(no subject)
I don't want to write this story; it makes me so heartsick I can barely breathe. The moment is all wrong. Tanim should be the one yelling and weeping, not Daren. It should be Daren's patient voice coaxing logic and calm, not Tanim's. But tonight is different and for once Tanim remains dry eyed. He tries futilely to once again explain something Daren has never understood and never will: how frightening it is not to be able to control your own body, your baser hungers, your perverted lusts; how only the drugs and the drink mute the ravenous beast inside enough to sink into blessed darkness for a few hours, and how you despair knowing the morning will still come, that tomorrow you'll have to go through the motions again, and the next day, and the next. He can't bear to see the next sunrise. He can't wade through one more torturous day. Even when Daren yells and begs, argues and forbids, Tanim's choice is set. It breaks his heart now to weather the young man's misery but soon it won't matter to him at all. Nothing will. Tomorrow Daren will wake to the bright, cruel morning, will have to somehow while away the meaningless hours as he nurses this terrible loss, this unforgivable betrayal, but Tanim won't. Tanim won't ever have to face the morning again. And this moment hurts me to imagine, sickens me to write, chokes my throat and burns my eyes. I don't want to dwell on it. I don't want to relive Tanim's crushing depression, the crippling self-loathing which drove him to this end, nor Daren's helplessness as the life he's so desperately struggled to save slips out of his grasp. Yet like a broken record the story keeps replaying and there's nothing I can do but listen to Daren's sobbing until I'm ill with his grief.