But, God, I want him.
I want to feel his skin under my hands, the flush of bruising, of trauma,
warming my palms and fingertips. There is something almost sensual about the
eruption of violence. Flesh on flesh, gasping breaths, sounds of effort—the
song of a pair of twisted loves in extremis.
Every time we meet it's like that—the breaking of a wave against a tidal wall,
martyrs throwing themselves on the flames, we surge against each other, against
ourselves. We clash, we fight, we fuck. And just for a moment, we stop—
Then it starts all over again.
There's something freeing in the knowledge that for a few suspended moments I am
the centre of his world, the focus of that intense concentration as his fingers
bite into my wrist, his teeth pattern my shoulders in a design of petechiaed
flowers.
Harsh breaths, the rhythmic pull and strain of bodies driving for the final
culmination of an attraction, a passion, a lust that will not die—even in the
face of unimaginable adversity. Yet, even here, trapped in this instant of
surrender, of weakness, held in thrall by our human frailties, we still battle
each other, still try to hold on to the hatred, hold onto the violence. We
punish each other for our lack of willpower. The pounding thrusts, clawing
fingers, bruises and welts—they're simply a salve to our egos, our peace of
mind—because it can't be love if all we do is hurt each other, can it? It
can't be surrender if we're selfish in our pursuit of every moment of contested
pleasure, is it?
The grinding, the pounding, the shredding of each other with hands and teeth,
the steady stream of profanity, of viperous anger turning to insanity as the
heights beckon. Synchronicity, timing, altruism—madness. Selfish pleasure
discarded for mutual gain, violence tempered but not put aside, we strive
together.
Intensity, fiery hot and blistering, burns away the barriers for a moment,
shatters the blinders, the denials with which we try to deceive ourselves.
Consumed by fire, controlled by our animal selves, we mate, frenzied by despair
and fired by pheromones. We mesh. We meld. We find a slice of peace. We connect
in a way that has nothing to do with logic, nothing to do with reality.
We fit.
Afterwards, all we can do is try and rebuild ourselves from the ashes. Like a
phoenix we rise but not to hope, not to a future burned free of the past. Our
awakening is a return to a vicious cycle, a shadow play of hostility and hatred,
bloodshed and betrayal.
We come full circle and then start from the beginning again.
The oldest grievances first, the foundation rebuilt stronger and more secure,
shored up against any illusion of warmth, of emotion.
Until the next time.
We clash, we fight, we fuck—
And then we run.
I know he's leaving. I can feel him move. We've done this so many times that I
don't even have to open my eyes to know what he's doing. But looking at him he's
like a ghost made flesh. He moves silently around the room, collecting his
discarded pieces of clothing from wherever the hell they ended up in the
frenetic rush to get them off.
So we could get ourselves off.
Nothing matters more than that, nothing but the sickening whirl of
violence-induced passion that afflicts us when everything becomes to much, when
the need to cope with our own reality results in the madness of flesh and
fluids. Ideology and truth are discarded as we struggle against each other,
reason and survival thrown to the wind in our haste. No quarter given, we still
battle, still fight and claw in our need. It's such a downward spiral and it's
one that we'll never escape, never before free of.
At least not until we die.
Like those rats that starve to death in bliss, we are slowly killing each other.
No one could keep up the pace that we do, the bitterness and hatred that burns
within us both—for each other, for the men that play us like marionettes.
We're going to burn out together on the opium of that abhorrence. Once more
around the merry-go-round and the culmination of that despair and revulsion the
finale in this dance around each other.
An orgasm of violence that will consume us and, maybe, by that time we'll even
welcome it's darkling arms.
I can't help wondering if that is all there is? Is that all that we have to look
forward to? Are our fates so well circumscribed that nothing can break us from
this cycle?
But hope has no place here, it has nothing to nourish it's survival. All that
lies between us is ashes and blood and the raging need that flares like
wildfire.
I must have made a sound because he's looking at me now. Sitting there, shirt
across his knee, as he pulls on his boots. The look on his face tells me that
everything I am thinking is blazoned on mine. The glimmer of saddened longing,
the flicker of warmth is consumed by the encroachment of resigned despair that
darkens his eyes and pulls down the corners of his mouth.
My ghost made flesh moves to sit beside me, his had a warm cradle for my cheek,
as he rests his forehead against mine. His eyes close as savours the moment, his
breath a warm whisper across my lips. A hitch in his voice accompanies the
opening of his eyes as he utters the words that I know are coming. They've
always been coming, always been there between us, hanging like Damocles' blade,
but only now being given voice.
"You can't save me Mulder."
The crooked smile on his face has a match in the one that graces mine. No matter
how hard we try, no matter how hard we fight—
We're from two different worlds, he and I, two different ideologies, two
different mindsets. And while we've proved that opposites definitely do attract,
never the twain shall met because the forces needed to bring them together only
end up tearing them apart.
"And I can't save you either."
His hand lingers a moment before he finally moves away. With the loss of his
warmth, the ice begins to form once more as the hatred held in check by the
afterglow begins to surge to the fore.
I do love him. But I also hate him. I hate what he's done and what he will do,
Just as he hates and loves me. Night and day, we are yin and yang to each other
- both with our own light and dark aspects—we lash at each other even as we
complement.
Wild lightning with no chance at finding ground.
It's been like that from the beginning, from that very first spark of annoyance,
of attraction.
Two opposing forces.
Only the Fates knows whether we'll die by each other's hand, but I'm willing to
bet that the odds are even.
We were a tragedy in the making from the first instance we met.
Polarity.
And as I watch him collect his jacket and leave again with barely a sound, all I
can do is sit amongst the ruins of a bed, of a relationship that can never be,
and curse myself for my thoughts.
How could I let it happen?
How could I want him?
Anger is righteousness, faith is armour. But all the while there is a voice in
the wilderness—a small dissenter that cries out from under the rough-shod
boots of Truth.
How can I be so fucking blind?
Cacoethes [Latin]
1. Bad state or habit 2. An obstinate, malignant disease
Both meanings seemed kind of appropriate for this story.
Cacoethes
by Sin
I hate him.
