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I don’t need him, Dom thinks as he stares at the empty bottle of gin. I don’t need him and his stupid American accent. I don’t need him and his mother fucking eyes, and I don’t need his mother fucking mouth, or his mother fucking gap. I don’t need to hear those bloody sighs of his. I don’t need to hear him giggle at my pronunciation of things. I don’t need to pick up his blasted American colloquialisms. To hell with mother fucking.
His hand wanders to his crotch and he strokes himself through the fabric of his jeans as he staggers towards the liquor cabinet. The idea of vodka is so vague behind the haze of intoxication and sleep, says he, knowing perfectly well the liquid is not, that he doesn’t really notice what he’s drinking until he shivers at the burning and his head swims, really deep, diving far past the shallow zone, floundering in a place where words can’t form anymore, just images.
When he sets the bottle down, he tries to focus back on sex.
I don’t need his simpering, pouting mouth with those heavy lips, or uh, that swift agile tongue gliding and swirling in all the right places. His hands in my hands, fingers twining, delving into hair or lack-there-of. What a stupid hair cut.
His orgasm leaves him feeling dirty, wasted, lonely, sick, disgruntled, unsatisfied. Elijah left him floating in oblivion, like Dom was all the gods combined and Elijah was the most spiritual, blissful, chaste oblation he’d ever received from the villagers.
You always were too fast on your own. No patience at all.
“Shut the hell up.” There’s no response, and his voice cracks from the alcohol, sure, not that crooked breaking feeling that’s been growing in his chest all evening, the slaughter of his ribcage’s inhabitants. His mouth is wet, really wet, his eyes crinkle and squint so much it hurts, and he moves a hand to cover his wails. Everything’s heaving now, heaving itself out the opening he’s so desperately trying to block.
He doesn’t want the sadness to exist, he wants it to simply shiver into something lighter that could be killed with some aspirin.
Sinking, legs tiring, he’s on the floor, shaking, shivering, howling, sobbing.
“I don’t need you, I don’t I don’t I don’t!” He sees the mutilated photos surrounding him and picks up half of Elijah’s face. “Oh God, why?" He doesn’t sound like himself, he sounds aching and throbbing kicking bitten wounded torn in half and left to bleed on a bed of nails.
Hey, says Vodka, you don’t need him if you are him.
“What?” He looks at the perfection, stained by the gap. He wonders what it might feel like, being him and all. Draping Elijah’s legs over the side of the bed, smoking Elijah’s clove cigarettes, kissing Dom’s mouth, tasting and smelling and hearing and seeing from a completely different stand-point. A flip-side to his own paradigm.
He gets off the floor and reaches for the vodka, his hand hesitates as he sees a sharpie. Dom pulls it into his fingers, and sits back on the floor with the pictures, picks up a not-so-terribly-shredded Elijah and tries it, just to see...
“I don’t need you if I am you,” he whispers privately, swirls the pen over the picture and looks at it curiously.
Elijah J. Wood
It looks so different -- feels strange.
No, says the forgotten vodka, feels divine. You don’t need him if you are him.
In the morning, Dom’s face is plastered with dirt from the floor, black ink marks across his cheek, shirt, arm, hands, stomach. How did that happen? He doesn’t see the picture, he can’t differentiate it from the others, even after he slips on his way to get some aspirin.
Back on the cutting room floor again.
