Fic: Addicted (Prison Break)
In light of posting all my old junk and saving all my fics in one place... One of the first fanfics I've ever written and the first dark!fic and to this day, it's still one of, if not the, darkest fics I've written. Reading it again, kind of has me worrying about 16-year-old me XD. But, what the hell, a big part of being a writer is about being able to write about any given situation and being able to put yourself in the shoes of any given person, whether they're a fairy or a serial killer. So there.
Title: Addicted (1/1)
Author: alissablue
Characters: Michael Scofield, T-Bag, LJ Burrows, Nika Volek
Rating: R
Word count: 1324
Summary: Every time I tell myself that this will be the last cut. I tell myself to savour it, because it will be the last time. But every last time, the release feels too good. I wouldn’t want to stop doing something that feels so right. They all had to deal with an addiction at some point in their lives.
Genre: Angst, Drama, Tragedy
Warnings: Dark!Fic, Drugs/Drug Use
Categories: Post-Escape, Pre-Escape, Pre-Series, AU
Disclaimer: Sadly, Prison Break does not belong to me.
Published: 02/22/07
Alcohol
Alcohol: A liquid, generated by distillation and fermentation, that forms the intoxicating agent in wine, beer and spirits.
Just seeing the cans and bottles all lined up, makes me feel good. The touch, the smell, the little drop of liquor finding its way down the cold bottle. It almost feels like a victory, being able to fill you stomach with so much substance, without experiencing too much of the infamous side effects.
My body is well acquainted with the fluid. This is why it takes three more bottles to feel the warmth, five more to forget how to walk a straight line and numerous more to become numb.
I’m utterly fascinated with the bottles. The shiver that runs through my body, starting at my toes and ending at the last inch it is able to find. It’s a shiver caused by the intoxicating smell and taste of the bottle on my young, innocent lips. Feeling the coolness of the glass, I find myself unable to resist the temptation of devouring the entire bottle all at once.
Releasing the fluid into my throat, the well known warmth of alcohol slides down, marking it’s territory in every fiber of my being. When it has worn out, I can finally let the bottle, now tasting sour and empty, escape my lips.
When I throw out the bottles the next day, to erase the vague memories of the previous night, the strong headache and the vomit are what’s left to remind me of the means I used to feel a rush, to block out the pain. So much pain, it nearly kills me every time I bring myself to even think about it.
***************************************************
Kill
Kill: to cause the death of, to destroy, to cause severe discomfort or pain to, the act of killing.
It’s in my blood. It always has been and it always will be. The need to assassinate, butcher, dispatch, destroy and kill. To massacre, murder, slaughter and slay. It’s almost a requirement for me to force others to fulfill my quiescent cravings.
It started as an obsession. Hanging out at the playground and watching the little kids play. Watching the innocent, untouched, pure children getting their hands dirty in the cold sand.
Of course, it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted the smell of death, the scent, the feeling in my gut telling me I’m getting closer to finding my next prey. I wanted the thrill of the chase. I needed to feel the air leaving my unwilling participant’s throat, to feel their last breath. I needed to see the look of genuine fear in their eyes, to hear those last pleading words.
It gave me a great delight to feel them struggling underneath me, before their weak, damaged bodies went limp. Every time, I found something new to add to the fix.
One more touch, one more look, one more bruise. My hands more firmly around their throats, one more thrust, one more drop of blood. One more muffled scream, one more tear. Nothing has ever made me feel more satisfied. It’s a shame I got caught. A real shame.
**************************************************
Touch
Touch: to come in contact with, to reach, to affect with emotion, the act of touching; the sense by which something is perceived through contact; a trace.
No one ever loved me. No one even looked at me twice. It was almost like I was trash, like I wasn’t worth anything. My father used to say that I was nothing and that no one would ever care. He used to say this while he was touching me, when no one was looking. It made me feel sick. Sick to my stomach, that even my own father looked at me like that.
So when Marko came along and he promised me so many things, I went for it. I craved for his attention and I wanted his promises to mean something. I wanted him to touch me, like no one ever did. I didn’t care that he made me do things and that I was just merchandise to him. It was something. At least he looked at me, at least he touched me. And when he touched me, he brought me to new heights. It made me want more every time he gave me that release. The exploding rush activating my nerve endings like nothing had ever done before kept me from running away, despite the other things he did to me.
Marko let the men who worked for him touch me. I didn’t fight it, because at least I was being touched. For those few hours, I was getting my fix. Not soft like Marko, not exploding or releasing, but it was there and I felt it.
But then came Michael Scofield. He also looked, didn’t touch, but cared. At least I thought he did. He helped me get away and to this day I’m thankful for it. But he never touched me. I was just one of the means to an end he needed to save his brother. He married me and for a moment I got to be someone else. Someone who was worth acknowledging. But he went to prison and I was left with nothing, alone. So I did what I was known for. I made people touch me. I made men touch me.
So here I am, being touched by him, my one and only. My nails are digging into his back, while he thrusts and whispers my name countless times. When I lose my breath for seconds in his strong arms, it’s still not enough.
******************************************************
Cut
Cut: to wound deeply, to perform an incision
I only do it when no one is around, when dad and uncle Mike are at work. I only do it in the dark so I won’t have to see it. So I won’t have to see the incision, the moment the sharpness penetrates my skin. The drops of blood that I swear I can hear leaking through the wound and running down my arm, only to dry up or fall to the floor and leave a trail.
I don’t like seeing the aftermath of my action, the wounds on the surface of my upper arms and wrists. I try to cut where no one will ever be able to see it, but the temptation of finding out how deep I can cut my wrists is too great. Concentrating on that spot, cutting right there, risking cutting too deeply and through those veins, adds something to the rush I feel every time.
I don’t purposely do it to scar myself. My fix is not creating a mark, a scar or a wound of any kind. It’s the reassurance that I’m still alive, still breathing and still surviving. That, even after I stopped running, I’m still here. It’s that need to feel something, anything. It’s the feel of blood on my fingertips and the pain that to me equals a euphoric state of mind.
The moment before I begin to incise my pale skin, I hold my breath. There is always this hesitation I have to push to the back of my mind before I continue. As soon as I feel my weapon of choice, usually a razorblade or a pair of scissors, cut through the flesh on the newly found spot on my arm, I slowly release a breath I’ve been treasuring. This particular breath triggers a shudder, welcoming the appearing wound.
Every time I tell myself that this will be the last cut. I tell myself to savor it, because it will be the last time. But every last time, the release feels too good. I wouldn’t want to stop doing something that feels so right.
End Notes: The characters were Michael, T-Bag, Nika and LJ. just in case you hadn't figured that out.
Title: Addicted (1/1)
Author: alissablue
Characters: Michael Scofield, T-Bag, LJ Burrows, Nika Volek
Rating: R
Word count: 1324
Summary: Every time I tell myself that this will be the last cut. I tell myself to savour it, because it will be the last time. But every last time, the release feels too good. I wouldn’t want to stop doing something that feels so right. They all had to deal with an addiction at some point in their lives.
Genre: Angst, Drama, Tragedy
Warnings: Dark!Fic, Drugs/Drug Use
Categories: Post-Escape, Pre-Escape, Pre-Series, AU
Disclaimer: Sadly, Prison Break does not belong to me.
Published: 02/22/07
Alcohol
Alcohol: A liquid, generated by distillation and fermentation, that forms the intoxicating agent in wine, beer and spirits.
Just seeing the cans and bottles all lined up, makes me feel good. The touch, the smell, the little drop of liquor finding its way down the cold bottle. It almost feels like a victory, being able to fill you stomach with so much substance, without experiencing too much of the infamous side effects.
My body is well acquainted with the fluid. This is why it takes three more bottles to feel the warmth, five more to forget how to walk a straight line and numerous more to become numb.
I’m utterly fascinated with the bottles. The shiver that runs through my body, starting at my toes and ending at the last inch it is able to find. It’s a shiver caused by the intoxicating smell and taste of the bottle on my young, innocent lips. Feeling the coolness of the glass, I find myself unable to resist the temptation of devouring the entire bottle all at once.
Releasing the fluid into my throat, the well known warmth of alcohol slides down, marking it’s territory in every fiber of my being. When it has worn out, I can finally let the bottle, now tasting sour and empty, escape my lips.
When I throw out the bottles the next day, to erase the vague memories of the previous night, the strong headache and the vomit are what’s left to remind me of the means I used to feel a rush, to block out the pain. So much pain, it nearly kills me every time I bring myself to even think about it.
***************************************************
Kill
Kill: to cause the death of, to destroy, to cause severe discomfort or pain to, the act of killing.
It’s in my blood. It always has been and it always will be. The need to assassinate, butcher, dispatch, destroy and kill. To massacre, murder, slaughter and slay. It’s almost a requirement for me to force others to fulfill my quiescent cravings.
It started as an obsession. Hanging out at the playground and watching the little kids play. Watching the innocent, untouched, pure children getting their hands dirty in the cold sand.
Of course, it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted the smell of death, the scent, the feeling in my gut telling me I’m getting closer to finding my next prey. I wanted the thrill of the chase. I needed to feel the air leaving my unwilling participant’s throat, to feel their last breath. I needed to see the look of genuine fear in their eyes, to hear those last pleading words.
It gave me a great delight to feel them struggling underneath me, before their weak, damaged bodies went limp. Every time, I found something new to add to the fix.
One more touch, one more look, one more bruise. My hands more firmly around their throats, one more thrust, one more drop of blood. One more muffled scream, one more tear. Nothing has ever made me feel more satisfied. It’s a shame I got caught. A real shame.
**************************************************
Touch
Touch: to come in contact with, to reach, to affect with emotion, the act of touching; the sense by which something is perceived through contact; a trace.
No one ever loved me. No one even looked at me twice. It was almost like I was trash, like I wasn’t worth anything. My father used to say that I was nothing and that no one would ever care. He used to say this while he was touching me, when no one was looking. It made me feel sick. Sick to my stomach, that even my own father looked at me like that.
So when Marko came along and he promised me so many things, I went for it. I craved for his attention and I wanted his promises to mean something. I wanted him to touch me, like no one ever did. I didn’t care that he made me do things and that I was just merchandise to him. It was something. At least he looked at me, at least he touched me. And when he touched me, he brought me to new heights. It made me want more every time he gave me that release. The exploding rush activating my nerve endings like nothing had ever done before kept me from running away, despite the other things he did to me.
Marko let the men who worked for him touch me. I didn’t fight it, because at least I was being touched. For those few hours, I was getting my fix. Not soft like Marko, not exploding or releasing, but it was there and I felt it.
But then came Michael Scofield. He also looked, didn’t touch, but cared. At least I thought he did. He helped me get away and to this day I’m thankful for it. But he never touched me. I was just one of the means to an end he needed to save his brother. He married me and for a moment I got to be someone else. Someone who was worth acknowledging. But he went to prison and I was left with nothing, alone. So I did what I was known for. I made people touch me. I made men touch me.
So here I am, being touched by him, my one and only. My nails are digging into his back, while he thrusts and whispers my name countless times. When I lose my breath for seconds in his strong arms, it’s still not enough.
******************************************************
Cut
Cut: to wound deeply, to perform an incision
I only do it when no one is around, when dad and uncle Mike are at work. I only do it in the dark so I won’t have to see it. So I won’t have to see the incision, the moment the sharpness penetrates my skin. The drops of blood that I swear I can hear leaking through the wound and running down my arm, only to dry up or fall to the floor and leave a trail.
I don’t like seeing the aftermath of my action, the wounds on the surface of my upper arms and wrists. I try to cut where no one will ever be able to see it, but the temptation of finding out how deep I can cut my wrists is too great. Concentrating on that spot, cutting right there, risking cutting too deeply and through those veins, adds something to the rush I feel every time.
I don’t purposely do it to scar myself. My fix is not creating a mark, a scar or a wound of any kind. It’s the reassurance that I’m still alive, still breathing and still surviving. That, even after I stopped running, I’m still here. It’s that need to feel something, anything. It’s the feel of blood on my fingertips and the pain that to me equals a euphoric state of mind.
The moment before I begin to incise my pale skin, I hold my breath. There is always this hesitation I have to push to the back of my mind before I continue. As soon as I feel my weapon of choice, usually a razorblade or a pair of scissors, cut through the flesh on the newly found spot on my arm, I slowly release a breath I’ve been treasuring. This particular breath triggers a shudder, welcoming the appearing wound.
Every time I tell myself that this will be the last cut. I tell myself to savor it, because it will be the last time. But every last time, the release feels too good. I wouldn’t want to stop doing something that feels so right.
End Notes: The characters were Michael, T-Bag, Nika and LJ. just in case you hadn't figured that out.