Please note that Travis has quite the multifarious mind which is both perplexing and difficult to write. Getting into character was more of a task than it should have been and although Travis Erik Layne is my own fictional character, I wanted future readers of his story to be able to truly sympathize over him. I do hope that my words have stayed true to his personality and that you understand his pain. I also hope that I have succeeded in creating quite a captivating story, like I aimed for.
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If All Our Words Were Left Unspoken
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His heated gasps; his moaning screams cling desperately to the bedroom walls. Anxious grunting echoes in the sealed darkness. That same darkness blankets the chamber; and merely a silver light—from a poorly curtained window—outlines the arched body of the person who screams out. He initiates the self mutilation upon himself. And he smears the thick and pungent liquid over his semi-exposed figure. That pungent liquid has a sharp and distinctive aroma. It’s the fragrance of blood. Blood intoxicates his senses, messes him up and confuses his body. He mistakes pain for pleasure. What he wants is unambiguous, clear as crystal and he cries out hungrily, “more!” The screams don’t fade, locked in, to fuel his sinful heat. The lava in his body and the blood coursing through his veins are all directed to his sex. Hot and burning, spurting and discharging, pleading to be touched from how hard it is—and yet he deprives himself of that one need. He punishes his oh-so-deserving person. His murmurs draw softer and softer, while his consciousness slips. He chuckles insanely; he’s so blissfully ecstatic, completely high off his pain.
His fingers finally wrap slackly around his dick. He twinges at his own light tugs. Sharp, stinging, burning pleasure. Ice, thin, precise metal runs along his human covering, tearing it smoothly. Fine lines first itch before they throb, before they let crimson shine. Again, he cuts. The sexual intensity eats at his insides. He fucks into the mattress and pillows. He cannot contain his ecstasy. “Oh god! More!” He masturbates while he mutilates. He chokes on his saliva, hacking air and more spit before a wave—an electrical sensation that pulsates—signals his waited release. He violently gyrate his hips while he curves his back more. And he cums blood.
And that just turns him on further.
Exhausted. Satisfied. Wonderful. Dazed. His crazed laughter now fills his chambers and he verbalizes to himself. Repeats the words that brought him to this state.
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Dusky lighting with artificial flickers to simulate an ambiance of a candle lit room. Soft jazz plays above an undertone and plays to his voice—slow and clear;
“I’m tired of this! Bein’ fuck’d up, I mean.
Guess what I am. Some say; worthless human bein’.
Yeah, that’s right, somethin’s gotta be wrong wit’ me.
Gettin’ ass raped; violated by them who should be lovin’ me!
What’s that yellin’ fo’? Yeeeeah, all I’m sayin’ are all lies.
Whatev’r lets you live your life without tears in yo eyes.
I already knew, lemme apologize.
Sorry I wuzn’t born a girl too. I heard vaginas are fly.
Whut? Why else would I be sufferin’ for bein’ what I am?
Pfft, cuz I leave all these words unspoken and instead eat shit? Damn.
Then listen up while I got somethin’ to tell.
I believe less in Heaven; more in Hell.
Don’t you look at me like I’m fuckin’ dumb.
You can’t understand my struggles. You don’t know where I’m comin’ from.
Grew up surrounded; but I was the one left alone. Out casted.
Previously my mindset was, ‘should a buried me in a casket.’
Though, never once did I cry.
Too busy soaring high.
No longer dreaming dreams, just hallucinations.
You should be proud. I created quite the reputation.
Must admit, I snapped, final thoughts, ‘just run.’
‘I don’t need to live on as your son.’
Haaa, that’s right. You can keep on pretendin’ I nev’r really exist’d! Cuz we’s done!”
There’s a thrilled feedback before the musicians fade. Scattered snaps and claps walk him off the low stage. Eyes and whispers follow him to the bar. He claims his stool and flips back dyed shades of mauve violet hair.
“You kno’ my favorite.”
And monotonously Travis responds, “coming right up.”
He pours the drink and hesitates, “Uh—where’d the motivation—you know, for-for that piece come from?” He clears his throat, looking at his buttoned sleeves. From the corner of his eyes he catches a shrug.
“Meh, I just spat.”
His head snaps up and he turns to glare his way with stern eyes.
“Rapping or not, that was inspirational. The way you let your body talk with you, the way you emphasize your words, the way you tell a story with the audience, it’s a gift, Luke and you shouldn’t take it for granted.”
“Get my dick outta your mouth, man. It is just spittin’.”
Lucien guzzles down his drink and waves the empty glass. Travis pours him another and hands it to him reluctantly. He leans down on the counter, cleaning the surface around them with a cloth.
“A lot of your spoken word really got to me.” Travis dictates, carefully analyzing him.
Lucien raises his brows in question the same time he ‘hmm’s’ in his drink.
“Yeah. Uh—one line that hit me was, I leave all these words unspoken.”
“I fuckin’ hate that!”
Travis stands up, taken back from Lucien’s outburst. He doesn’t respond knowing Lucien has more to say so he puts the cloth under the counter and wipes his hands on his apron.
“If you’ve got somethin’ to say, say it! Doesn’t matter what it is, say it. Why do people just suddenly stop talkin’ or decide what they were gonna say ain’t important? Huh? What if all our words were left unspoken, Travis? America would be one helluva quiet place.”
“It’s just insecurities, fears, self esteem on both parts and feelings that stop us from saying what was on our minds.”
“No Travis, that’s just you.” He sips his drink, obviously not in the mood for it any more. “You and the rest of the got-dang world. Completely worthless.”
“Excuse me, I’d like a Sex on the Beach.”
They both turn, having somehow forgotten that they weren’t the only two people there. Travis nods, breaking away from his conversation. He sighs as he combines and blends drinks together. Why do I always get stuck with the rhetorical questions?
“Here you are, Miss—”
“Sometimes what we don’t say don’t make one difference, but if you’s need help, why the hell are you keepin’ it unsaid? Sometimes it’s those words that save. They’ll come out sooner or later. Freudian slip. Anyways, Manuel and his girl are outside waitin’ fo’ me so—catch you later. Add them drinks to my tab.”
“—one Sex on the Beach.” He sighs.
And he hands her the reddish pink drink.
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He gasps shallowly, arching, writhing in pain; hiccoughing and sobbing softly. He’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care. The wounds bring bliss to his battered body. Oh fuck him, take him, screw with his mind and manipulate him more.
Mess with his inexplicable insecurities, irrational fears and above all; his incredible quantity of self loathing. Those are his upmost traits. The things that make him him. Fuck with his brain and let him be his own undoing.
Use him. Tell him he’s worthless with that heavy voice of your’s. Dirty him again.
He’s slowly going lightheaded. He’s been told a critical amount of blood loss can do that. He chuckles. His vision his foggy; if he didn’t have so many tears in his eyes, he’d believe that old wives’ tale about masturbating making you blind. His hand lets go of his burning manhood. The last few drops of his jizz sputter and drool down his prick. He reaches for a tissue to clean up his sinful mess.
He cleaned up half an hour before; the doorbell rings and he rushes to answer. He greets his boyfriend, locking the door behind him as he walks into the night air. ‘Hey babe,’ followed by a kiss. He smiles on the inside.
“Evenin’ hun.” He recites hollowly.
“You’re flushed. What were you doing?”
Masturbating to my best friend.
“Nothing.” He says and flips back his hair.
This is why we leave our words unspoken. Some things aren’t meant to be said.
