously, so hard within his chest that he could hear it beating in his ears...His fingers caressed its skin, silky-smooth skin, the pool inside sloshing around as he moved it up the length of his arm, that smoothness cold to his touch. Swaying back and forth, the remnants of his life, his dreams, his hopes, his confidence... It all remained inside, screaming to be released from what was holding it in its grasp, wanting so desperately to merge with his blood, to flow through his body, to pull him under its spell, to keep him steady and focused. Yet more out of control is what he always became.

Still, he thought as his finger ran along the narrow metal that was inching closer to its target, sometimes it was better to be out of control than to realize what had become of things. With that last thought weighing on his mind, he took in a sharp gasp as the familiar jabbing pain in his arm set in, and his heart raced the way it always did, that thrilling rush already making him break out into a cold sweat. He could feel it: his other half, his focus, his motivation, sliding delicately through his veins, moving through his arms, down into his chest, tightening itself around his heart. Closing his eyes for a moment, he felt his muscles aching that usual heavy feeling right before things went airy and melodic. A slight dizziness washed over him, but he brushed all thoughts aside and just allowed himself to completely relax. He slowly eased down onto the couch and laid down on his back, facing up to the ceiling as he waited. Waited for that calm, blue oblivion to set in. Waited for any previous thoughts to just magically be wisked away. Waited for the peaceful sleep to set in...

"Orlando."

That single word cut into his thoughts, or lack thereof, and he slowly and monotonously glanced over toward the door, every movement sluggish. "'Sup," he simply said, not being able to form complete thoughts.

"Damn it, Orlando, we're supposed to be on set in five minutes. You can't keep doing this every time. We never know if you're gonna make it out or not."

"'Course I'll make it...out," he added as an afterthought. It was the truth--he always did, and this time would be no exception.

Dom merely shook his head, disgusted with his friend once more. Usually, once they made it on set, things always went smoothly, even if Orlando did make a complete ass of himself, but that still never stopped the automatic butterflies from swarming around in his stomach at the thought that this could be the night that Orlando could completely just lose control and ruin the entire experience for them.

But the film wouldn't be ruined. Only heightened, mystically heightened and enigmatic through the elder man's eyes, eyes now so glazed over all he could do was stare off into space hypnotically...


"This thing inside of me
It screams the loudest sound
Sometimes I think I could
Burn..."
("Burn," Nine Inch Nails)


His mind was a jumble of thoughts, none of them making much sense to him, and the only ones really forming together completely were those that consisted of his lines and the script. He was never quite sure how he was able to do this and not completely screw up a scene, but he had to admit that he got a strange, exhilarating rush at the thought of challenging himself to see how far he could push himself before he completely boiled over the edge. It had long since become a game to him, a game of chance.

The scene was somehow enchanting, so much so that he could completely just lose himself in it, lose himself in the voices speaking around him, lose himself in the character he played, lose his mind in everything whirling around him. He shook his head vigorously back and forth, sickly satisfied with the lightheadedness he felt once he stopped, and he nearly stumbled over. How he managed to stay on his feet was beyond him, but he thrived on not knowing. It ate away at his skin like acid, burning away all the grief and all the insecurities, and just let him be free.


"Help me
The only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myself..."
("Closer," Nine Inch Nails)


Bursting into his dressing room once more, he felt his heart racing so wildly he wondered for a moment if he was going to pass out. His face was flushed, and beads of perspiration were running down the back of his neck and the sides of his face. As he attempted to catch his breath, he tried to remember what it was he'd been stressing over during the filming earlier that evening, but for the life of him he just couldn't remember. Shrugging, he walked over to the vanity to grab a clean towel and stopped once he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. How was it possible that he didn't even recognize the person staring back at him, when he'd been staring at that face in the mirror the past twenty-two years of his life? Yet still, that face that was mindlessly blinking in response to him was that of a mere stranger, abstract and dull.


"Make me hard and make me happy
Make me beautiful
Nothing satisfies me..."
("Sleep Together," Garbage)


Time was something that seemed to pass by without him even knowing it when he was floating through this dazed high that normally swam through his body more regularly as of late than ever before. The continuity somehow comforted him though, for everything was always the same: lie on a couch for about ten minutes, somehow make his way onto the set, lose himself in everything around him, go back to his dressing room, blindly change into some clean clothes, wander around the sets, find some random guy to take with him back to a deserted dressing room.

The walls seemed a bit closer this time, making him almost strangely paranoid, that paranoia not even bothering him. It was simply an observation. There just wasn't enough room for all the thoughts and opinions that were floating around aimlessly in his head to continue to flitter about per usual. The thick stench of cigarette smoke filled the air as he seemed to somehow find his way to some room in back where a few people were huddled together smoking. The aroma was addicting, like the sweetest honey drawing him in as its queen would end up devouring him whole. He momentarily wondered why he was allowing himself to be drawn in if he knew what the outcome would be, but as quickly as that pondering whirled through him, it was gone just as all his other thoughts would come and go so quickly he just couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing. The walls still seemed incredibly thick and restricting, and eventually he managed to find his way out of that tight black hole, only to resume his walk back up the hallway, although he wasn't alone this time. He couldn't remember what he'd said his name was, but he never remembered any of their names. It wasn't that he had trouble remembering names or faces, it was just that when it came to this, he figured he was just better off not knowing at all.

His lips eagerly accepted the small brown stick that he'd offered to him, inhaling more of that sweet poison that was what pushed him to go on living anymore.

Falling deeper, back into the black pit of what was once his mind, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. What wall? He just wasn't sure. It wasn't the hallway anymore, it was a deserted, dark room, where he could feel hands roaming up and down his arms, lips sliding down his neck. The fog inside his head was keeping him from even remotely becoming aroused, and he flinched slightly as the man shoved him roughly back against the wall once more as his lips engulfed his own. His body began to suck mindlessly from him, suddenly becoming alive at the taste of that mixture of narcotics and alcohol. It vaguely alarmed him that his body was reacting so aggressively, considering he could barely even remain on two feet without being practically held up against the wall, but that flow of corrupted, vile saliva continued to pass between them, giving him a pounding energy that seemed to throb rhythmically inside his head.

Moaning, he tugged at the man's lower lip with his teeth, nearly cutting the skin, before moving over to his cheek and to his ear, his hot breath rising goosebumps on his arms and giving him a sense of control and a rush he hadn't felt previously. Parting his lips ever so slightly, he creepily hissed into his ear, "Fuck me. Now."

As the man visually shuddered, he pulled back to look into Orlando's eyes, and Orlando tried to focus on his face. The only thing he could definitely see was the lust. No matter how terrified he was, there was still lust there, and that was all he needed right now. He thirsted on it, the same way his body thirsted on the heroin pulsing vividly through his veins, the same way his body thirsted for the comfort of acting, the same way his head thirsted for this warped feeling of disorder.

The man raised up a finger to his mouth, running the tip over his lips and gently gliding it across his teeth. "Not yet," he demanded, suddenly taking control of the situation that he had lost control of God only knows how long ago. Biting his lower lip curiously, he watched as the man slowly unbuttoned his pants and lowered himself to his knees. The air around him had grown so hot he merely continued taking in deep breaths, then leaned his head back as his eyelids fluttered. As his mouth engulfed him, he experienced the most erotic display of colors he'd ever witnessed before, those colors exploding before his closed eyes, within the confines of that blackness which remained inside his eyelids.

He seemed to know what he was doing, his hot mouth and tongue doing things to him that was sending him into a fit of violent convulsions, and he reached over to grab a hold of the back of the couch which was against the wall, so that he wouldn't completely fall over during his moment of complete and total ecstasy.

Letting out deep, gasping, rhythmic breaths, he tried to regain his composure as the man raised back to his feet, running his lips back over his warm neck and finally up to his own.

Orlando pulled away, pulled his pants back up, and fastened them with trembling fingers, then glanced over at the man, his stare lifeless and empty. "I figure you know your way out," he coldly stated, before turning away from him and letting himself out of the room without saying another word.


"Gray would be the color
If I had a heart"
("Something I Can Never Have," Nine Inch Nails)


"Where the hell have you been?"

"Around."

"You do this all the time, Orlando. You can't just keep wandering off like that. We've got to keep everything in line so we can film this scene."

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine."

"I'm getting incredibly tired of this."

"This what?"

"Attitude of yours."

"Then don't deal with it. No one is making you."

Orlando's eyes refused to show emotion. He merely blinked slowly before Peter's icy glare, but he felt no emotions one way or the other. He was immune.

"Well, let's get everything going. We've got to have this scene finished in two days."

"Right." Two days. Another scene, another take, another life.


"The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away"
("Hurt," Nine Inch Nails)


Scarred skin, a white sheet before him, waiting to receive its usual nectar. The thought momentarily washed over him that maybe he didn't need to do this this time, but then he quickly remembered that it was the only way he could get through time. Time had become his enemy, something that only passed as long as he didn't have to feel it moving, and he could just remain in the back of his mind and watch things as they happened around him. He slowly pushed in the syringe, feeling the needle passing through his skin and connecting with his vein. Through all of the pain he felt his eyes well up, and he wasn't sure exactly why. It wasn't because he felt anything, and he wasn't even aware of what an emotion actually was anymore, but maybe it was just because his body needed to somehow release those emotions that obviously weren't coming out any other way.

This time, instead of lying down on the couch, he wandered over to the mirror, a sudden sick feeling rushing through him. His face was pale. Dark cirles had formed under his eyes. Eyes...eyes so red and bloodshot he barely even recognized them. His hair was stringy and greasy-looking, from his lack of any form of hygiene whatsoever. He hadn't shaved in a day or two. The clothes he'd been wearing the other night still remained on his body, reeking of alcohol, sex, and marijuana.

Looking at himself and truly studying himself completely spooked him to the point where his eyes widened and he backed up, trying to get as far away from that image of himself as possible. He couldn't be that person. He wasn't that person. That person didn't exist. Did he?

"Oh God," he muttered, his voice quivery and hoarse, and he glanced back over at the small case he'd put the syringe into. Time seemed to stand still for a few moments once more as his eyes slowly closed and reopened in time to his pounding heart. It was right there...and he needed it. Or else he'd never get that mental image of himself out of his head. The more he stared, the more the longing in his body grew, and he knew what he had to do...


"Crucify myself
Every day
I crucify myself
And my heart is sick of being in
Chains"
("Crucify," Tori Amos)


The lights surrounded him so completely. The only thing he wanted to do was get lost in them...the way they swirled around his body, the way he could just disappear into the fog, disappear into oblivion until he finished filming this scene.

Yet something happened this time that had never happened before. The strap crossing his shoulder, the one holding the quiver to his back, grew so heavy it felt like it was digging into his skin, his shoulder almost aching so badly he thought someone was applying a fierce pressure against it. He stopped for a moment and glanced over towards Viggo, who was looking at him questioningly, for he had just stopped talking and was standing there, his gaze moving incredibly slowly to survey his surroundings. Back towards Elijah, who was also frowning towards him. Dom? Orlando turned the other direction to look back towards Dom, but before he could make it that far, the dizziness washed over him so suddenly, his head grew light and he felt a painful ache develop within his chest. Letting out a choke, he felt the convulsions inside his stomach growing by the second, and he finally felt himself collapsing down to the ground, pure pandemonium erupting around him. And as he clutched his stomach one last time, he felt his eyelids fluttering, his eyes rolling into the deep hollow trenches of his mind, and everything went black.


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