Poetic Justice

The sting of the hot water hitting his battered body was nearly torture, but Orlando didn’t care. He didn’t even care when he began to vigorously scrub at his body with the soap and opened some cuts and stripped scabs off scrapes. He was trying to wash the attacker off him. With a desperate whimper he scrubbed harder. The bar of soap fell from his hands, and he crumpled to his knees with a groan. No tears fell yet, but they were just below the surface. Reaching a hand out he touched the water swirling at the drain, streaks of blood mingled in the clear liquid. The spray continued to pound down atop his head, and Orlando curled up and hugged his knees, letting it fall.

For the first time he let the visions come. For the first time he let himself remember. Maybe if he did he could then distance himself from it. Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much to still be alive. He made himself remember…

He’d just finished eating at this wonderful little Italian place he’d stumbled upon, and was walking down the street for a few blocks before hailing a cab. Tomorrow he would meet up with Viggo for lunch, catch up, and maybe they’d make plans to meet up again while he was in the city. He had stopped for a moment, just for a moment, to do something when a man had walked right at him, and pushed him with his body into the alley.

“Hey! What the hell…?”

The cold steel of a gun’s muzzle pressed into his temple, and a rough voice sounded in his face. “Shut up, Pretty Boy. Keep moving back.”

Orlando hadn’t particularly wanted to move further into the dark bowels of the alley, but he hadn’t had a choice. Then he’d been twirled and smashed up against the rough brick of a wall. The attacker had gripped a handful of Orli’s curls in one hand and pulled his head back until the young man had thought his neck would snap. When he’d grunted in pain the attacker laughed. “Not very tough, are you? Yeah, all you fuckin’ golden boys get paid millions to make women cream themselves when they see you, but you can’t even take a little pain.”

Orli had tried not to make a sound when the man shoved him harder at the wall, feeling the skin on his face break at the roughness of the brick. He could feel the sting of the scrapes and the dampness of blood. He wouldn’t let the man know it hurt if it killed him. “If you want my wallet it’s in my back pocket, but I don’t carry cash.”

“I don’t want your wallet, asshole.”

Fear had exploded inside him at those words. What did his attacker want then? “Why?” he croaked, fighting the bile that fear churned inside him. “What do you want?”

The man pressed him harder into the wall, his foot kicking the young Brit in the back of the knee to unbalance him. That gave him the power to spread Orli’s legs wide and shove the muzzle of the gun more into the temple. “I want you to beg for mercy. I want to wipe that prettiness off your face, and prove what a fucking wimp you are. Maybe then she’ll see it too. Maybe then you won’t be such hot shit anymore.”

‘Oh God!’ Orlando nearly panicked. ‘A jealous boyfriend or husband, blaming me for the fact his girl thinks I’m cute.’ Sometimes he really wished he’d never been asked to play Legolas in the Lord of The Rings trilogy. He’d still be a relative unknown in England, going to school and pulling stupid extreme stunts that nearly killed him, and maybe have a few pretty girls to romance. He wouldn’t be where he was now, under threat of death in some stinking alley, wondering if the guy holding the gun to his head would lose it and smear his brains all over the brick wall.

“Look, I don’t think I’m hot anything,” Orlando tried to soothe the man. His face was on fire from the roughness of the brick.

“Shut up!” the stranger shouted, now shoving the gun hard against his mouth, making the corner rip and bruise. He laughed when he heard a whimper of pain. “That’s the way, but it’s not good enough. I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you scream. I want it to hurt so bad it’ll be more than the pain of losing her.”

Eyes shut tight Orlando sent a silent prayer up to heaven for help. It did not come. His attacker hit him with the butt of the gun, and he crumpled to the ground. Not unconscious, no, that would have been too merciful. Dazed and sluggish he felt every offense committed to him. Every kick, every bite, every vicious pinch and punch were a torment he was unable to escape or fight off.

Orli began to wish for death to come quickly. End the pain and torture. If he made a sound of pain it intensified the man’s pleasure and he would take delight in repeating what had caused the sound. If he did not make a sound it angered the attacker, and his cruelty intensified until he got the results he wanted. The young Brit turned inward emotionally, trying to mentally block out the attack.

Not wanting to be denied what he wanted the man ripped the clothes off the young actor to humiliate him. With a laugh he urinated on him, and it excited him to hear the whimper of pain as his urine stung open wounds. In a blind frenzy he fell on the actor, and cruelly thrust himself into the firm young ass, plundering it viciously until he was near orgasm. Pulling out he positioned himself near the Brit's head, and gave his swollen member several hurried pulls until his semen shot out and showered the battered face on the ground. With a last kick to Orli’s groin area he fixed his pants.

“I hope you rot,” he spat down on the unmoving man.

Orlando heard the hurried footfalls leaving, and after a moment, before he could let the bliss of unconsciousness take him, or the release from death of blood loss, he saw his cell phone, and dialed 911. “Help me,” he croaked, throat too raw to manage anything more than a whisper.

“911 Emergency, how can I help you?”

“Help me,” he sighed out, amazed that a sob clenched his throat shut. “Help me… Help me…”

“Sir? Speak up, Sir. I can’t hear you. Where are you?”

“Help me…”

“Sir, can you speak louder, please? Can you tell me where you are? Anything at all…”

“Help…” He never heard the sirens, never felt the ambulance attendants handling him to get him transported to the hospital. He never heard the curses of the police at the sight of him.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Viggo had been worried, and gone to check on his young friend. He found the young man huddled at the bottom of the shower, his skin turning blue since all the hot water had dwindled to nothing and an icy cascade of water had been pouring down on him for a while.

Hurriedly Viggo turned the water off, found the largest towel he had, and used it to wrap around Orli and lift his shivering and frail body up in his arms. Wracked with shivers and trembling the dark haired Brit could only whimper as gentle hands rubbed his body down vigorously to warm it. “What were you doing?” Viggo demanded. “Are you trying to catch hypothermia?” He noticed the opened scrapes and cuts, the bleeding starting anew at the warmth-inducing rubdown. “Oh, man.” He threw his duvet over Orli. “Don’t move. I’ll get something to warm you up.”

In the kitchen he put a kettle on the stove, setting water to boil. Hot tea should warm him. Opening the cupboard for the tea he paused when he sn unn unopened bottle of brandy. “Okay, tea with brandy will do the trick.”

Orlando trembled, replaying more clearly the whole attack, making himself pay attention to every detail he remembered. Again, and again until it sickened him, and he stumbled to the bathroom and fell at the toilet, retching. Great heaves that lifted his thin body off the floor, and made him feel like he was being turned inside out. But now he had a clue, something he could tell the police. He’d remembered a detail that could get the bastard caught.

Viggo found Orli curled around the base of the toilet. He flushed it, fell on the floor, and drew the Brit’s head onto his lap. Soothingly he used tender fingers to brush damp curls from the lovely dark brows. He drew the towel over the naked body. “Think you can stomach a little tea?”

A hand curling into the waist of Viggo’s denims Orli pulled himself closer to his friend’s hip, burying his face against the warm strength of him. “I-In a… a minute,” he chattered, still cold.

Viggo kept smoothing the curls back, taken aback by how frail Orlando looked. He had always thought the man graceful and beautiful. This was a shock; the thin limbs, battered appearance, desperate need for protection, and the light that had once filled him now extinguished. That monster would have much to answer for, and pay for.

The older actor fondly remembered the days in New Zealand when he’d befriended the Brit. New to the acting scene Orlando had proven to be dedicated to his work. He’d been so full of life, always ready with a smile, and always touchy-feely, which had been so rare in a man towards another. But he’d never shied away from hugging his Fellowship mates, patting their arms or bellies, or standing close to them in camaraderie. Those had been special days. Viggo had started the habit of them banging heads together in greeting and a show of affection, and he remembered now how angry Peter Jackson had been when Orlando had sported a large red mark on his forehead for shooting one morning.

Chest shaking with laughter Viggo glanced down at the younger man. “Do you remember the time I got Sala to head butt you twice, and Pete got ticked off because now Legolas would have a big red mark on his forehead?”

Orli’s lips twitched, and he actually chuckled. “I still see white lights when I see Sala.”

They laughed, and Viggo was eternally glad to hear the sound coming from his friend. “You’re gonna be okay,” he told the Brit. “C’mon, I’ll tuck you into bed and you can have that tea.”

“Stay with me?”

The voice asking had been small and afraid. “All night,” he promised.