Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know nor am I employed by NSYNC or anyone that may be mentioned in this story. This is for entertainment purposes and I do not advocate that they participate in the lifestyles/activities that may be promoted with this story. I'm posting it two chapters at a time, since they are relatively short. Please enjoy, and please feel free to send feedback and comments!!
note: ^^^ often indicate a change of speaker.
(1) introducing... Conjuring Hyde Copyright blackdaisy 10/21/00 Dazi V.
It was one of those things you try to fight, but the battle only brings it closer to you, endears it to your heart so tragically that all you can do is sit back, sigh dramatically, and let it overwhelm you. At first, I assumed it was unintentional, the shy smiles, the gentle words of support that kept me going a few months ago. All I knew then were contracts and money lost, or money withheld, or stipulations and deceit. But somehow, he put it all in perspective, kept me feeling recharged and ready to face another day of fighting for my identity.
Laugh.
Not really MY identity...the one THEY gave me to face the world with when this shit exploded. The one I wake up dreading every day. The smiles, and happiness, gentle and kind demeanor. The quiet, poetic one.
Snort.
Poetic? Oh yes, definitely. Poetry is like oxygen in my veins, words filling my cells with life and death, love and hatred, sex and lust and anger and rage. All emotion and feeling and EXPERIENCE is in its molecules and it feeds me. Or drugs me. Or pacifies me. Poetry is my soul, music is the air I breathe. And he-
HE is my sanity.
^^^*^
Do you believe that there can be something so deep, so far inside someone, that the only way to uncover it is to bleed it from them? Let it pour from their skin like sweat and let them flail it away with words and violence and PAIN. God, such horrible TORTURE and pain it is to unveil ourselves, to be CONTENT with ourselves, to find some peace with our respective realities. So many years now. So many years for me of hiding and being laughed at, only to laugh along, because I'm happy-go-lucky, I'm witty and quick, I'm tricky.
Hysterical laugh.
I think that's what I was doing, why I let all these things happen. I wanted to know JUST as much, if not MORE than he did. I wanted to look in the mirror and see THROUGH myself. I wanted to be a vision in ME, a vision in REAL, a vision in the fucking TRUTH. So why did I fight him?
Why did I make it MORE painful?
I fought the feelings. The tenderness. I wanted punishment for the things I couldn't face.
Myself. The me I saw in his eyes and reflected in the pools of his soul. I was, no I AM so fucking in LOVE with him. It's like DEATH; forever and condemning and I WELCOME it. I WANT it, I want HIM to come to me and make me all the things I really am, draw them out using all the wicked things he really is.
I want the torture.
It'll save me. It has to.
(2) jekyll incarnate Conjuring Hyde blackdaisy 10/22/00 Dazi V.
So here we are. A collection of boys gathered for an explanation. NSYNC's Chris Kirkpatrick. NSYNC's Joey Fatone. NSYNC's Lance Bass. NSYNC's Justin Timberlake. And me. NSYNC's JC Chasez. Five minutes ago, we were just Chris, Joey, Lance, Justin, and JC. But you know how that goes.
And what is funny, is even five minutes ago, we weren't who we are.
Not even WE can know who we are. There's that person we save, that person we HIDE from everyone. Not that we're any different from the rest of humanity. Everyone has that intimate self, that fantastic being that only exists in moments of passion, of heat and desire, it's borne of touch and kisses and FLAMES.
Those flames are going to overtake me.
They're burning me to the point of lapping at my sanity, at my poetic heaven. They're sliding through my skin, and it's not going to be long now, I'm not going to be able to hold them back. I'm not that strong anymore. And that's HIS fault. I'll blame him, I'll crucify him for doing this to me, for KILLING my forced reality and shoving me back into this repressed blackness, this hidden cave of myself.
Did he pull it out of me? Did he question me, interrogate me senseless until I had no choice but to lash out? No...we were both a little drunk, both a little high, both a little too full of loneliness to be alone. So he'd looked at me and smiled, his tongue slipping around the liquor glistening on his lips as he watched me take another drink from the bottle. I'd long since forgotten WHAT we were drinking, and how much we'd smoked, and even where the FUCK we were. His room, my room, Joey's room...
"What are you thinking?"
"Fuck, man, I can't think," I'd looked at him, shoving the bottle into his hands as I laid back onto the bed. His eyes were laughing at me. LAUGHING at me. Brown and sparkling and dark lashes, covering something, covering some kind of insanity.
"Good."
And he'd moved over me, his hands grabbing my wrists to hold me against the bed. Was he this strong? Was he this ABLE to incapacitate me with his body and his EYES. And then his lips. Lips soft and bitter from alcohol, lips searching and forceful, a tongue that teased mine, my mind whirling from the heat of it all. This can't happen. This ISN'T happening. This isn't REAL.
So I'd pushed him away, I'd pushed and my foot connected with his stomach and he went flying off the bed, into the wall, breath escaping him in a rush. And he laughs.
"What the FUCK was that, Chris?" I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand, my eyes narrowing, CHALLENGING him to answer.
"Whatever it was, it wasn't ENOUGH," he growled, his hands pulling at my shoulders as my hands grabbed his face, our lips crashing together again. God, he's so FUCKING RIGHT. But wrong. WRONG.
This time it was blood. Red liquid that oozed from his mouth as my fist connected with his face. "Get the HELL off me, man,"
Why the fuck was he STILL laughing? STILL smiling at me as he grabbed the bottle off of the floor, grimacing as the alcohol slipped past his lips, over the bleeding cut, and down his esophagus. I can feel that burn. I know it's singing power and the sigh of relief and release it brings.
He spoke, finally. "You don't have to hide with me, JC. I'm fucking sick of it." The bottle was thrown at me, and I caught it, mess unavoided as it spilled all over me, my attention distracted. He grabbed my head and kissed me furiously, then walked away. Turned and stormed out of the room without another word. Without another look or even glance, he was gone, and my mouth tasted like metal and liquor and him. HIM.
Fuck him.
So the NSYNC boys have gathered to explain why the oldest has a bruised cheek and cut lip, and why the Southern Gentleman is still drunk at eight o'clock in the morning. We're all laughing while management is disapproving. We forgot ourselves, sir. We forgot who we are, we forgot to tuck ourselves into our suitcases with our clothes, and razors, and stashed bottles of gin and vodka and good old Jack. Yes, yes, we're fucking sorry.
Rough night? You have no idea.
NSYNC's Chris Kirkpatrick turns to me and he smiles, ready to offer his words for the higher approval. "Lover's quarrel," he shrugs, and the guys laugh. The thought that Dani could mess him up that bad IS vastly amusing. Even NSYNC's JC Chasez laughs.
My stomach churns.
Who the FUCK does he think he is?