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Paint	By : cryforthemoon Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2080 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Paint
- 2-Part Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Part Four
- 5-Part Five
- 6-Six
- 1
- 2
- 3
Disclaimer – I love Rammstein, however I do not own them. I would rather not have to own the only true elements of this.

I think I’m shaking. Or rocking. My body’s moving of its own accord. Back and forth, back and forth. Oh god, now I’m remembering the rhythm. I can’t get the noise, the fucking NOISE out of my head, him gasping and whispering obscenities into my ear. The dent of his hipbone is still throbbing in my forehead, the places where he touched and kissed me are burning my skin, oh god get out, get out. I’m up, I’m running, limping because my leg is dead, ragged breathing fills my ears, sounds like him but it’s me, oh god am I crying? I am, where am I? Bathroom. Toilet. I’m going to be sick. I retch, but nothing comes up.
I stare at the white porcelain. I’m on my knees, leg tingling painfully from the sudden movement. ‘Praying to the porcelain god’, as Till might say. Till…the others. How are they going to deal with this? I can’t tell them, I don’t know how I’d start. And would they even believe me? Probably not.
My stomach’s stopped churning around, but I can still feel where he touched me. I look up from the pool of water in the toilet. The shower. I feel the need to be clean. I get up and take off my clothes hurriedly. I forget to take off my shoes before I pull my trousers down in my haste to get undressed. I hop about, trying to untangle my shoe from the trouser leg. I realize how funny this must look and bark out a laugh that turns into a sob.

And suddenly I’m crying, I never cry, men like me don’t fucking cry, but I must be because even though I still have my glasses on I can’t focus, everything’s just a blur. I kick those fucking clothes away from me and grope for the shower door. I climb in, shut the door, turn on the water, shiver and sob as the water warms up. The water’s hot, boiling hot, but I’m still shivering. Still crying. Oh god, I’m disgusting. Cowering in the cubicle of the shower, shaking, salty tears mixing with the shower water.

But I didn’t get in the shower to cry. I have to wash myself. I need to be CLEAN. I go into a frenzy of cleaning, overworking the soap until my hands and body are covered with white suds. But I still don’t feel clean; I can still feel those places where he touched me. The spot he bit on my neck throbs and I scratch it, hard, feeling the skin break under the pressure of my nails and another warm fluid other than water trickles over my fingers. Where else did he touch me? Around my waist, where he held me. I can still feel the pressure of his hand on my side. I dig my nails in, scratching away the top layer of skin. It hurts, of course it does, but the stinging is better than the ugly memory of him holding me. I start to scratch my body feverishly, rasping away the skin that he touched and licked and leant against, oh god there’s blood mixing with the water going down the plughole, but I don’t care, anything to get rid of him. I have to get him out, I’m still crying, everything’s a blur of red and tears and sobbing. But he is finally gone from my body, carried away with dead skin and sudsy water. I can see more clearly now. I turn off the water, step out of the shower, and find a towel. Go through the mechanics of drying.

There’s a strange pressure under my nails. I lift my hand to investigate. The fingertips are bloody, red gunge under my nails. Ugh. Where’s the nailbrush?

* * *

The clothes are in the bin. I’ve washed them twice, but to me they still stink of Olli’s lust. I wanted to burn them. But that would be a waste of good alcohol, and I’ve nothing else that burns quite so well. I’ve showered again, scrubbed my nails until every last bit of skin and blood was out.

I can still feel him in my hand, even though I’ve scrubbed that with the nailbrush. I’m still hearing his panting, the things he said. They’re going round and round in my head, and I don’t know whom to blame for what’s happened.

I need a drink. That’ll help.

There’s a bottle of vodka three quarters full in the cupboard. I don’t bother with a glass. I site on the sofa, bottle in hand, skin stinging where it touches the sofa. I haven’t bothered to put any clothes on.

The first swig of vodka always bites the back of my throat, making my eyes water. But I need this, I don’t have time to splutter and wipe my eyes. Fuck mixers, fuck steady drinking, I swallow hard, wincing at the added sting of alcohol on my tongue. He’s still in my head, making me feel disgusting, used. At every thought, every sickening memory, I drink, until my head is lolling and my vision is fuzzy. Bottle’s nearly empty. Damn. That was good quality vodka too.

The room’s gone sideways and the couch has moulded itself against my body. My hand relaxes and there’s a clunk. What was that? Fuck it, do it in the morning…
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