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Log Title: Love Lies Bleeding

Log setting: The shattered home on Moss Street

Log Cast:
Walker
Benjamin

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The walk home, on Holly's part at least, is a mostly quiet one. Idle suggestion of a boat trip out on the lake is about the most he ventures on his own, mostly caught up in his own distracted thoughts. Fingers stay twined with yours the entire way home. Well, almost the entire way. When the house comes into view and he sees the door -- the door he knows he locked -- standing open he knows something's not right. And he almost wishes it to be some alien intruder, some random burglar (those happen on Moss Street). But somehow he already knows with that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this is no random burglary. His hand slips from yours and he breaks into a run toward the house, rubber soles almost silent against the cement.

It's not a night for talking, indeed. Ben is no more talkative than you, until you reach the house, and suddenly everything's thrown into slow motion. He forgets his silk shirt cleaved to his skin by the rain, and his drenched hair, and his general drowned-rat appearance. The sight of the house and your alarm takes him completely by surprised, struck dumb and still for long moments. But then he's at a dead run after you, clomping up the wooden steps just seconds after you, bursting into the house and all its wreckage. Each sight slams him in the face, stabs him in the gut, too glaringly obvious what happened. WHO happened. "Jesus... Christ. Little... bastards. Little trash. What the FUCK." He's glued to the floor in the hall, turning around slowly and taking everything in, one at a time, again and again.

For Holly it's not a series of single hits. It's the whole moutain crumbling at once. His eyes find and lock on the outline on the floor, the painted blood. The cold sets in. There's no misinterpreting the symbology. Paint or no. Why? Why? It was never supposed to be like this. Never. It was all about love. Father Alvin said only lies kill love. Only lies. Only lies kill love. Holly's lies. Holly's lies killed everyone's love. And it's bleeding on the floor in permanent paint. Step. Step-step-step. Black eyes locked on the artificial blood on the floor. Love's blood. It stains like that. A stoop and slender fingers are reaching for the .38 he's only just recently learned how to use. The gun purchased with a gift certificate given at the wedding. The same wedding that afforded a personal mausoleum. It's fate...

A soft stream of hopeless curses is your soundtrack for approach. Ben is livid, positively homicidal in his rage, but it only manifests as these low-pitched, horrible, unspeakable, unrepeatable words. Only a creative writer can come up with vitriol like this... but it all goes unheard. Holly's objective is clear and precise, even though Ben misses the target of advance for a few moments. And once he does the anger falls off, softening just a bit into tired concern. "Holly, don't, let it be," Ben murmurs, stepping forward. He misses his lover's intent, unable to see his face. "Let's go get a hotel room and leave this for tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll find those little shits and... I don't know what."

Walker straightens and turns, gun coming up to point directly at you. Tony said when he was teaching the avid student to never point a weapon you didn't intend to use. "It's ovva.." he whispers, lips bled nearly white with the shock. Screw the upstairs; who needs to see? And he even left the mural intact. He was going to paint over it and he left it alone at yours and Glass' pleas in case... in case... it wasn't broken. But it is, see? Hypnotically swirling ebon eyes tell you that much. The light at the end of the tunnel's a train. "I killed it, hawt. I killed it. I killed it." The safety's off. There's no hammer to cock. Strangely enough the hands that grip the gun don't tremble. "Ya gotta write a note, hawt. Ya gotta write it. Tell 'em I did it. I did evrathin'. Go get some papah. Write th' note."

Shit. The terror in your lover's eyes surpasses even the night he first saw the gun, even that forgotten Halloween of fear. Hands come up slowly, as if they could ward off the bullet he knows is meant for him. He's gasping now, losing breath, paling to the point of turning slightly green. Stomach's in an uproar; he's going to lose that drink you bought him earlier, the beignet he had on the Square. "N-n-no, Holly... p-put it down. Put it down, don't... don't look like that." Though he's shocked with pure life-preserving terror he steps forward, knowing only one thing in this quiet madness: get the gun away from Holly.

"Get th' papah, hawt. Ya gotta write th' note 'r they're always gonna blame ya. They need ta know I did it." He's talking about Bat? Yep. That's what started this. They need to know the truth. How he was Bat's lover first. Before Utopia. Before Beights. Nearly a year. A year it would've been come March. How he was the one who drew three out of two. Brought you into it. His logic's completely flawed but he thinks he knows what he's doing. "Go get th' papah!" He won't have time to write the note if he has to shoot you right now. At least he won't be able to write anything concise. Better you write it anyway. You're the writer. The beautiful professor. Not your fault. But they won't listen. He can't stop this because they won't listen.

"No!" Dominance only goes so far, love. When Ben's life is on the line he's going to be making his own decisions. And yours too. You're his life. "No! I don't care what they think. I don't care! I don't wanna die! It's not worth it, they're not worth it!" His voice is squealing up into the realm of abject denial that any of this is happening. High-pitched and trembling and completely out of his mind with fear. "Don't do this. Don't do it, Holly! Put the damn gun down, throw it away! I'm not writing any note, and you're not shooting anyone and this is NOT HAPPENING!"

Why are you making this so difficult? Isn't it obvious what needs be done? "Don' make me leave you, hawt!" Holly chokes out, chin lifting. Wild, those eyes. Fargone with too many nights of strife. Too many times of hoping for a happy ending and not getting one. Too many times of fucking up. Too many times of hurting people without meaning to. The gun's still quite level. Just get the paper and write the note. I just want to lay under the grass for a while and sleep. Come with me, love. Love is forever. Between us. Forever, remember?

Benjamin shakes his head slowly, staring at you open-mouthed. One more step closer, another and he'll be able to reach the outstretched gun with a reach of a trembling hand. "Nobody's. Leaving. Anybody." He has to speak slow to keep from screaming, has to pause so he can swallow back the bile so he doesn't throw up right here. "I'm not. Letting you. Shoot me. And you have to. Shoot me. First." See how this isn't going to happen? Ben's nipping it in the bud. Choking it off in its infancy. Have to kill him before you kill yourself and you can't kill him.

Holly takes a step back from you. He's not letting you have the gun. Remember last time? How hard it was for him to let go of it and he wasn't even aiming it? Ain't happening this time. "Please... write th' note 'r they'll nevva know..." A diamond tear sparkles and falls from night-black eye. "Please..."

"Shut up! I'm not writing the fucking note!" He's screaming now, full of fear and pain, shaking up to a screech at the end. Sheet-white, shaking, hardly even able to stand. Surely in a second his legs will give out and you'll have to pump bullets into an insensible heap. "You tell them! You be a man and stand up and own up! And... and... and we'll explain it." The pretty face crumples into pleading tears, moisture streaming down his face. Not as lovely as Holly can cry; this is messy, ugly, face scrunched up and mouth half-open. "And they'll understand and you can't die. You can't. Death is stupid and I won't let you."

"I love ya.... f'evva..." The tiny words fall softly from numb cupid's bow lips. No. He can't do it. He can't murder the one thing in the world that he's truly found beauty and happiness in. Even if it means leaving it behind; leaving you to your own devices without him. Three leggy paces back and the gun's pressing to pale temple, cold steel barrel bathed in a cloak of molten copper-gold. Be a man? He never did learn how to do that.

"NO!!" Force of will, force of love, force of life throws Ben across the hall and toward you. It -will not happen-. He -will not let you-. NO. One word, one thought, one WAY. Maybe reality gets twisted and warped to Fate's will. Destiny won't allow these two to be parted. Not by infidelity, not by addiction, not by pain, and sure as hell not by death. The two of you hold a special place in the tapestry of life, it must be. He hits you too soft, too weak to knock you over, too weak to knock the weapon out of your hand. But he won't let go. No! Cried over and over, half in tears and half in anger, complete and total denial. He'll drag you down to the floor if he has to, pushing you back and back until the stairs or his weight bring you to the floor and safety.

Not near the mighty hero scenario the movies and television shows would portray in moments of valor such as these. Holly stumbles a little with the impact and time sloooooows. Without truly intending to reflex and an uncontrollable desire to turn out the lights pulls the trigger: who knew guns could be so loud? Especially right next to your head. Whitehot pain. The world's spinning. Black. Down the fallen angel goes, tangled in your arms. Crimson blossoms wet and hot, streaking golden hair with more true a red than coppery highlights could hope to capture. Dead? No. No messy splatter. Just a lot of blood. Headwounds always bleed so much. But the human body's a tricky thing. Prepared for death the sonic-boom shot and sudden pain turns out the lights as per the plan, sending the hysterical Holly into blessed unconciousness. Fainted. Gun clatters to the floor.

The stumble and the topple to the floor are far from graceful. Held tight to you, Ben's legs get tangled in yours when you lose consciousness and you both are dragged down to the hard hall tile with a crack and a thump. Ben manages to knock his shoulder against the wall and the back of his lover's head against the floor, battering the poor beautiful skull already too much abused. Another scream followed the gun's report, Ben's scream of terror. Now, crumpled on the floor, he pulls from you, scrambling up with horror to see. "Oh God, Holly! No, no, no!" Cold, shaking hands grasp your face, turning your head, staring at the wound. "NO!" He's lost you. Lost the only thing in the whole world that ever meant any thing to him, the only.... but no. But wait, there's still salvation possible. His pulse still beats under Ben's fingers. A faint breath still touches his wrists. Alive. Oh thank you god even though I don't believe in you he's still alive!

Alive. Breathing. Bleeding a hell of a lot. Already the golden puddle of silken hair is becoming matted with precious life. But alive, certainly. With love all things are possible. One would hazard on waking that not only will your crumpled husband be most confused and disoriented, but he will sorely need a therapist as well. He's really needed one of those for a while, but you already know that much. Wouldn't hurt for you to see one either; watching your spouse attempt suicide in such a gory manner certainly can't be good for one's mental stability. Which was already questionable.

The both of you could probably stand a nice secluded stay in St. Anna's for a nice long while, indeed. Maybe a couple of those stylish white jackets and a pretty rubber room, too. "Oh, god. Oh, Holly. Wake up, baby, wake up, you have to go to the hospital." And how's he going to explain this to the ER docs? Well, they've probably seen worse will be his only comfort. Reeling, Ben tears away from you somehow, crawling and scrambling toward the kitchen, sliding on marshmallow creme flung about. Utopia? More like Hell. Hell and Ben's living it. The words are smeared beyond recognition as he knees through them, yanking open drawers in search of clean towels. He organized the damn kitchen and can't remember where anything is! "Hold on, baby. Please be all right, please be all right, just hold on and I'll make it all better, Jesus, God, I swear it'll be all right, I swear." Babbling on, doesn't even hear his own words, but if he talks to you that means you can hear and that means you're alive and that's all that matters. In a few moments shaky hands are cradling your head, lifting it to bleed on his lap instead of the floor.

The desperate search for towels probably isn't helped any by the fact that certain little monsters have thrown so much shit on the floor from said drawers. And all through your frantic search your love lies bleeding on the floor. Sprawled a few feet away from the outline with the bright red paint like a picture come to life. Think they saw this in their mind's eye when they destroyed Holly's aunt's house? Doubtful. But does it matter? Nope. What does matter, though, is that no one is truly dead. All the cats are gone to hiding, scared off by the tragedies of this day but undoubtedly they'll be back. But what of the safety this place once represented? The security? Is that gone forever? Replaced by bullet holes (like the one now marring the ceiling) and too many tears shed..? The pale, boneless heap of Holly is unresisting when you lift, breathing soft. Regular; a good sign. Not waking, though. He's off sleeping under that warm grass he craves so badly. If only for a little while. Where has Holly gone? He's sleeping under the grass, safe and secure, where no one can find him.

It's broken. That much his precious lover was right about. The house will breathe nightmares of blood and tears for Ben for years to come. Tears that now fall to your cheeks as he cries them, trying to wrap the towels around the seeping wound. Tears that soak his hands and remind him that his lovely handmade shirt and his sexy tight pants are ruined by this night of rain and blood. Ohgodohgodohgod. "Baby, Holly, precious, love, please wake up. Please wake up, I can't carry you by myself. Please baby, come on... come back to me." One towel is wadded up right over the wound while a longer one gets wrapped around your head, matting hair. Gently, he shakes your shoulder, pats your cheeks, crying onto your face. "Holly, come on, wake up. I love you so much, I love you, please wake up. Please, I love you, I swear. I need you. Come on, we have to go to the hospital... christ." Panting, he lifts his head to blink around. Shit everywhere. -Drugs- everywhere and upstairs will be worse. What if... ohhhhgodohgod, what if the cops show up now?

Holly doesn't want to wake up. When he turned out the lights with the pull of the trigger he meant it to be forever. But it's not. There's only one forever and that has nothing to do with dying. Life hurts. It's ugly and rude. And smells like gunsmoke, blood and marshmallow creme; a sickening mixture. And you're making him come back to it. How cruel. A soft groan announces a grudging half-return to light and life. Mean life. Fickle life. He can't hear. His head hurts baaad. A disoriented mumble wiggles out from ashen lips but it's total nonsense. You might be able to coax wakefulness to him through presence and force of will and jostling but it doesn't mean he'll be coherent about this unwilling return to reality. Where's the warm grass? More mumbles. Maybe your name. Hard to say.

A soft sob of relief greets even the incoherent words. "Yes, baby, there you go. Therrrre you go, come on." Gentle, careful, he slips an arm under your shoulders and draws you up, other hand supporting the back of your head. "You have to wake up and sit up while I clean things up. I won't be but a few minutes, I promise." True love's getting its strongest test tonight. Could Ben and his bewildered fog possibly do this without the force of love and need behind it? Never. With anyone else he'd have stood there and stared stupidly while they blew their brains out. Would still be standing there, staring. But this is forever, and forever... well, it never ends, and Fate chooses strange servants to force its hand. "Come on, love. Come back to me. I love you, I love you so much. Just a little longer and you can go to sleep again." Sleep surrounded by sterile white, controlled sleep, approved sleep. Not now, not messy like this.

Your sob's echoed miserably, weakly. A heartwrenching mixture of half-grasped realization he's not under the grass and safe, meshed with firey pain. He's not totally deafened; one ear can hear and is doing an okay job of translating. For the most part. His other is ringing too loud to make sense of anything. Opening his eyes only makes it hurt worse. Sit up? May as well ask him to move the car outside through mind power alone. "Beeeen.." Soft. Wounded to the core. He sits as per your urgings, a hand moving to his head. Stickyhot wet. Something's loose and something's jagged. Doesn't even look at the smear. Fortunately he seems to have forgotten about that mean ol' gun too. Something that should have never come into the house indeed. You knew it was bad news before he ever brought it home.

Tender hands stroke your face, your lover leaning near to touch and caress you. "It's all right, I'm here, baby. I'm here. I'm right here. Don't you move, you're going to be just fine." A kiss to your cheek and he's drawing away. He knows it'll hurt, he knows it'll make you cry but he has to. So as he goes he explains, making sure you can hear him and that his voice never stops. "I have to clean up the drugs, love. They're all over, everywhere. I have to flush them, I'm sorry, but if the police show up we'll be in big trouble. You stay right there and don't go back to sleep, that's my love. Just stay there, and talk to me, OK? Tell me where it hurts, sweetie, talk to me." He's moving, thoughts guiding movements mechanical.

Logic says that he should deal and simply sit tight till you get back but logic has no place in his mind right now. Got blown away by Smith and Wesson; thanks fellas. "..m'head..." he mumbles, biting into his lower lip as a fresh rose of pain blossoms in his skull with the words. Another plaintive little sob whimpers out and the bloody hand goes to his head again. There's that slip of wet looseness and sharp something. What is that? "Hurts..." Can't come close to a cohesively knit sentence. Can't really blame him for that, can you? He tries for something more solid -- perhaps an apology. Maybe a plea. Nothing comes save for more heart-wrenching puppy whimpers. Wants to lay down. He doesn't care about the drugs right now. Beeeen. Don't leave me alone....

Benjamin staggers into the living room, scooping up the puck and picking up as much of the scattered weed as can be collected. That's dumped in the downstairs toilet and flushed, his voice still calling over the sound, "I bet it hurts, you fucking shot yourself, you stupid bastard. I'd kill you for it but then I'd have to kill myself." Hysterical, nervous laughter follows the words. He staggers past you, slipsliding into the kitchen to collect razors and needles into a plastic bag. "Been shooting up too, Jesus, Holly. Slow death or quick death but you were set on dying, weren't you?" Maybe it'll get Holly just mad enough at him to stay awake. The gun's scooped up on his pass back through, headed for the stairs clutching weapon and sack. "Gotta check upstairs, don't you think about moving."

Shooting up? Well, yes. But how did you know..? Right now he's a little too fucked up to realize the evidence has been left all over the house despite his pains to hide it from you. Trying to give you one less thing to worry about. Just don't tell him the heroin's in the toilet; not with the dry spell going on. He'll be dealing with withdrawal soon enough. "Beeen..." Okay. So it's not quite the suave explanation he was working on. And by the time he's gotten half a sentence formed you're already up the stairs. So he pinches his eyes shut to lessen the pain, wishing it away. Make it go away. Somebody erase *everything*.

Crashings and stumblings from upstairs, and moments later another flush, accompanied by assurances of what a bastard you are and how much he loves you. Sure, in his mind the two go together just fine. Back he comes toppling down the steps, missing one here and there and skidding until he lands near you, bruised and panting and still heaving sobs. "OK, OK... hold on to me now, we're going to the hospital." An arm under your shoulders, the other still clutching the plastic bag. Evidence to be thrown in a gutter somewhere on the speed to the hospital. In about an hour Ben will be thanking his presence of mind for the power of attorney he had you grant each other; no homophobic doc or lawyer can keep him from your side, dammit. "We're going to fix you all up. You're gonna get the best drugs you ever had, whatcha think of that? You'll get to lie down and rest and you'll feel wonderful, I promise. Come on, just lean on me and I'll get you there. I love you, Holly, I love you, come on." Thirty minutes. Fifteen maybe since the gun went off. Thirty maybe until you can get to safety and he can collapse. Forty-five minutes total of the most clarity he's ever had. It's gonna have to last him awhile cause it's not coming back. Maybe ever.

Walker can handle being a bastard. He's been one before to many people. So long as those 'I love you's keep coming this way and you're right beside him you can call him anything you want. "..'m tired..." Another less-than-coherent mumble as he staggers gracelessly to his feet, frail weight leaning heavily on you. He couldn't have made it up without your help and as it is he's drooping badly. But he's moving. No more words; they hurt too much. Well. No more save: "..love ya..." And then his entire being's devoted to moving one foot after the other. It's a tiny miracle he hasn't passed out again thanks to the swell of pain on standing. It's an agonizingly long trip to the car but eventually the vehicle's reached. And Holly can rest for a little while. Doubtful that you'll let him sleep on the way there but at least he won't have to walk.

That's all Ben needs to hear. More than he needs to hear, enough that he kisses your streaked cheek as you stumble out to the car together. Blessed darkness concealing this mad tumble. The keys in your pocket, you stowed safely in the front seat, and a breakneck drive to the hospital. A rush of wind, the damning evidence thrown. Please god don't let the police catch the two of you. It's all a blur running on adrenaline for him and pain for you. The drive, the screech, the urgings, promising his love over and over as he pulls you into the emergency room. Safety and quiet no longer an impossible goal; for the moment we're both in someone else's capable hands.

** FTB In Elks Place Medical Plaza **

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