Poetic Justice

Dear Bloody Therapeutic Diary;

I had a dream last night. Imagine that. Happened while I was asleep (note sarcasm). I have no idea why I’m doing this, but I am. Maybe it will help, and just maybe all it will do is be a written reminder of what some sod-off bugger did to me.

It’s about four am, and Viggo is asleep. I know because we share the same bed. I can’t sleep alone, and he promised never to leave me. Which is fine. I feel safer when I feel him beside me, or hear his soft snores. Don’t tell him he snores. Not that he won’t appreciate the knowledge, he knows he does, but he’ll just turn about with some comment about how I do something in my sleep, and quite frankly I don’t really want to know what I do in my sleep.

Oh yes, the dream. He was there again. The attacker. He had me pressed to that bloody wall with the gun shoved into my temple. This time, before he could do more than that, there’s this battle cry, and I recognize it. It’s Aragorn. He’s come to save me. Lately he’s been the hero in my dreams. And he looks exactly as he does in the movies. Tall, dark and a little scruffy yet beautiful, and so very heroic that it takes my breath away. I know he will save me. I know he will not let me be hurt. And he makes me wish I were more like Legolas, more like the character I played in the movies. I want to be able to fight also, to be as swift and graceful as the Elves, and so unafraid. But Aragorn kills the attacker the same way he killed that first Uruk’hai in Fellowship, and then he carries me to a horse, and he takes me away to where I’ll be safe.

Okay, I’m bloody well exhausted. I’m off to sleep again before Viggo steals the covers.

Dear Bloody Therapeutic Diary;

It was different this time. I was sleeping in late, and Viggo was shaving. Usually I like to sit on the bathroom counter to watch him shave. That’s when we do the most talking. I don’t know why. It’s strange, but it’s where I feel most comfortable, when I watch him shave. The bloke can afford an electric razor, but he prefers the old fashioned ones where he has to suds up his face first. Can’t imagine why. Don’t even know why he shaves. His being Aragorn proved stubble suits him immensely.

The dream was different. Aragorn came to rescue me, but when he had the attacker he didn’t kill him. No, he raped him. To show him the degradation and pain I had suffered. I’m stunned. I woke up shocked. Viggo asked me what was wrong when I would barely look at him, but I couldn’t tell him. I instead told him that I was still tired.


Dear Bloody Therapeutic Diary;

I think Viggo is hunting for the attacker. It’s a feeling I have. He goes out whenever the therapist is here, and he won’t give me straight answers when I ask him where he’s been.

We talked, and I think he was right when he said that the sod wasn’t jealous that his girlfriend left him because she fancied me. Viggo said perhaps she left him because he fancied me, and he was trying to p to to her that he didn’t. His masculinity was in question in his eyes, and he was denying the awful truth. He found another man exciting. He wanted to be ‘normal’ and shag women, but it would explain why he kept telling me how I felt so much better than a woman while he used me.

Dear Bloody Therapeutic Diary;

I think I know how to find him. I’m not so certain anymore. Not after the realization that the monster could be in lust with me. Bloody hell that makes me want to shudder. Not that I have anything against gay men, I don’t. I have nothing but respect and admiration for Sir Ian, and I won’t deny that I feel comfortable enough to admit that I can easily sit here and admit if a man is handsome. I just find the thought that a stranger would want to force sexual relations on me to be disgusting.

He left behind a pack of matches. It has the name of some club or something other. I haven’t given it to the police, and I don’t know why. I haven’t even shown it to Viggo. No one knows I have it but me, and perhaps the attacker does also.


Dear Bloody Therapeutic Diary;

I’m watching Viggo sleep. I never before realized what a dear face he has. He has stuck by me through this, never once showing anything but affection and caring. There was a time when I thought I disgusted him, but today he made me believe him when he said that was the furthest thing from the truth.

Once again I was watching him shave. He makes the funniest faces when he shaves. I asked him if he found me disgusting after what happened. He put the razor down, held my face, told me it was not my fault and that he could never find me anything but special, and he kissed my forehead and hugged me. I didn’t want him to let go. It felt so nice to know he didn’t hate me. It felt so nice to know he had no hesitation about holding me. I had needed to know th
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But right now I’m watching him sleep, and I wonder what he would say if he knew about my latest dream? Aragorn was late in rescuing me this time. The attacker raped me, beat me, and left me there. Aragorn carried me to his horse, took me away somewhere safe, and when I was healed he


Orlando paused, hesitant to write anymore. Scowling he glanced at a sleeping Viggo. When that man had heard about the diary he had purchased one of those battery-operated book lights that illuminated the page, but not the room. Viggo could still sleep uninterrupted while Orlando wrote if he had need to. Turning the light off he set the book and pen aside. Snuggling under the covers he moved closer to the older man until his face was pressed against the bare chest, and he felt a protective arm lift and settle over his body. Shutting his eyes he knew sleep would be a long while in coming, but the comfort was immediate.