My Addiction - Tom kaulitz

Shadows

As I back away from Tom, the array of cuts in his neck continue to bead up with blood, no matter how many times he attempts to stop the bleeding, nothing he does stops the somewhat everlasting river of the thick, red liquid from pouring through the fresh slices on his neck. He stands up, towering above me with a 'you'll regret that' smirk spread across his face, I hold the knife in front of me, threatening to attack him again, yet my attempts to frighten him seem to cause no concern to Tom. As we stand face to face in the dimly lit room, tension hangs in the air like an electric charge. We hold eye contact, neither of us backing down, locked in an intense standoff. The lights cast eerie shadows on our determined faces, both adorned with the shadows of what is to come. The hushed sound of the radio carries the weight of unresolved grievances and simmering emotions. Eyes locked, neither of us daring to blink, each acutely aware of the dangerous dance we're engaged in. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the city, and the faint crackling between songs playing on the station. The air hangs heavy with anticipation, as if the very universe is holding its breath, awaiting the outcome of this high-stakes confrontation. 

Tom takes a step forward, edging closer to me by the second, his face still smeared with a smirk, and the smudged print of my cherry red lipstick. I hold my ground, refusing to yield an inch to the encroaching threat embodied by Tom. The tension escalates with each passing heartbeat, and the air becomes thick with an almost palpable hostility. His smirk widens, revealing a glint of defiance in his eyes. The crimson lipstick on his face holding the last moments of our intimacy. As Tom continues his slow advance, I steady my breathing, my mind calculating the possibilities and consequences of the impending clash. The echoes of distant cars fade away, leaving only the ominous symphony of our mutual resentment. The world outside this confined space seems to vanish, leaving only the two of us suspended in a timeless moment of confrontation. 

"You dirty little slut." Tom remarks in a low, angered tone. I remain silent, holding my breath as I await his next scolding 

"You really wanna be punished, huh?"

 My silence serves as a shield against Tom's words, a choice to withhold power rather than surrender it. The room's walls seem to close in, amplifying the weight of his words. I meet his gaze, refusing to let fear betray the resilience beneath the surface. Tom's anger is a tempest, and I am determined not to be swept away in its tumult. The tension hangs between us, a toxic residue of our shared hatred. His question lingers, a challenge that underscores the volatility of the situation. I choose my response carefully, a measured calm in my voice, "Do you want to be punished?" The standoff persists, the charged atmosphere crackling with unspoken truths, as we teeter on the precipice of a confrontation that could reshape the contours of our entangled destinies. Tom's face drops as he takes in the words I just spoke, his eyebrows knit together and he pushes his tongue against his lower lip in amusement. 

"Mhm, ok." He speaks with a low chuckle hanging off of his words, the low hum of his voice serving as a threat. I swallow the lump forming in my throat as he takes another step closer to me, enclosing me between the sofa and his body, his brandy stained breath hits my forehead as he breathes out in fury. The comforting glow of the orange table lamp no longer illuminates his face, leaving me staring straight at, what looks like, a faceless man. He places a warm, large hand on my shoulder, weighing my right side down just slightly, "You're going to drop that knife." His strong German accent coats his words, as he enunciates each letter he speaks, and he emphasises each syllable he voices. I lift my heavy eyes up to meet his face which is blanketed in a sinister darkness, I can just about make out the unwanted twitch of his eye as he grows more impatient with each breath he takes.

 Little by little, he strengthens his grip, digging the tips of his fingers into the weak points on my shoulder, I hold his gaze defiantly, refusing to be enveloped by the darkness that emanates from him. The partially empty room echoes, amplifying the uneven cadence of his breath, a discordant rhythm that mirrors the escalating tension. As Tom's impatience simmers, the atmosphere becomes a ticking time bomb, threatening to explode with unrestrained fury. I feel the insidious pressure of his fingers on my shoulders, a physical manifestation of the control he seeks to exert. In this moment of defiance, the living room transforms into a battleground, and the clash of our wills becomes a silent war fought in the shadows.

"Drop the fucking knife, Angel." His breath shudders as his rage fights to unleash, I raise my eyebrows, gripping the blade tighter. "Come on Angel, I don't have the energy to fight you." I keep still, hoping he may lunge at me, or strike me across the face, anything so I have an excuse to hurt him. His hand drops from my shoulder, the muscles in his forearms becoming less prominent as he relaxes, he looks around the room, his eyes darting from the pillar, to the lamp, to the window, then back to me. Suddenly, he latches his hand around my neck, squeezing my throat, restricting my breathing, I choke on my saliva as I tense up in shock. His squeezing doesn't fail to grow stronger, I feel my veins protrude from my forehead as the blood is restricted from my brain and my vision grows blurry, yet I still feel the strength to raise a shaky hand, yielding the knife, to his stomach. He chokes me harder, battling to end me first, yet as he takes a  long breath in to strengthen his hold, I wedge the blade into his stomach. He slaps his hands to the wound, his eyes widening and his hands trembling. 

Blood seeps through the cracks between his fingers, leaving droplets on the ivory rug below him. He launches his hand at me, slapping me hard across the face, leaving a blood print on my cheek. As he stumbles to regain his balance I sprint to the elevator, travelling as fas as my legs will allow me, still clasping the knife in my hand. I maniacally press the buttons on the panel, praying that the doors would just fucking close, and as the small metal box finally lowers I stare at myself in the dulled reflection of the silver metal lining the walls. Remembering the old lady, what she said and what happened, Bill. As I stare into my distorted reflection, a single tear slides down my cheek, creating a line along Tom's bloodstain. The elevator screeches to a stop, gradually revealing the ground floor of the apartment complex, I slide through the half open doors and rush out of the building, leaving Tom in the penthouse with nothing but his own blood to wallow in. 

The empty backstreets of New York are partially illuminated by the flickering lamp posts, casting warped shadows onto the pavements before me. I bolt down the sidewalk, being left with nothing but the sound of the low hum of the lamp posts and my own footsteps pounding against the concrete-floored street, changing tone occasionally as I run over various terrain. I travel down each path I come across, down alleys and across car filled highways, I do just about anything to get as far away as possible from Tom, yet no matter how much distance I go, when I look back, I can still see the penthouse peeking over the skyscrapers populating the city.

 Each step I take feels like a desperate plea for freedom, an attempt to escape the suffocating grasp of the memories I'd die to forget. The cityscape stretches out before me, a maze of towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, yet the penthouse remains an unwavering sentinel on the horizon. It looms over the urban sprawl, a haunting reminder of the inescapable ties that bind me to Tom's malevolence. The city's cacophony becomes a symphony of conflicting emotions as I navigate its labyrinthine pathways, a quest for solace amidst the chaos. The distant glow of neon signs flicker like distant stars, offering a feeble glimmer of hope against the omnipresent shadow of the penthouse. Each fleeting glance backwards reveals its ominous silhouette, a phantom that refuses to be vanquished. The journey becomes not only a physical escape but a metaphysical struggle against the gravitational pull of a past that threatens to eclipse the promise of a liberated future.