Slippery Slope - Chapter 13/?
Sep. 26th, 2005 09:02 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Slippery Slope
Chapter: 13/?
Author: Rocketbalm
Pairing: OB/VM
Rating: R for language
Summary: Orlando’s stay in recovery: the ups, the downs and the in between.
Word Count: This Chapter: 8,147 Total 69,203
Content/warnings: AU, some angst, and a path to healing
X-Posted: Mirrormere,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
vigorli; VOLA and my LJ http://www.livejournal.com/users/rocketbalm/
Disclaimer: Blatantly not true, fiction
fic•tion (fik shen) An imaginative creation or a pretense that does not represent actuality but has been invented. A lie. A literary work whose content is produced by the imagination and is not necessarily based on fact.
Authors Notes (and there are a lot of them): The fictional place I sent Orli to is based partly on a real rehab centre in Kent. Any assumptions about recovery are based on my own experiences/anecdotes from others and from research I’ve done. Things have been obviously changed because this is a work of fiction and details have been bent here and there for the sake of the story.
It was a real challenge to write this chapter because it was difficult to balance giving details of Orli’s recovery and bogging down the story with detail after detail of what it’s like to deal with addiction and abuse. The chapter ended up being whittled down because it was too cumbersome to include everything. Recovery is a difficult and lengthy process and I don’t want it to seem that it was a piece of cake for Orlando, but on the other hand it could take several chapters to cover it all. I chose to show the reader snapshots of time and journal entries while he was in recovery and this does not by any means cover everything he would have gone through or everything he wrote. Hope it works for the reader, though I’m sure it will be too much for some and not enough for others LOL!
I’ve chosen to depict Orlando’s writing without the spelling, grammar or punctuation challenges that a person with dyslexia might have for ease of reading – of course if there are errors you can pretend they are from Orli’s dyslexia or just blame me, after all I am flying without a net here J.
Chapter 13
Orlando sat at the small wooden desk that doubled as a vanity in his sparsely furnished room. He ran his hand over the cover of the inch thick, spiral bound notebook that had stared at him mocking and empty for the better part of a week. They’ve told him that writing is going to be a big part of his therapy, and that his journal is private. They’ve told him that sometimes he’ll be required to write something to read aloud in therapy. They’ve been patient; they’ve allowed his quiet rebellion. But today, he needs to write something. He needs to read that something. Out loud. In front of virtual strangers. Orlando hates this.
The pen feels heavy in his hand, the page seems to stretch in it’s emptiness. Outside the watery sunlight fights to be seen through a veil of clouds, and a breeze ruffles the newly budded leaves on the trees beneath his window. His mood swings between hating the painfully slow progress he’s making and the fact he needs to make it all, and realizing how fortunate he is to be here and have people who love and care for him so much.
Thinking of those he loves, his eyes are instantly drawn to the gift that Sean had tucked in his bag before he left that evening three weeks ago. Sean’s gift, Sean’s own birthday gift, the one from Viggo. He touches it as if the photo is the only thing that keeps him grounded, keeps him sane when all else seems dark, reminds him that he is loved. It’s sad that he needs reminding he thinks, running his fingers over the words on the back: Orlando – Joy. Feb. ’05. It’s sad that he needs to work so hard toward one day finding joy again. For now it’s what motivates him. He hopes one day he won’t need to be motivated, that he’ll just be. Be Orlando. Be content. Be free. He wants that and knows that the journal only one of many obstacles he’ll find along the way. He puts down the photo and picks up his pen and begins to write.
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Journal - May 6, 2005
They gave me this journal and told me I need to write while I’m here. I’m guessing they mean my thoughts and feelings, so here they are, how ever random and disjointed. I hate writing, I’ve always thought it was because of my dyslexia. I’m not good with words, things in my head seem to come out completely different by the time I painstakingly write each word down. In truth, I just hate putting things on paper – they seem so permanent and unalterable. It took me this whole week to finally pick up a pen and write something. I’ve talked to this damn book, hoping that somehow the words would magically appear on the page, but so far I haven’t managed that trick. Sometimes I just felt too sick to make the effort, at others too tired. I guess if I’m to be truthful, it just felt good to resist – like it was at least something I could control. Sounds stupid now, but there you are.
It’s been three weeks. I’m still alive though there were times I wondered if death would be better. Withdrawal sucks. The fact that I was addicted (God I can’t get use to that) is something I’m just now becoming painfully aware of. Part of me wants to write down every gory detail of what it feels like for your body to crave something so badly it tries to turn itself inside out just to get it. To have it written down as a permanent reminder of the disgust, the anger and self pity that is so thick you choke on it. The other part of me knows I will never forget that I don’t need to have it black and white to remember. That’s the part I’m going to listen to.
Journal - Later - same day
Wow I felt like I wrote so much more this morning, now it looks so paltry in comparison to the effort it took. When I stood before the group today and read what I wrote, I was shaking more than in any audition I’d ever been to. And when I was done struggling through each word, and I looked up to see acceptance and understanding, I’d never felt more accomplished.
I’ve spent three weeks here, weak as a newborn, sick as a dog and any combination of clichés you can come up with. Last week I started therapy – group, individual and art. Yes there is art therapy. Who knew? It’s the best of the lot, if I were to comment on any of them. I know this isn’t supposed to be rainbows and butterflies, but Christ isn’t healing one thing at a time, namely my body, enough. I feel like they are pick, pick, picking at a wound and allowing it bleed a little bit each day, letting it scab over, before opening it up again the next, just to see what’s inside. Some days I just sit and listen, hoping no one will ask me anything or want me to speak. Other days I get so angry that I want to shout and tell the others in the group how pathetic they are only to realize I’m just like them. All that, coupled with feeling like shit, is exhausting. You would think sleep would be welcome, it isn’t. The dreams are often worse than being awake. Almost every night they have to send someone to sit with me, as I thrash in my bed fighting whatever demon is tormenting me at the moment. The first time it happened I thought the cool hand on my forehead was that of Viggo and I sobbed when I woke to find a kindly nurse holding me to her matronly bosom. Several nights later I must have dreamed of Stuart and I screamed bloody murder when an equally matronly nurse came to soothe me. At times I sit with my knees drawn tight to my chest shivering like a dog left out in the rain, each breath agony as if I’ve run, hard and fast from some nameless, faceless evil and I guess I have.
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Orlando sat and waited in the common area, leg jittering to a rhythm only he could hear. He dressed, not in what’s become his usual attire of sweatpants and t-shirts, but in black jeans and button up shirt. Sean was coming to visit today. The first visitor he’d had since he’d been here. The only person he will let see him here. His mum pleaded on the phone to be allowed to come, as did Sam. Orlando hated the thought of having his mum see her baby boy in such a place. He tried to correct himself when he thought of what a disappointment he must be to her, but that’s what it felt like. Just another part of his negative self image he’d need to work on. He checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time, and hoped that Sean had good news.
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Journal - May 14
It’s funny when you start writing everyday, how it becomes routine, almost something you look forward to. Almost. Today I’m so excited that I couldn’t wait to come back to my room and write it all down. Of course it’ll take me until dinner to get it all on paper at the rate I go. Sean came to see me today. I had no idea I could miss someone so much. I’m sure for the first ten minutes I just let his voice roll over me without retaining a single thing he said. He was so tentative when he first got here, like he was scared that he would do or say something wrong. To know that I caused that, that I made him so unsure, was a horrible realization. To be followed by the realization that it wasn’t just Sean, but so many others. I shudder to think how much work and how many amends I need to make. If I wasn’t so excited about the news Sean brought I’d be truly overwhelmed, I’m sure that will come.
Mike has been working hard on my behalf to quietly get me out of my remaining contracts with the studios, other than my obligations to films already in the can. It seems that they can sue my arse for breaking my morality clause by being arrested etc. but if I voluntarily check myself into a rehab centre they are more than willing to cut their losses and quietly let me go. I guess it would be worse publicity for them to sue someone trying to get their life in order. Mike says in the future they will most likely add a ‘clean and sober’ clause to any new contracts so they can sue if I get out of line. I guess repeat offenders are not as likely to receive positive publicity. You can’t imagine how relieved I am. I’m free! Free to spend time figuring out what I really want out of life. Now all I have to do is find a way to get rid of Kate. Mike’s keeping her on a short leash by dangling projects in front of her, but I guess I’ll have to deal with that nightmare when I get out.
Journal - May 14 somewhere around midnight
I guess you could say I came down back to earth with a thud. I just realized I have no way to support myself when I get out of here. I have no prospects and I may have fewer friends by the time all is said and done. I’m so fucking scared that I’ve just given up all my dreams, that I’ll never get another good part in a movie again. What if I end up alone, driving a taxi, or selling magazines door to door or some such thing? What the fuck am I going to do? The worst thing, the thing that scares me even more than being destitute, is how, right now, all I want to feel is the slow slide into nothingness that my pills use to bring. I long for the shimmery sensation that steals across my skin until I feel that slight weightlessness that brings an illusion of peace. I tried meditating like they taught me, I tried thinking of how far I’d come, and finally I had to get up and do something, anything rather than lie here, thinking about the manufactured numbness those little pills brought me. Maybe I’ll just write until either morning comes or I’m able to let go of this waking nightmare and sleep.
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Journal - May 19th
I finished my first painting in art therapy today. The course is actually called Free to be Me, though after my effort I think it should be called ‘Free to explore occupations other than painter’. Truthfully, it’s been an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything. Being creative has never been a stretch for me, I’ve always enjoyed it and excelled to some extent. What amazed me is how much I learned about myself in the process. How I have this little editor that sits on my shoulder and criticizes everything I do. How I let what other people might think sway my choices and undermine what I truly believe and conceal what I really want. When I finally let go, and let myself feel the colours slide from the brush in soft wet strokes, I feel free. Each colour that I added I further lost myself with abandon to the joy and contentment of the moment. I thought of Viggo. I thought that this is how he must feel when paints in his studio, overlooking the mountains, giving life to colours and canvas. I was at peace knowing that thousands kilometers away, he too could find this calm contentment.
I haven’t talked about Viggo here. I haven’t mentioned him at all. It’s as if talking about him here will bugger something up, as if somehow when I whisper the words, they’ll travel by wind to his ears, only to be distorted on the way. Everything I have to say I want to say to him alone, I want every opportunity to make amends.
God thinking about him now… I need to stop for a minute. It’s so hard to put down what it’s like to think of him. Some nights I lie awake in my bed and I can hear his words in my mind so clearly I think that if I open my eyes he’ll be in the room with me. I never tire of trying to remember each conversation, though I shudder at times recalling my immaturity and wonder why he put up with me. I know now that the most I can ever expect is friendship from him and only after I work hard to earn his trust back. The funny thing is I’m okay with that. To have this incredible man as friend would be an honour that I would cherish forever.
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Orlando lay on his bed, his arms outstretched as he stared sightless at the ceiling. Today was the worst day yet. Worse than the first few days of withdrawal, worse than realizing he had been abusing his prescription, worse than knowing how much he had hurt the people he loved. Today his counselor got him to talk about New Zealand, about Stuart. Orlando was shocked at the anger, bitterness and hate he found inside himself. How once prodded, the festering darkness burst forth in a geyser of venom, so intense he barely recognized himself. He had shouted, whimpered, whined and wept until not another emotion could be wrung from his spent frame. His head and heart beat a continuous tattoo that felt as if it shook his entire body. Worse, he knew it was just the beginning.
His counselor had suggested that he write it all down; from start to finish. Bare his soul on paper, telling his truth. The task seemed daunting. He didn’t even know what *was* truth anymore. Where his story started and where Stuart’s perverse manipulation of his memories ended. He knew that this would be hardest thing he’d ever done in his life; harder even than learning to walk again. He wanted nothing more than to have someone hold his hand and walk him through the darkness, show him that there would indeed, be light again.
Journal - May 31st
It’s been two days since my melt down about Stuart. Two days of beating myself up because I was such a stupid twat. Two days of wrestling with this damn journal again. I finally figured out why I’m having such a hard time with this, well apart from the obvious. I’ve come to love this journal. Okay it’s more of a love/hate relationship but still it’s come to mean a lot to me. I often go back and read things I wrote two or three weeks ago, and see how far I’ve already come. How much I’ve learned about myself. The thought of polluting it with the ugliness of what happened with Stuart, sickens me. Instead, I went downstairs and pestered Delia at the front desk until she gave me one of her legal pads. (She called me a big flirt so I guess I’ll still have some of my charisma to fall back on when I leave here.) When the time is right I’ll write my story on the pad of paper instead of here. I feel good, at peace with the choice I’ve made and the solution I’ve found. Now all I have to do is get the whole thing on paper.
Journal – June 15th
I feel like I’ve finally got far enough in my therapy that I can look at what happened objectively. I’ve learned so much about myself these last few weeks, I feel like I’m on a permanent high. Not that it isn’t hard – it is. I often think back to things I’ve done or things I’ve said and feel warmth of embarrassment sting my face. At times I have to stop myself from beating myself up for something I can’t change or undo. I don’t know that that will ever go away, though I try. Some days I have so many ‘aha’ moments that my brain feels as if it will over-load and short circuit. I understand now, more than ever, what Viggo meant by nurturing the relationship with myself, and how it’s a life long process. I’ll never be ‘fixed’, there will always be more to uncover and understand; new life lessons to discover and explore. Sometimes the thought that this will be an on going process is overwhelming. The challenge I have is to embrace the growth instead of seeing it as failure, I have to take one day at a time and accept that I won’t always get it right the first time. I’ve learned that re-framing my thoughts and the way I see things allows me to be gentler with myself and that I deserve that consideration.
Orlando’s Story – June 15th
It’s funny that something that started out so sweet ended with such ugliness. Being here I’ve learned that I’ve had all the information to break free and live the life I was meant to live, I just forgot how to access it. Somehow along the way I stopped trusting myself and began doubting what I knew. Today is the day I start taking that power back by being painfully honest in what I remember, and to be honest there are things that I don’t remember all that well, but I will do my best.
When I first went to NZ, I was so excited and so scared. I mean I was no one and I was going to be working with Ian ‘Fucking’ McKellan and Sean ‘In-fucking-credible’ Bean, not to mention Elijah and well, everyone. It was amazing and intimidating at the same time. I kept thinking someone would tell me they made a mistake, that I wasn’t right for the part. It wasn’t long until I realized that it would be the best fucking job I’d ever had. Bloody hard work but so much fun. Sean quickly took me under his wing, I’m sure he sensed my insecurity. I loved him for that. I always sought him out, and he indulged me. I told him things that I never had told anyone else. I told him about my forays into exploring my sexuality or my bisexuality and my confusion and fear of going “all the way” and what it could/would mean to my career. He told me about his doomed marriage and the pain he felt in his perceived failures as a father. Which I told him was complete bollocks. He became my mentor, a father figure and so much more. We were inseparable and I fancied myself more than a little in love him which for the most part I thought I hid pretty well.
I almost ruined everything when, with drunken bravado, I kissed him sloppily if not soundly one evening after we watched the Blades win on satellite. I knew I took him completely off guard and if I had felt even the smallest bit of reciprocation in his response, I would have held hope that he felt that way about me too. As it was, Sean is as straight as they come. He never made me feel uncomfortable, never took the piss, he was just my friend. You know, so many people describe Sean as rugged and tough, and he is all that and more. What most people miss is his soft side, his tenderness, his genuine concern for his friends and family. For someone often described as a man’s man and tough as nails, most people don’t know that two of his closest friends are bi, if not gay. Funny went you think of it really. One of the best things I ever did was fall in love with my best friend, which is one truth I do know. After my aborted attempt of a kiss, I realized that the kind of love I felt for Sean was not that of a lover but the kind of love you find when you have a bond so deep that neither separation of time nor space will lessen it.
Enough about Beanie – I could write about him for ages and never be able to cover all that he has meant to me. I wish I had better understood what he had come to mean to me in such a short time so I could have better prepared myself for when he left. I guess that was one of the many lessons that I needed to learn – not to take what you have for granted. As it was, when Sean left the shoot, it hit me hard. Everyone was so kind, knowing how much I had come to depend on Sean. The Hobbits made sure they kept me occupied in the evenings; Ian took time to chat with me during breaks; Karl made me laugh with his hi-jinks and Peter was more than patient with me. It was Stuart that surprised me the most. He always had a smile for me, which wasn’t unusual; we had all shared closeness on set. What was different was the little things he would do that meant so much; things that seemed so spontaneous, but now I see were well planned out so that when Sean left he could worm his way into my life. In my desperation to feel loved, to recapture some of what I lost when Beanie left, I never questioned his motivation or intent. For as much as Stuart abused me, I’m the one who let him -- and I need to come to terms with that.
His timing was impeccable. We started hanging out and doing simple things alone together without any sexual overtones or expectations of anything other than companionship. By the time we were ready to leave the rest of the group for three months of night shoots, I had begun to see him as a close friend and confidante. He made sure, ’for the sake of convenience’, that we shared accommodations at Helms Deep and gradually he isolated me from those that were on the remote set. We did everything together and he became my world. Everyone was so happy to see me feeling better and having fun again that it didn’t strike them as strange.
Little by little I opened up to him and allowed him into my inner world of conflicting emotions, confusion and insecurity. He pretended, for I know that now, to care. Spending hours getting me to talk and reveal my inner turmoil, insinuating himself into my life on every level; and I let him. He led me to believe that he too was confused sexually, but that he had gone farther than I ever had. It wasn’t a big leap for me to see him as a safe place to experiment and so it began. I let him take the lead and fell into a more submissive role, which now seems strange to me because I’m not submissive by nature and definitely not sexually. At first, I found my self enjoying what we did, craving it even. He played right into that, using my lack of confidence with men as leverage to push me into things I wasn’t comfortable with; making me feel like I was abnormal for not enjoying what we were doing. The sad thing is, I began to convince myself I did enjoy them, that I liked to be punished and humiliated.
On set it was soon known that we were together and was, if not frowned upon, not approved of either. It only gave Stuart more leverage as to why we needed to keep things secret, between us. I was so afraid of disappointing Peter, who gave so much of himself to everyone, and afraid of casting a shadow on the films that I agreed to the secrecy and I didn’t talk about us to anyone.
In time he began to introduce other ways to make me doubt myself. The mental abuse started subtly. The first time I can consciously remember was when my back began to hurt, though it could have been before that. I had always been careful with my pills not wanting to dull life’s experiences or have them cloud my ability to act. On Rings I was even more aware of how many I took and when, not wanting anyone to think I wasn’t up to the job or that I couldn’t keep up. Stuart soon caught on to my obsession with not being seen as incapable and turned it against me. It started with comments that seem to come out of concern for my well being and then became twisted into something darker. He would remind me to take my pills, even when I didn’t feel I needed them, persuading me by adding that I wouldn’t want to hold up production. Then came the taunts that I was so pathetic that he had to remind me to take them or I’d let everyone down. Everyday he stole a little more of my self esteem, making me dependant on every morsel of praise he reluctantly offered, until his words were the only ones I believed.
I had moments of clarity, moments I would question what was happening and he had a way to keep me in line then too. He used my relationship with Beanie as a way to tighten his hold on me. He began by dropping comments about how often I talked to Sean and how Sean must be busy at home, with the divorce and his kids. Eventually it became that I was draining Sean like I drained everyone around me, that he only put up with me because he pitied me. I knew in my heart it wasn’t true, I knew he was jealous but I was so scared of losing him that I started to hide my friendship with Sean like a dirty secret. I’d phone Sean when Stuart was in the shower, keeping conversations brief, not letting Sean know too much and rushing him off the phone, before I was caught. It got to the point that if I heard the sound of Stuart’s keys in the door I would panic; wonder if I had done everything I was supposed to terrified that I hadn’t. It’s easy to see now how he manipulated me by keeping me off balance, using my good nature and insecurities to feed his base desires.
By the time the three months of the hellish night shooting was over, a combination of fatigue and his manipulation left me completely at his mercy; I became whatever he wanted me to be, when ever he wanted it. I took his abuse as if it was all that I was worthy of. I had lost myself to his madness and couldn’t find the strength to get out.
I was fortunate enough that Sean had not forsaken me, that he began to think that something wasn’t right. The Hobbits reassured him that I was only tired from Helms Deep so he didn’t act on his gut feeling immediately. Eventually he talked to Peter about the re-shoot scheduled and claimed that he had other engagements he needed to keep and asked if he could come back sooner. Thank god for me, Peter agreed.
Stuart was particularly edgy when he heard Sean was returning. His abused centered, more and more, on our prior friendship and his jealousy pushed him to torment me beyond anything I’d known before. He would regularly threaten me in a myriad of ways; both physically and mentally as well as with Polaroid’s of what I let him do to me. I learned to retreat farther into myself, and hide the abuse from others completely. My pills became my only saving grace, it became my way to escape the deepest physical pain and dull the edges of the mental abuse; they became my life line and so began my descent into chemical dependency.
I knew hiding things from Sean would be the hardest acting job I’d ever have. I planned to avoid him as much as I could, claiming work or fatigue. For the first few days he was mindful that I was in a relationship and things wouldn’t be as they were. Fortunately for me, it didn’t take him much longer to realize that things were very wrong. He called to go for a drink and Stuart snapped at him, telling him I was busy. Sean questioned his possessiveness and Stuart strengthen Sean’s suspicions when he overplayed his hand and told him to back off, adding, to my horror, that I was sick of an old man trying to leach off of my goodwill and didn’t he know that I was only listening to his divorce sob stories because I pitied him. Sean, thank god, knew that was bullshit. It was then that I had a moment of clarity – seeing how Stuart used similar lies on me. Stuart became enraged after hanging up on Sean. He gagged and collared me on the cement slab in our garage and beat me; careful to mark me only in places that wouldn’t be obvious during filming. He had always been conscious of what would show and where, the rest he wrote off to fight sequences and no one had ever bothered to ask further.
When he was finished, I lay still as I could, trying not to whimper on the cold cement floor. I prayed with whatever strength I had left that he was done. He wasn’t. He berated me with all the ugliness he could muster. When I moaned in pain from the beating he ripped the gag from my mouth, and pulled me up by the hair with one hand and reaching into my pants pocket for the pills that were never far from my reach. He taunted me by asking if that was what I wanted, and if I wanted them more than I wanted him. He told me to choose and in a cloud of pain I begged for my pills. He poured several down my throat and when I gagged on them he held my mouth closed until I swallowed them dry, their bitterness burning my throat. I remember him turning on the hose to drive them into my system and how I choked and sputtered trying to get away from the frigid water. Everything from that point is a blur. I remember he forced his way into me, raping me with a ferocious need to punish; I remember that there was no pain, though I knew I was torn and must be bleeding. I felt myself float away from my body and wondering if this was what it felt like to die. I don’t know how long we were like that; I just remember that Sean was suddenly there letting daylight into the cold garage, pulling Stuart off me. I remember hearing shouting and Stuart telling Sean that I wanted this, that I begged for this and what a little slut I’d become for him. I know that Sean hit him, where or how many times, I couldn’t tell you, only that he was on the ground very still when Sean unchained me and took me into his arms. The rest is pretty much a blank from my memory, though I know now that Sean took called Peter and they got me to a private clinic.
They pumped my stomach and tended my physical wounds. Mentally, everyone danced around what had happened and deemed me fragile. For my part I let them. I refused to press charges, knowing it would doom the entire project, and on some level, I think everyone was relieved. After that I allowed Sean to make decisions for me if it kept me from dealing with what actually happened. I became the Orli everyone wanted to remember and I buried the pain and darkness that haunted me.
After everything fell apart, those that knew some of what went on were incredulous. How could they not know? Looking back, I can see how he wove his charm into a shield to prevent them from looking to closely. He could be utterly disarming and wonderful on set and then turn into a devil the moment we were alone. It’s funny, now when someone is described as charming, I instantly look to see what they’re hiding. Charm is not a pleasant descriptor for me, it’s become inherently evil.
I threw myself into work, taking on project after project, making sure I was rarely on my own. When I was in between films, I made sure I was either visiting someone or had someone visiting me. I became the fun loving, life of the party everyone wanted me to be; I became the lovable rogue who refused to settle down, preferring to be out on the town with my mates, and occasionally dating someone who was less than permanent. That’s when Mike first suggested the idea of Kate. Someone who needed the publicity I generated and was willing to act as my indulgent girlfriend. I resisted at first, but then realized it was part of playing the Hollywood game. I was so determined to not only play the game but to win; I started to lose sight of who I was becoming. I can acknowledge now, that after NZ I truly became dependant on my pills, not for any residual physical pain but to dull the mental pain I never dealt with.
It’s difficult to read this and see the choices I made in black and white. While I need to accept my responsibility in those choices, Stuart had no right to do what he did. I have a right to be angry, a right to want closure in whatever form that might come; and a right to take my life back and find happiness.
Journal – June 23rd
I learned today that my scheduled release date is July 16th, three weeks from now. I don’t know what’s scarier -- that I have to be here for three more weeks or that I have to leave here in three weeks. Before I go I have to make a decision on how I want to deal with Kate. Between Sean and me, we’ve come up with a few ideas I think I’ll run by Mike and see if we can make them work. Now that I’ve got the studios off my arse, I’m less frightened by the prospect of having a show down with her.
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Orlando stood outside in the courtyard painting. It wasn’t the first time he had set up his easel outside. There was something about feeling the sun warming your skin while the breeze tickled your senses to get the creative juices flowing. The freedom to just be and create was energizing. Today though, his mind strayed too often from the painting beneath his brush. Ever since he found out when he would be leaving the weight of what he still had to do, what he’d been avoiding, rested heavily on him. He still needed to put pen to paper and write to Viggo. Ask him if he would take him in during his community service. He knew there was a good chance that Viggo would reject the idea and as hard as that realization was, he also knew he would deal with that reality, should it happen. Actually writing the letter was proving more difficult than he imagined.
Orlando found himself staring at the trees in the distance and wondered what Viggo was doing now. Was he all right? Did Viggo ever think of him? Did Brian give him the sculpture? Did he like it, or even keep it for that matter? Could they be friends through all this? Would Vig even want to be? He realized he’s been literally watching paint dry in the breeze and now his brush was stiff and his picture incomplete. With a heavy sigh he knew that the time would never be better than now to write the letter. Packing up his paints and easel, he went inside and stared a blank sheet of paper for a long time. Almost harder than the words themselves was the tone. Should he pour his heart out and let Viggo know how deeply he felt for him or should he keep it very short and almost businesslike. Neither seemed appropriate and everything in between seem superficial and detached. He was at a loss. Nothing seemed to come out right.
The Letter - June 25th
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Orlando read and re-read the note, trying to gage what Viggo would think of it. He wondered if Viggo would be able to put aside not only the angry words that passed between them and his foolish actions but the ill-advised kiss. He was fortunate enough that the drunken kiss he gave Beanie not only strengthen their relationship it clarified his feelings for the man. He wasn’t sure he would be so lucky the second time. The feelings their kiss had provoked in Orli were far different from the platonic feelings of his kiss with Sean. Living up to everything he wrote would be a challenge; he knew that. There were bound to be setbacks and times when things were overwhelming or difficult. He was determined to do whatever it took, to keep his word.
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July 8th
Orlando paced the visitor’s area, brows furrowed as the tension in his body lined his face. This was it. Today he would either be rid of Kate or not. Mike and Sean were sure the plan would work, and Orlando knew that the most important part was up to him and he prayed he was up to it. Orlando looked at his watch again; Mike would be arriving any moment with Kate in tow. He stood at the window and watched as they approached from the car park; noting a dark sedan parked a few spots away, the driver choosing to remain inside. Orlando smirked; at least some things still remained predictable.
Orlando stiffened as his visitors approached; their initial greeting was low-key. Orlando managed to step out of the way before Kate was able to gather him into a hug. She scowled briefly before she realized people might be watching; smiling sadly she patted his arm gently. According to plan Orlando led them out onto the lawn where there were benches and tables strewn with discreet distances between them. Orli maneuvered the group so that he was sure to sit facing the car park, Mike next to him and Kate across the wooden table.
The conversation was led by Mike who very directly told Kate that Orlando wished to terminate their arrangement. Kate looked startled for a moment before snorting. “I’m sure Orlando has told you why that won’t be happening.” She answered looking very smug with herself.
“He’s mentioned something, but I’m not exactly sure I understand. I would prefer to hear it from you.” Orlando dropped his head as if he was ashamed, though really he could barely keep from smirking.
“Orlando? Is that what you want… for me to explain our little arrangement to Mike for you?” Orlando shrugged as it if didn’t matter anymore. “God you’re so pathetic. Fine. Mike, I’ll fill you in. You see I’m sick of being the dutiful, doting girlfriend in the media. I’m sick of him getting all the press when I put up with so much shit from him. Christ, if I knew he liked to fuck boys I would have demanded blood tests before we agreed to this arrangement. I could be putting my life in danger… and for what? To be tossed away on a whim. I don’t think so. You see I know some information about our little PG13 Orlando... things that the studios would be less than pleased about. Not just the fact that he doesn’t object to taking it up the ass now and then, but other things; dark things that happened in New Zealand. Isn’t that right Orlando?” She arched an eyebrow at her make believe lover. Orlando raised his head in time to see the paparazzi step out of the car and aim a camera at them and begin to take photos, under the table he nudged Mike’s foot. Mike caught on immediately.
“Sorry Kate, I’m not catching on here. So you know things about Orlando, so what. We all have things in our life that are meant to remain private… what’s your point?” Mike pretended to look perplexed.
“My point is… that I need something in exchange for my continued silence. You see that car dark sedan in the lot? See the nice man who is probably wandering around taking photos of us. I let him know I was coming… by accident of course. He’d love to hear a sob story from little old me about how I just found out my drug addicted boyfriend put my life in danger by fucking men on the side. Then as the icing on the cake I’ll send him New Zealand to do a little digging about what really happened down there. You see you’re really in no position to negotiate anything with me. My terms are pretty firm… aren’t they Orlando.”
Orlando could no longer contain himself and broke into a huge grin as he waved at the reporter who had moved to the edge of the lawn in an attempt at a better shot. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty good about my position.” He placed a small recording device on the table top. “You see Kate, unlike in your country, here in the UK blackmail is very easy to prove and not looked upon kindly. Having Mike here as a third party only strengthens my case. Also knowing what a media whore you are I figured you’d tip the press to your little visit, so having photographs to go along with this recording is well... how did you put it… something about icing and a cake?” He reveled in how her already pale skin seemed to turn ashen, her eyes impossibly wide. “So my dear Kate, this is to be goodbye. I’m sure you have a lot to think about, but let me leave you with this. I will not, now or ever be intimidated by you or anything you think you know. My life is my own, I’m taking it back and I want you out of it.”
Journal - July 8th
Holy Shit! I think it worked, I think I got the better of that bitch; for now anyway. Just the look on her face was priceless I thought she was going to explode! I feel like I’m finally taking my life back bit by bit. The fact the Mike is onboard has been a huge relief. I do need his help and I realize now that I could have said *no* anytime and he would have found a way to do things differently. Instead I just went along with everything even when it didn’t feel right; especially the arrangement with Kate.
Now we’ll just have to wait and see what she does next. Regardless, I feel much better equipped to deal with it and her. I’m no longer ashamed of who I am and what happened to me. Well, at least I’m working on that.
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Everyday that passed without a reply from Viggo, Orlando became more convinced that there wouldn’t be one. Even though he had prepared himself for that possibility, it was still difficult. He found himself writing and painting more often, finding it was an outlet for his anxieties. There were moments of panic that swept through him and his fingers twitched for the little plastic bottle of pills. Day by day he was able to release that panic more quickly and he could feel his strength grow; never forgetting how close to the edge he’d always be, and how easy it would be to fall over it, if he allowed himself to.
With five days until he was to be released, Orlando wallowed in a moment of uncertainty, not wanting to give up hope, yet knowing he needed to have a structured plan in place for his recovery to be successful. Passing the front desk, Deliah called him over and handed him an envelope with a smile, asking him if that’s what he had been waiting for. Orlando heart leapt in his chest, his hands trembled as he ran a finger across the hand-lettered address. Viggo. He absently smiled and thanked Deliah, as he turned and made his way to his room, hoping that he was truly prepared for what ever was written inside.
Orlando sat on the edge of his bed, in the filter afternoon summer sun and turned the ivory envelope in his hands, torn between knowing and not knowing. Sliding his finger to loosen the glue, he meticulously opened it, ensuring none of the contents was torn. He slid out a folded single sheet, of what looked like, hand pressed paper in a muted earth tone. Unfolding the page he found a brief note.
It wasn’t full of sentiment or emotion, it wasn’t detailed or in depth. What it was was a beginning; and for now that was enough for Orlando.
TBC
Author’s Note: I don’t have any idea what the blackmail laws are like in the US or the UK – I made that part all up. I bet Kate doesn’t know what they are either…
Chapter: 13/?
Author: Rocketbalm
Pairing: OB/VM
Rating: R for language
Summary: Orlando’s stay in recovery: the ups, the downs and the in between.
Word Count: This Chapter: 8,147 Total 69,203
Content/warnings: AU, some angst, and a path to healing
X-Posted: Mirrormere,
vigorli; VOLA and my LJ http://www.livejournal.com/users/rocketbalm/Disclaimer: Blatantly not true, fiction
fic•tion (fik shen) An imaginative creation or a pretense that does not represent actuality but has been invented. A lie. A literary work whose content is produced by the imagination and is not necessarily based on fact.
Authors Notes (and there are a lot of them): The fictional place I sent Orli to is based partly on a real rehab centre in Kent. Any assumptions about recovery are based on my own experiences/anecdotes from others and from research I’ve done. Things have been obviously changed because this is a work of fiction and details have been bent here and there for the sake of the story.
It was a real challenge to write this chapter because it was difficult to balance giving details of Orli’s recovery and bogging down the story with detail after detail of what it’s like to deal with addiction and abuse. The chapter ended up being whittled down because it was too cumbersome to include everything. Recovery is a difficult and lengthy process and I don’t want it to seem that it was a piece of cake for Orlando, but on the other hand it could take several chapters to cover it all. I chose to show the reader snapshots of time and journal entries while he was in recovery and this does not by any means cover everything he would have gone through or everything he wrote. Hope it works for the reader, though I’m sure it will be too much for some and not enough for others LOL!
I’ve chosen to depict Orlando’s writing without the spelling, grammar or punctuation challenges that a person with dyslexia might have for ease of reading – of course if there are errors you can pretend they are from Orli’s dyslexia or just blame me, after all I am flying without a net here J.
Chapter 13
Orlando sat at the small wooden desk that doubled as a vanity in his sparsely furnished room. He ran his hand over the cover of the inch thick, spiral bound notebook that had stared at him mocking and empty for the better part of a week. They’ve told him that writing is going to be a big part of his therapy, and that his journal is private. They’ve told him that sometimes he’ll be required to write something to read aloud in therapy. They’ve been patient; they’ve allowed his quiet rebellion. But today, he needs to write something. He needs to read that something. Out loud. In front of virtual strangers. Orlando hates this.
The pen feels heavy in his hand, the page seems to stretch in it’s emptiness. Outside the watery sunlight fights to be seen through a veil of clouds, and a breeze ruffles the newly budded leaves on the trees beneath his window. His mood swings between hating the painfully slow progress he’s making and the fact he needs to make it all, and realizing how fortunate he is to be here and have people who love and care for him so much.
Thinking of those he loves, his eyes are instantly drawn to the gift that Sean had tucked in his bag before he left that evening three weeks ago. Sean’s gift, Sean’s own birthday gift, the one from Viggo. He touches it as if the photo is the only thing that keeps him grounded, keeps him sane when all else seems dark, reminds him that he is loved. It’s sad that he needs reminding he thinks, running his fingers over the words on the back: Orlando – Joy. Feb. ’05. It’s sad that he needs to work so hard toward one day finding joy again. For now it’s what motivates him. He hopes one day he won’t need to be motivated, that he’ll just be. Be Orlando. Be content. Be free. He wants that and knows that the journal only one of many obstacles he’ll find along the way. He puts down the photo and picks up his pen and begins to write.
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Journal - May 6, 2005
They gave me this journal and told me I need to write while I’m here. I’m guessing they mean my thoughts and feelings, so here they are, how ever random and disjointed. I hate writing, I’ve always thought it was because of my dyslexia. I’m not good with words, things in my head seem to come out completely different by the time I painstakingly write each word down. In truth, I just hate putting things on paper – they seem so permanent and unalterable. It took me this whole week to finally pick up a pen and write something. I’ve talked to this damn book, hoping that somehow the words would magically appear on the page, but so far I haven’t managed that trick. Sometimes I just felt too sick to make the effort, at others too tired. I guess if I’m to be truthful, it just felt good to resist – like it was at least something I could control. Sounds stupid now, but there you are.
It’s been three weeks. I’m still alive though there were times I wondered if death would be better. Withdrawal sucks. The fact that I was addicted (God I can’t get use to that) is something I’m just now becoming painfully aware of. Part of me wants to write down every gory detail of what it feels like for your body to crave something so badly it tries to turn itself inside out just to get it. To have it written down as a permanent reminder of the disgust, the anger and self pity that is so thick you choke on it. The other part of me knows I will never forget that I don’t need to have it black and white to remember. That’s the part I’m going to listen to.
Journal - Later - same day
Wow I felt like I wrote so much more this morning, now it looks so paltry in comparison to the effort it took. When I stood before the group today and read what I wrote, I was shaking more than in any audition I’d ever been to. And when I was done struggling through each word, and I looked up to see acceptance and understanding, I’d never felt more accomplished.
I’ve spent three weeks here, weak as a newborn, sick as a dog and any combination of clichés you can come up with. Last week I started therapy – group, individual and art. Yes there is art therapy. Who knew? It’s the best of the lot, if I were to comment on any of them. I know this isn’t supposed to be rainbows and butterflies, but Christ isn’t healing one thing at a time, namely my body, enough. I feel like they are pick, pick, picking at a wound and allowing it bleed a little bit each day, letting it scab over, before opening it up again the next, just to see what’s inside. Some days I just sit and listen, hoping no one will ask me anything or want me to speak. Other days I get so angry that I want to shout and tell the others in the group how pathetic they are only to realize I’m just like them. All that, coupled with feeling like shit, is exhausting. You would think sleep would be welcome, it isn’t. The dreams are often worse than being awake. Almost every night they have to send someone to sit with me, as I thrash in my bed fighting whatever demon is tormenting me at the moment. The first time it happened I thought the cool hand on my forehead was that of Viggo and I sobbed when I woke to find a kindly nurse holding me to her matronly bosom. Several nights later I must have dreamed of Stuart and I screamed bloody murder when an equally matronly nurse came to soothe me. At times I sit with my knees drawn tight to my chest shivering like a dog left out in the rain, each breath agony as if I’ve run, hard and fast from some nameless, faceless evil and I guess I have.
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Orlando sat and waited in the common area, leg jittering to a rhythm only he could hear. He dressed, not in what’s become his usual attire of sweatpants and t-shirts, but in black jeans and button up shirt. Sean was coming to visit today. The first visitor he’d had since he’d been here. The only person he will let see him here. His mum pleaded on the phone to be allowed to come, as did Sam. Orlando hated the thought of having his mum see her baby boy in such a place. He tried to correct himself when he thought of what a disappointment he must be to her, but that’s what it felt like. Just another part of his negative self image he’d need to work on. He checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time, and hoped that Sean had good news.
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Journal - May 14
It’s funny when you start writing everyday, how it becomes routine, almost something you look forward to. Almost. Today I’m so excited that I couldn’t wait to come back to my room and write it all down. Of course it’ll take me until dinner to get it all on paper at the rate I go. Sean came to see me today. I had no idea I could miss someone so much. I’m sure for the first ten minutes I just let his voice roll over me without retaining a single thing he said. He was so tentative when he first got here, like he was scared that he would do or say something wrong. To know that I caused that, that I made him so unsure, was a horrible realization. To be followed by the realization that it wasn’t just Sean, but so many others. I shudder to think how much work and how many amends I need to make. If I wasn’t so excited about the news Sean brought I’d be truly overwhelmed, I’m sure that will come.
Mike has been working hard on my behalf to quietly get me out of my remaining contracts with the studios, other than my obligations to films already in the can. It seems that they can sue my arse for breaking my morality clause by being arrested etc. but if I voluntarily check myself into a rehab centre they are more than willing to cut their losses and quietly let me go. I guess it would be worse publicity for them to sue someone trying to get their life in order. Mike says in the future they will most likely add a ‘clean and sober’ clause to any new contracts so they can sue if I get out of line. I guess repeat offenders are not as likely to receive positive publicity. You can’t imagine how relieved I am. I’m free! Free to spend time figuring out what I really want out of life. Now all I have to do is find a way to get rid of Kate. Mike’s keeping her on a short leash by dangling projects in front of her, but I guess I’ll have to deal with that nightmare when I get out.
Journal - May 14 somewhere around midnight
I guess you could say I came down back to earth with a thud. I just realized I have no way to support myself when I get out of here. I have no prospects and I may have fewer friends by the time all is said and done. I’m so fucking scared that I’ve just given up all my dreams, that I’ll never get another good part in a movie again. What if I end up alone, driving a taxi, or selling magazines door to door or some such thing? What the fuck am I going to do? The worst thing, the thing that scares me even more than being destitute, is how, right now, all I want to feel is the slow slide into nothingness that my pills use to bring. I long for the shimmery sensation that steals across my skin until I feel that slight weightlessness that brings an illusion of peace. I tried meditating like they taught me, I tried thinking of how far I’d come, and finally I had to get up and do something, anything rather than lie here, thinking about the manufactured numbness those little pills brought me. Maybe I’ll just write until either morning comes or I’m able to let go of this waking nightmare and sleep.
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Journal - May 19th
I finished my first painting in art therapy today. The course is actually called Free to be Me, though after my effort I think it should be called ‘Free to explore occupations other than painter’. Truthfully, it’s been an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything. Being creative has never been a stretch for me, I’ve always enjoyed it and excelled to some extent. What amazed me is how much I learned about myself in the process. How I have this little editor that sits on my shoulder and criticizes everything I do. How I let what other people might think sway my choices and undermine what I truly believe and conceal what I really want. When I finally let go, and let myself feel the colours slide from the brush in soft wet strokes, I feel free. Each colour that I added I further lost myself with abandon to the joy and contentment of the moment. I thought of Viggo. I thought that this is how he must feel when paints in his studio, overlooking the mountains, giving life to colours and canvas. I was at peace knowing that thousands kilometers away, he too could find this calm contentment.
I haven’t talked about Viggo here. I haven’t mentioned him at all. It’s as if talking about him here will bugger something up, as if somehow when I whisper the words, they’ll travel by wind to his ears, only to be distorted on the way. Everything I have to say I want to say to him alone, I want every opportunity to make amends.
God thinking about him now… I need to stop for a minute. It’s so hard to put down what it’s like to think of him. Some nights I lie awake in my bed and I can hear his words in my mind so clearly I think that if I open my eyes he’ll be in the room with me. I never tire of trying to remember each conversation, though I shudder at times recalling my immaturity and wonder why he put up with me. I know now that the most I can ever expect is friendship from him and only after I work hard to earn his trust back. The funny thing is I’m okay with that. To have this incredible man as friend would be an honour that I would cherish forever.
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Orlando lay on his bed, his arms outstretched as he stared sightless at the ceiling. Today was the worst day yet. Worse than the first few days of withdrawal, worse than realizing he had been abusing his prescription, worse than knowing how much he had hurt the people he loved. Today his counselor got him to talk about New Zealand, about Stuart. Orlando was shocked at the anger, bitterness and hate he found inside himself. How once prodded, the festering darkness burst forth in a geyser of venom, so intense he barely recognized himself. He had shouted, whimpered, whined and wept until not another emotion could be wrung from his spent frame. His head and heart beat a continuous tattoo that felt as if it shook his entire body. Worse, he knew it was just the beginning.
His counselor had suggested that he write it all down; from start to finish. Bare his soul on paper, telling his truth. The task seemed daunting. He didn’t even know what *was* truth anymore. Where his story started and where Stuart’s perverse manipulation of his memories ended. He knew that this would be hardest thing he’d ever done in his life; harder even than learning to walk again. He wanted nothing more than to have someone hold his hand and walk him through the darkness, show him that there would indeed, be light again.
Journal - May 31st
It’s been two days since my melt down about Stuart. Two days of beating myself up because I was such a stupid twat. Two days of wrestling with this damn journal again. I finally figured out why I’m having such a hard time with this, well apart from the obvious. I’ve come to love this journal. Okay it’s more of a love/hate relationship but still it’s come to mean a lot to me. I often go back and read things I wrote two or three weeks ago, and see how far I’ve already come. How much I’ve learned about myself. The thought of polluting it with the ugliness of what happened with Stuart, sickens me. Instead, I went downstairs and pestered Delia at the front desk until she gave me one of her legal pads. (She called me a big flirt so I guess I’ll still have some of my charisma to fall back on when I leave here.) When the time is right I’ll write my story on the pad of paper instead of here. I feel good, at peace with the choice I’ve made and the solution I’ve found. Now all I have to do is get the whole thing on paper.
Journal – June 15th
I feel like I’ve finally got far enough in my therapy that I can look at what happened objectively. I’ve learned so much about myself these last few weeks, I feel like I’m on a permanent high. Not that it isn’t hard – it is. I often think back to things I’ve done or things I’ve said and feel warmth of embarrassment sting my face. At times I have to stop myself from beating myself up for something I can’t change or undo. I don’t know that that will ever go away, though I try. Some days I have so many ‘aha’ moments that my brain feels as if it will over-load and short circuit. I understand now, more than ever, what Viggo meant by nurturing the relationship with myself, and how it’s a life long process. I’ll never be ‘fixed’, there will always be more to uncover and understand; new life lessons to discover and explore. Sometimes the thought that this will be an on going process is overwhelming. The challenge I have is to embrace the growth instead of seeing it as failure, I have to take one day at a time and accept that I won’t always get it right the first time. I’ve learned that re-framing my thoughts and the way I see things allows me to be gentler with myself and that I deserve that consideration.
Orlando’s Story – June 15th
It’s funny that something that started out so sweet ended with such ugliness. Being here I’ve learned that I’ve had all the information to break free and live the life I was meant to live, I just forgot how to access it. Somehow along the way I stopped trusting myself and began doubting what I knew. Today is the day I start taking that power back by being painfully honest in what I remember, and to be honest there are things that I don’t remember all that well, but I will do my best.
When I first went to NZ, I was so excited and so scared. I mean I was no one and I was going to be working with Ian ‘Fucking’ McKellan and Sean ‘In-fucking-credible’ Bean, not to mention Elijah and well, everyone. It was amazing and intimidating at the same time. I kept thinking someone would tell me they made a mistake, that I wasn’t right for the part. It wasn’t long until I realized that it would be the best fucking job I’d ever had. Bloody hard work but so much fun. Sean quickly took me under his wing, I’m sure he sensed my insecurity. I loved him for that. I always sought him out, and he indulged me. I told him things that I never had told anyone else. I told him about my forays into exploring my sexuality or my bisexuality and my confusion and fear of going “all the way” and what it could/would mean to my career. He told me about his doomed marriage and the pain he felt in his perceived failures as a father. Which I told him was complete bollocks. He became my mentor, a father figure and so much more. We were inseparable and I fancied myself more than a little in love him which for the most part I thought I hid pretty well.
I almost ruined everything when, with drunken bravado, I kissed him sloppily if not soundly one evening after we watched the Blades win on satellite. I knew I took him completely off guard and if I had felt even the smallest bit of reciprocation in his response, I would have held hope that he felt that way about me too. As it was, Sean is as straight as they come. He never made me feel uncomfortable, never took the piss, he was just my friend. You know, so many people describe Sean as rugged and tough, and he is all that and more. What most people miss is his soft side, his tenderness, his genuine concern for his friends and family. For someone often described as a man’s man and tough as nails, most people don’t know that two of his closest friends are bi, if not gay. Funny went you think of it really. One of the best things I ever did was fall in love with my best friend, which is one truth I do know. After my aborted attempt of a kiss, I realized that the kind of love I felt for Sean was not that of a lover but the kind of love you find when you have a bond so deep that neither separation of time nor space will lessen it.
Enough about Beanie – I could write about him for ages and never be able to cover all that he has meant to me. I wish I had better understood what he had come to mean to me in such a short time so I could have better prepared myself for when he left. I guess that was one of the many lessons that I needed to learn – not to take what you have for granted. As it was, when Sean left the shoot, it hit me hard. Everyone was so kind, knowing how much I had come to depend on Sean. The Hobbits made sure they kept me occupied in the evenings; Ian took time to chat with me during breaks; Karl made me laugh with his hi-jinks and Peter was more than patient with me. It was Stuart that surprised me the most. He always had a smile for me, which wasn’t unusual; we had all shared closeness on set. What was different was the little things he would do that meant so much; things that seemed so spontaneous, but now I see were well planned out so that when Sean left he could worm his way into my life. In my desperation to feel loved, to recapture some of what I lost when Beanie left, I never questioned his motivation or intent. For as much as Stuart abused me, I’m the one who let him -- and I need to come to terms with that.
His timing was impeccable. We started hanging out and doing simple things alone together without any sexual overtones or expectations of anything other than companionship. By the time we were ready to leave the rest of the group for three months of night shoots, I had begun to see him as a close friend and confidante. He made sure, ’for the sake of convenience’, that we shared accommodations at Helms Deep and gradually he isolated me from those that were on the remote set. We did everything together and he became my world. Everyone was so happy to see me feeling better and having fun again that it didn’t strike them as strange.
Little by little I opened up to him and allowed him into my inner world of conflicting emotions, confusion and insecurity. He pretended, for I know that now, to care. Spending hours getting me to talk and reveal my inner turmoil, insinuating himself into my life on every level; and I let him. He led me to believe that he too was confused sexually, but that he had gone farther than I ever had. It wasn’t a big leap for me to see him as a safe place to experiment and so it began. I let him take the lead and fell into a more submissive role, which now seems strange to me because I’m not submissive by nature and definitely not sexually. At first, I found my self enjoying what we did, craving it even. He played right into that, using my lack of confidence with men as leverage to push me into things I wasn’t comfortable with; making me feel like I was abnormal for not enjoying what we were doing. The sad thing is, I began to convince myself I did enjoy them, that I liked to be punished and humiliated.
On set it was soon known that we were together and was, if not frowned upon, not approved of either. It only gave Stuart more leverage as to why we needed to keep things secret, between us. I was so afraid of disappointing Peter, who gave so much of himself to everyone, and afraid of casting a shadow on the films that I agreed to the secrecy and I didn’t talk about us to anyone.
In time he began to introduce other ways to make me doubt myself. The mental abuse started subtly. The first time I can consciously remember was when my back began to hurt, though it could have been before that. I had always been careful with my pills not wanting to dull life’s experiences or have them cloud my ability to act. On Rings I was even more aware of how many I took and when, not wanting anyone to think I wasn’t up to the job or that I couldn’t keep up. Stuart soon caught on to my obsession with not being seen as incapable and turned it against me. It started with comments that seem to come out of concern for my well being and then became twisted into something darker. He would remind me to take my pills, even when I didn’t feel I needed them, persuading me by adding that I wouldn’t want to hold up production. Then came the taunts that I was so pathetic that he had to remind me to take them or I’d let everyone down. Everyday he stole a little more of my self esteem, making me dependant on every morsel of praise he reluctantly offered, until his words were the only ones I believed.
I had moments of clarity, moments I would question what was happening and he had a way to keep me in line then too. He used my relationship with Beanie as a way to tighten his hold on me. He began by dropping comments about how often I talked to Sean and how Sean must be busy at home, with the divorce and his kids. Eventually it became that I was draining Sean like I drained everyone around me, that he only put up with me because he pitied me. I knew in my heart it wasn’t true, I knew he was jealous but I was so scared of losing him that I started to hide my friendship with Sean like a dirty secret. I’d phone Sean when Stuart was in the shower, keeping conversations brief, not letting Sean know too much and rushing him off the phone, before I was caught. It got to the point that if I heard the sound of Stuart’s keys in the door I would panic; wonder if I had done everything I was supposed to terrified that I hadn’t. It’s easy to see now how he manipulated me by keeping me off balance, using my good nature and insecurities to feed his base desires.
By the time the three months of the hellish night shooting was over, a combination of fatigue and his manipulation left me completely at his mercy; I became whatever he wanted me to be, when ever he wanted it. I took his abuse as if it was all that I was worthy of. I had lost myself to his madness and couldn’t find the strength to get out.
I was fortunate enough that Sean had not forsaken me, that he began to think that something wasn’t right. The Hobbits reassured him that I was only tired from Helms Deep so he didn’t act on his gut feeling immediately. Eventually he talked to Peter about the re-shoot scheduled and claimed that he had other engagements he needed to keep and asked if he could come back sooner. Thank god for me, Peter agreed.
Stuart was particularly edgy when he heard Sean was returning. His abused centered, more and more, on our prior friendship and his jealousy pushed him to torment me beyond anything I’d known before. He would regularly threaten me in a myriad of ways; both physically and mentally as well as with Polaroid’s of what I let him do to me. I learned to retreat farther into myself, and hide the abuse from others completely. My pills became my only saving grace, it became my way to escape the deepest physical pain and dull the edges of the mental abuse; they became my life line and so began my descent into chemical dependency.
I knew hiding things from Sean would be the hardest acting job I’d ever have. I planned to avoid him as much as I could, claiming work or fatigue. For the first few days he was mindful that I was in a relationship and things wouldn’t be as they were. Fortunately for me, it didn’t take him much longer to realize that things were very wrong. He called to go for a drink and Stuart snapped at him, telling him I was busy. Sean questioned his possessiveness and Stuart strengthen Sean’s suspicions when he overplayed his hand and told him to back off, adding, to my horror, that I was sick of an old man trying to leach off of my goodwill and didn’t he know that I was only listening to his divorce sob stories because I pitied him. Sean, thank god, knew that was bullshit. It was then that I had a moment of clarity – seeing how Stuart used similar lies on me. Stuart became enraged after hanging up on Sean. He gagged and collared me on the cement slab in our garage and beat me; careful to mark me only in places that wouldn’t be obvious during filming. He had always been conscious of what would show and where, the rest he wrote off to fight sequences and no one had ever bothered to ask further.
When he was finished, I lay still as I could, trying not to whimper on the cold cement floor. I prayed with whatever strength I had left that he was done. He wasn’t. He berated me with all the ugliness he could muster. When I moaned in pain from the beating he ripped the gag from my mouth, and pulled me up by the hair with one hand and reaching into my pants pocket for the pills that were never far from my reach. He taunted me by asking if that was what I wanted, and if I wanted them more than I wanted him. He told me to choose and in a cloud of pain I begged for my pills. He poured several down my throat and when I gagged on them he held my mouth closed until I swallowed them dry, their bitterness burning my throat. I remember him turning on the hose to drive them into my system and how I choked and sputtered trying to get away from the frigid water. Everything from that point is a blur. I remember he forced his way into me, raping me with a ferocious need to punish; I remember that there was no pain, though I knew I was torn and must be bleeding. I felt myself float away from my body and wondering if this was what it felt like to die. I don’t know how long we were like that; I just remember that Sean was suddenly there letting daylight into the cold garage, pulling Stuart off me. I remember hearing shouting and Stuart telling Sean that I wanted this, that I begged for this and what a little slut I’d become for him. I know that Sean hit him, where or how many times, I couldn’t tell you, only that he was on the ground very still when Sean unchained me and took me into his arms. The rest is pretty much a blank from my memory, though I know now that Sean took called Peter and they got me to a private clinic.
They pumped my stomach and tended my physical wounds. Mentally, everyone danced around what had happened and deemed me fragile. For my part I let them. I refused to press charges, knowing it would doom the entire project, and on some level, I think everyone was relieved. After that I allowed Sean to make decisions for me if it kept me from dealing with what actually happened. I became the Orli everyone wanted to remember and I buried the pain and darkness that haunted me.
After everything fell apart, those that knew some of what went on were incredulous. How could they not know? Looking back, I can see how he wove his charm into a shield to prevent them from looking to closely. He could be utterly disarming and wonderful on set and then turn into a devil the moment we were alone. It’s funny, now when someone is described as charming, I instantly look to see what they’re hiding. Charm is not a pleasant descriptor for me, it’s become inherently evil.
I threw myself into work, taking on project after project, making sure I was rarely on my own. When I was in between films, I made sure I was either visiting someone or had someone visiting me. I became the fun loving, life of the party everyone wanted me to be; I became the lovable rogue who refused to settle down, preferring to be out on the town with my mates, and occasionally dating someone who was less than permanent. That’s when Mike first suggested the idea of Kate. Someone who needed the publicity I generated and was willing to act as my indulgent girlfriend. I resisted at first, but then realized it was part of playing the Hollywood game. I was so determined to not only play the game but to win; I started to lose sight of who I was becoming. I can acknowledge now, that after NZ I truly became dependant on my pills, not for any residual physical pain but to dull the mental pain I never dealt with.
It’s difficult to read this and see the choices I made in black and white. While I need to accept my responsibility in those choices, Stuart had no right to do what he did. I have a right to be angry, a right to want closure in whatever form that might come; and a right to take my life back and find happiness.
Journal – June 23rd
I learned today that my scheduled release date is July 16th, three weeks from now. I don’t know what’s scarier -- that I have to be here for three more weeks or that I have to leave here in three weeks. Before I go I have to make a decision on how I want to deal with Kate. Between Sean and me, we’ve come up with a few ideas I think I’ll run by Mike and see if we can make them work. Now that I’ve got the studios off my arse, I’m less frightened by the prospect of having a show down with her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Orlando stood outside in the courtyard painting. It wasn’t the first time he had set up his easel outside. There was something about feeling the sun warming your skin while the breeze tickled your senses to get the creative juices flowing. The freedom to just be and create was energizing. Today though, his mind strayed too often from the painting beneath his brush. Ever since he found out when he would be leaving the weight of what he still had to do, what he’d been avoiding, rested heavily on him. He still needed to put pen to paper and write to Viggo. Ask him if he would take him in during his community service. He knew there was a good chance that Viggo would reject the idea and as hard as that realization was, he also knew he would deal with that reality, should it happen. Actually writing the letter was proving more difficult than he imagined.
Orlando found himself staring at the trees in the distance and wondered what Viggo was doing now. Was he all right? Did Viggo ever think of him? Did Brian give him the sculpture? Did he like it, or even keep it for that matter? Could they be friends through all this? Would Vig even want to be? He realized he’s been literally watching paint dry in the breeze and now his brush was stiff and his picture incomplete. With a heavy sigh he knew that the time would never be better than now to write the letter. Packing up his paints and easel, he went inside and stared a blank sheet of paper for a long time. Almost harder than the words themselves was the tone. Should he pour his heart out and let Viggo know how deeply he felt for him or should he keep it very short and almost businesslike. Neither seemed appropriate and everything in between seem superficial and detached. He was at a loss. Nothing seemed to come out right.
The Letter - June 25th
Fuck Vig, I never thought this would be so hard. I’m not even sure where to start. I guess ‘fuck’ isn’t the most appropriate way to start a letter, but there you have it. I should probably begin with how are you or something of that ilk. I hope you are well. God this just sounds so impersonal compared to everything I want to say. So many times in the last few months I lay awake replaying your words over in mind, embarrassed that I took them and you for granted. Some days your words were the only thing that kept me sane here; gave me hope – other times I just let myself be soothed to sleep by the memory of your voice; letting its soft drawl, roll the words together in a warm jumble as it washed over and comforted me in the darkest hours of the night.
When I last saw you, I buggered things up so quickly and completely I never got a chance to tell you half the things I should have. And truthfully I don’t think it would have mattered at that point anyway. That’s not an excuse, I just know now that I was too lost to pull myself out of the despair and addiction on my own. Words seem so hollow in describing the depth of remorse I feel for everything that happened. I’ve never had your talent at conveying thoughts, and writing them down only makes it that much harder for me. I wish I was there, wish I could show you with actions rather than words how much my time with you meant, and how sorry I am for the hurt and anguish I caused you.
I know I pushed you for too much. A mistake I take full responsibility for and please understand that you can trust that I won’t make it again. I am ashamed of my actions and cherish what we had and hope you will allow it to grow to be an incredible friendship. You selflessly gave me so much in the short time I knew you. Other than Sean, no one has offered me the measure of friendship you have -- I can only hope that I haven’t irreparably damaged that. I would be honoured to have the opportunity to earn back your trust and to be able to call you friend.
I guess what it comes down to is, I want to come back. I want to serve my community service there, with you, in Whistler. I want to take my first steps after recovery in a place that in a short time, felt more like home than anything I’ve felt in a long time. I know that I have no right to ask anything of you, and will understand completely if you choose to decline my request. Regardless of your decision, you will always hold a place in my heart for all the wisdom you tried to share with me and the kindness you showed.
Orli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Orlando read and re-read the note, trying to gage what Viggo would think of it. He wondered if Viggo would be able to put aside not only the angry words that passed between them and his foolish actions but the ill-advised kiss. He was fortunate enough that the drunken kiss he gave Beanie not only strengthen their relationship it clarified his feelings for the man. He wasn’t sure he would be so lucky the second time. The feelings their kiss had provoked in Orli were far different from the platonic feelings of his kiss with Sean. Living up to everything he wrote would be a challenge; he knew that. There were bound to be setbacks and times when things were overwhelming or difficult. He was determined to do whatever it took, to keep his word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
July 8th
Orlando paced the visitor’s area, brows furrowed as the tension in his body lined his face. This was it. Today he would either be rid of Kate or not. Mike and Sean were sure the plan would work, and Orlando knew that the most important part was up to him and he prayed he was up to it. Orlando looked at his watch again; Mike would be arriving any moment with Kate in tow. He stood at the window and watched as they approached from the car park; noting a dark sedan parked a few spots away, the driver choosing to remain inside. Orlando smirked; at least some things still remained predictable.
Orlando stiffened as his visitors approached; their initial greeting was low-key. Orlando managed to step out of the way before Kate was able to gather him into a hug. She scowled briefly before she realized people might be watching; smiling sadly she patted his arm gently. According to plan Orlando led them out onto the lawn where there were benches and tables strewn with discreet distances between them. Orli maneuvered the group so that he was sure to sit facing the car park, Mike next to him and Kate across the wooden table.
The conversation was led by Mike who very directly told Kate that Orlando wished to terminate their arrangement. Kate looked startled for a moment before snorting. “I’m sure Orlando has told you why that won’t be happening.” She answered looking very smug with herself.
“He’s mentioned something, but I’m not exactly sure I understand. I would prefer to hear it from you.” Orlando dropped his head as if he was ashamed, though really he could barely keep from smirking.
“Orlando? Is that what you want… for me to explain our little arrangement to Mike for you?” Orlando shrugged as it if didn’t matter anymore. “God you’re so pathetic. Fine. Mike, I’ll fill you in. You see I’m sick of being the dutiful, doting girlfriend in the media. I’m sick of him getting all the press when I put up with so much shit from him. Christ, if I knew he liked to fuck boys I would have demanded blood tests before we agreed to this arrangement. I could be putting my life in danger… and for what? To be tossed away on a whim. I don’t think so. You see I know some information about our little PG13 Orlando... things that the studios would be less than pleased about. Not just the fact that he doesn’t object to taking it up the ass now and then, but other things; dark things that happened in New Zealand. Isn’t that right Orlando?” She arched an eyebrow at her make believe lover. Orlando raised his head in time to see the paparazzi step out of the car and aim a camera at them and begin to take photos, under the table he nudged Mike’s foot. Mike caught on immediately.
“Sorry Kate, I’m not catching on here. So you know things about Orlando, so what. We all have things in our life that are meant to remain private… what’s your point?” Mike pretended to look perplexed.
“My point is… that I need something in exchange for my continued silence. You see that car dark sedan in the lot? See the nice man who is probably wandering around taking photos of us. I let him know I was coming… by accident of course. He’d love to hear a sob story from little old me about how I just found out my drug addicted boyfriend put my life in danger by fucking men on the side. Then as the icing on the cake I’ll send him New Zealand to do a little digging about what really happened down there. You see you’re really in no position to negotiate anything with me. My terms are pretty firm… aren’t they Orlando.”
Orlando could no longer contain himself and broke into a huge grin as he waved at the reporter who had moved to the edge of the lawn in an attempt at a better shot. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty good about my position.” He placed a small recording device on the table top. “You see Kate, unlike in your country, here in the UK blackmail is very easy to prove and not looked upon kindly. Having Mike here as a third party only strengthens my case. Also knowing what a media whore you are I figured you’d tip the press to your little visit, so having photographs to go along with this recording is well... how did you put it… something about icing and a cake?” He reveled in how her already pale skin seemed to turn ashen, her eyes impossibly wide. “So my dear Kate, this is to be goodbye. I’m sure you have a lot to think about, but let me leave you with this. I will not, now or ever be intimidated by you or anything you think you know. My life is my own, I’m taking it back and I want you out of it.”
Journal - July 8th
Holy Shit! I think it worked, I think I got the better of that bitch; for now anyway. Just the look on her face was priceless I thought she was going to explode! I feel like I’m finally taking my life back bit by bit. The fact the Mike is onboard has been a huge relief. I do need his help and I realize now that I could have said *no* anytime and he would have found a way to do things differently. Instead I just went along with everything even when it didn’t feel right; especially the arrangement with Kate.
Now we’ll just have to wait and see what she does next. Regardless, I feel much better equipped to deal with it and her. I’m no longer ashamed of who I am and what happened to me. Well, at least I’m working on that.
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Everyday that passed without a reply from Viggo, Orlando became more convinced that there wouldn’t be one. Even though he had prepared himself for that possibility, it was still difficult. He found himself writing and painting more often, finding it was an outlet for his anxieties. There were moments of panic that swept through him and his fingers twitched for the little plastic bottle of pills. Day by day he was able to release that panic more quickly and he could feel his strength grow; never forgetting how close to the edge he’d always be, and how easy it would be to fall over it, if he allowed himself to.
With five days until he was to be released, Orlando wallowed in a moment of uncertainty, not wanting to give up hope, yet knowing he needed to have a structured plan in place for his recovery to be successful. Passing the front desk, Deliah called him over and handed him an envelope with a smile, asking him if that’s what he had been waiting for. Orlando heart leapt in his chest, his hands trembled as he ran a finger across the hand-lettered address. Viggo. He absently smiled and thanked Deliah, as he turned and made his way to his room, hoping that he was truly prepared for what ever was written inside.
Orlando sat on the edge of his bed, in the filter afternoon summer sun and turned the ivory envelope in his hands, torn between knowing and not knowing. Sliding his finger to loosen the glue, he meticulously opened it, ensuring none of the contents was torn. He slid out a folded single sheet, of what looked like, hand pressed paper in a muted earth tone. Unfolding the page he found a brief note.
Orlando,
I once said that as long as you weren’t hurting yourself or anyone else, I would be there to support you – that hasn’t changed. Send me the details.
Viggo
It wasn’t full of sentiment or emotion, it wasn’t detailed or in depth. What it was was a beginning; and for now that was enough for Orlando.
TBC
Author’s Note: I don’t have any idea what the blackmail laws are like in the US or the UK – I made that part all up. I bet Kate doesn’t know what they are either…
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Date: 2005-09-27 04:49 pm (UTC)I love Viggo's little response back. I'm curious to see how Orlando's healing will effect Viggo when they're back together. =) Excellent chapter.
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Date: 2005-09-27 05:22 pm (UTC)As for Viggo and Orli, they will have an interesting time ahead.
Thanks for reading and for the feedback.
cheers, rb