The options I have are pitiful, so it means that I've had to lock myself away. Low on cash, on the run, and fucked if I'm going to do anything as demeaning as sell my ass on the street. Yeah, I may be Alex Krycek, weasel of the century - or maybe that's *rat* of the century, as some would say - but I do have some degree of pride.
I have to scoff at that thought. If I had any real pride, I wouldn't be here, sweating buckets, shaking and twitching as I begin the process of letting the poison slowly relinquish my body. If I had any pride, I wouldn't have gone out that night and reinitiated contact with an old dealer.
If I had any pride, I wouldn't be wired to heroin.
The night I started using again was hellish, yeah, but it's not like I haven't been raped before. I think what made it different, and therefore made me seek out chemical solace, was that this time it was an assault made on me by Mulder.
Hell, I've been molested, raped, abused, what have you, so many damn times in my life that I should be immune to any emotional effects of just one more incident. But when I see what he did, playing like a film projected in the back of my skull, it's unbearable. And the hours immediately after the assault were the worst, of course. Trying to deal with it is what made me go out. Stupid idiot that I am.
Lying here in the dark, I spend more time thinking about the event that drove me back to drugs for the first time since my late teens. Against my will. I don't *want* to think about it. It was Mulder who did this to me, who, in spite of all of our vicious history, I never would have thought would attack me in this most destructive of ways. I always felt something for him, and I still do. I'm not free completely of vain thoughts of peaceful co-existence with the man. Seriously. I mean, he rapes me, and I still love him, somehow. Go figure.
As I said, I'm used to rape, abuse, to people not listening when I say no. I take it in stride. But with Mulder...it's different. Despite everything, I had hopes. Dreams. Foolish, but true. And the only thing that keeps the pain at bay is the junk. I hate needing a drug to cope with my own mind.
I sniffle loudly, sprawled on my tattered couch, and the action causes a string of sneezes that wrack my body. When that finally stops, electric shocks radiate through my limbs, threatening sanity. I can't unbend my knees. I can't still my twitching muscles for longer than 30 seconds. I know that I won't be sleeping again for days.
Every second lasts a minute, every minute lasts an hour, and the seven to ten days that this withdrawal will take seem to be decades stretching out before me.
Shit. I mean, I only had my last fix less than 16 hours ago, but I feel like I've been junksick for years. I hate the shit, but I would die to have one more shot right now.
And *that* is precisely why I won't go out and get more.
Well, that and the fact that I had a man from down the street nail the door shut from the outside. I'm not leaving, damn it. I'm sick of this bullshit. I'm sick of the waiting, the scamming, the scoring, the abscesses, the tracks, the way my ankles are bruised and battered. With only one arm, my ankles were my best bet for hitting. But it's time this stopped.
And this is only the beginning. It only gets worse from here.
Don't know how much longer I can take this. I don't. I just
I've started puking now. I cough, and it makes me vomit bile. I vomit, and my bowels turn to liquid. Bathroom's a mess. Smells like sour sweat and shit and fear and chemicals in here. Pain. And suffering. Permanent hard-on, normal for withdrawal from opiate narcotics, but not pleasurable. Unbearable. Touch it and I come. Seven times already today. Nothing is coming out anymore. I'm coming dry.
I can't can't can't can't
//"What the fuck do you want, Mulder?"
"Nothing. I want nothing, and that would be you. I knew I'd find you eventually, Krycek."//
Can't do this. Don't want to remember
//He shoves me against the wall. Pistol's barrel grinding against the back of my skull. My own gun removed, clip taken out, both thrown in opposite directions. Jeans roughly yanked down around knees//
*THRASH THRASH THRASH*
Shaking freezing sweating spasms convulsing
//...pause and sounds of rustling clothing. His weight holds me to the wall still, the gun pressing in hard, bruising. Sound of something being uncapped, squelching noises as he obviously lubes himself. Thank God for small favors//
Dry heave. Nothing, not even bile. Wipe mouth. Lie down again on cold tile floor.
//...rough fingers plunging into my ass, stretching me. One. Two. Three. Quick, careless withdrawal. Replaced by huge bluntness. Shove. Pain, burning. I cry out, and he just grunts in response//
//...one solid thrust and he's in me to the hilt. Mulder's cock up my ass. Not how I wanted this to happen. Supposed to be tender, with care. Dreams, stupid dreams. He withdraws, and slams into me again//
//...hard rhythm. Mulder's substantial penis pounding violently, seemingly trying to reach through me to drill into the wall. Sound and feel of his balls slapping against my bare ass. His loud, rhythmic grunts. Gun hand has slipped, now clutching my shoulder. Other hand digging into my hip. Cold breeze chilling my exposed skin//
//...shock as hand holding my hip slips around and grasps my own hard cock. Humiliation. Hard from my own rape. Chuckle from behind. Hand begins roughly pumping my erection, coaxing precum from the tip. I meet his thrusts. Buck forward into his hand//
//...feel it building. Rushing on me like a freight train. Finally come, spurting jets of semen against the wall. Pounding in my ass doesn't stop. Grunting doesn't stop. Then...stillness, loud groan. He's tensed behind me. Feel of hard length of cock inside me jerking and spasming. Emptying his come up my ass//
Come again. Eight times so far today. Stickiness to join the rest. Boxers plastered to my skin with two days worth of come. Doesn't feel good. Hurts more than anything.
//...heavy weight of his body slumping against my back. Long groan. Sigh. Weight disappears, and slick penis slips out of my body. Sound of clothing rustling, zipper being done up. Gun barrel traced down my back, over my left ass cheek. Feel of Mulder's semen dripping out of my hole, down the inside of my leg.
"...what did I...fuck. I can't...oh no. Krycek...fuck."
Sound of fleeing footsteps. Alone with jeans around knees, come on my ass and thighs. Hike up trousers. Mulder. Mulder couldn't have done this. Cry. No. Not cry. Find dealer//
Yes. Find dealer.
I'm gagging, but I'm getting up.
Get back up again.
Just one shot. One more fix. Can't handle
Door splinters as I ram my shoulder into it. I'm getting out if it kills me.
Later, Day Three
Yes. Junk. One more. I can start again tomorrow. I can quit tomorrow. For real.
Spoon. Water. Filter. Clean rig. Alcohol swab.
I can do it all tomorrow. It won't be so bad. I can deal with it. Everything's okay. Everything. Is. Just. Fine.
I wake up to the askew door opening slowly, tentatively. I peel my drooping eyelids back. It's Mulder.
How the fuck did he find me?
He takes in the surroundings. I see his eyes take in the paraphernalia littered around my body, and I can't help but flush with embarrassment. I feel so weak and pathetic, and I don't want to meet his eyes. But when I do, it's shock I feel first.
"Alex...I'm so sorry..."