Fic: The Subject, VM/OB, NC-17
Feb. 11th, 2006 12:15 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: The Subject
Author: Theo (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sever_it)
Pairing: VM/OB
OB/others
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: not true
Summary: Orlando is an escort specialized in S&M. Viggo is one of his clients.
Feedback: I’m a whore for it
Archive: my LJ: http://sever-it.livejournal.com/
Warnings: angst, AU, mention of BDSM and drug- taking, mention of kink, hints of het sex, *implied* character death
Prologue
Viggo is walking briskly by the river, taking in deep breaths of the filthy-smelling air that rises from the water. A silly smile of happiness stretches on his lips. He is aware he is murmuring to himself once in a while, and, at times, he even bursts into small yet powerful unbelieving chortles. He doesn’t care about the looks the passersby give him. He is happy and he doesn’t care.
He must be quite a sight, though. A respectable-looking man in his mid forties dressed in expensive, prim clothes and holding to his chest a briefcase of fine Italian leather that matches his shoes, storming down the pavement and looking like a crazy elf with his trenchcoat flowing behind him. He doesn’t give a damn about how demented he might look. Most people have forgotten what happiness looks like and therefore tend to mistake if for insanity. Oh, maybe he is a little insane. Viggo doesn’t know how one could feel so happy without going at least a bit mad.
That morning, he and his wife talked like they had never talked in many years. The confession bled from his heart. He didn’t hold anything back. For the first time, Viggo felt like he could be completely honest, not because Julia would appreciate it but because he had gathered so many secrets inside him he could no longer hold them in.
He told her everything, from the very beginning. He told her he was in love. That he felt alive after all those years of walking around like a breathing corpse. He said he was sorry for deceiving her, not only for this past year that he had the affair, but also for all those years that he let her believe their marriage stood a chance.
“I deceived myself as well,” he told her. “I always believed that this was the natural conclusion of marriage, of love. The routine. The silence. You just bring food on the table, send your child to the best schools, do what you’re supposed to do and that’s it. The cycle will repeat itself everyday, until one day one of us goes out. Yes, I know this talk sounds macabre but I already was dead, in more than one aspect. And I want you to know that until now, until this happened a year ago, I was completely faithful to you.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” she said provocatively. She was certain the new data would shock him and bring him back to his senses. But Viggo smiled wearily and took her face in his hands. He looked her in the eyes.
“I know,” he said, “I’ve always known. I don’t mind now as I didn’t mind then.”
“What about Henry?” she then asked, using every way and device to keep him trapped, to keep him there. Being so close to freedom, Viggo looked on the slavery of his past with magnanimity. He had endured it with remarkable patience and tolerance, and now regarded himself as a martyr. Well, * this * martyr would not waste one more second of his life trying to justify himself. Nothing would stop him now.
“I’ll talk to Henry and explain everything to him,” he said.
“What exactly are you going to explain to him?” she laughed shrilly, contemptuously. “That his dad fell in love with a male prostitute and now abandoning his family?”
“I’m not ashamed of this. I’m sorry if it bothers you, or Henry, but this is who I am. Yes, I’m in love with a “male prostitute”- if you want to call him like that- who decided to leave everything behind in order to be with *me *!”
“It must’ve been such a tough call for him,” Julia sneered. “Stop selling ass or having a rich sugardaddy to feed him for the rest of his life?” Julia brought her hands in front of her, palms facing up like they were a scale on which she pretended to weigh the two alternatives. “Hm, a really touching sacrifice, you should be proud of him.”
“Cut it out, Julia! He’s not taking advantage of me. Since I’m going to stop working for your dear old dad in the firm and until I find a new job in America, Orlando will be the one who’ll be supporting * me*, believe me.”
Julia started clapping her hands, a savage smile of irony on her full, once so adored, lips. Of course Viggo didn’t expect her to throw him a party when he told her, but this reaction revealed such a new and ugly aspect of her self. She had managed to conceal it in the fifteen years of their marriage, even though Viggo had on many an occasion detected several expressions of this basic cruelty. Now he realized that underneath this lovely, docile exterior a tyrant lived and thrived.
“How touching!” she kept mocking him.
“Ah, Julia…You’re making it so easy for me to leave you. Thank you for this.”
“It doesn’t make any difference, does it?” Julia unintentionally allowed the hurt she was feeling seep into her voice. Viggo wavered. “Since you’ve already made up your mind. Nothing of what I’ll say or do now will change your decision.” Her eyes blazed cruelly as she seemed to regain the control of her emotions. “So, why can’t I have some fun as well,” she winked at him.
Viggo laughed, shaking his head derisively.
“You’re just amazing, Julia,” he said to her insinuating the very opposite.
“Don’t look at me like I’m the disgusting one here, Viggo! It’s you who’s gonna run straight to your boyfriend to share the good news, and then celebrate by sucking off each other’s cock, or whatever it is that you of your kind do.”
Viggo smiled. “To be honest, I’m actually looking forward to telling him the good news and then sucking him off to celebrate.”
Julia lost her temper. She grabbed the first thing she saw and smashed it onto the floor. Little pieces of china came flying against the rounded leather tips of Viggo’s shoes.
“Get out of here!” she screamed. “Next time we talk it will be only through our lawyers!”
“I make no claims. You can have everything: the money, the houses, everything. I just want to be able to see Henry.”
“Like hell I’m going to allow this! Having him live in the same house with a whore, that would be an excellent example for him!”
Viggo darted at her and grabbed her tightly by the arms.
“He’s not a whore, you hear me?”
“Nice example you give your child! The only way you’ll get his custody is over my dead body!”
“You’re a heartless bitch,” Viggo completely lost it and he felt like he was this close to slapping her. He moved back. “We’ll see what Henry has to say about this. He’s almost of age, his opinion will be heard in court. And I don’t think I’ve raised him to be a homophobic bigot like you are.”
“Right,” Julia murmured hiding her face behind her hand, “I’m sure he’ll prefer seeing his dad sucking face with another man.”
#
Allright, Viggo thought to himself. Things *could * have gone better. But he knew his son. He knew Henry would never denounce his father for being in a relationship with a man. Yes, it would be awkward, and yes, it would be tough, but Viggo hadn’t raised Henry to behave like one of those puritan narrowminded shits that tossed witches and homosexuals into the fire.
His resignation at the firm further consolidated his sense of sudden, unhoped for and undreamt freedom. He felt like he was capable of doing everything now. Freedom was intoxicating, especially for him who had spent half his life roaring behind the bars of his cell.
He had Orlando to thank for all this.
#
Passing by the window of a flower shop, his eyes catch the wonderful explosion of colours that seem to express so well what he is now feeling. He thinks it would be ridiculous to show up at Orlando’s doorstep with a bouquet in his hands, as if he is his prom date, or something. Then he sees his face reflected on the glass, and it’s the face of a free, happy, careless man, and most of all, a man in love. He steps in the flower shop. He’ll buy the flowers for himself.
#
He crosses the last couple of blocks as he’s whistling some cheerful tune from one of Orlando’s favorite songs. He can’t quite recall the title.
He meets Ms Andler in the elevator, and she’s holding one of her cats in her arms. He nods friendly at her and she eyes him fiercely.
“You’re going up to 9B?” she then asks.
“Yes, to Orlando.” He smiles at the sound of this. It’s like saying Orlando’s name out loud for the first time, and in a way, that’s exactly what he does.
“He’s playing his music all through noon, and it’s so loud my walls are shaking. I knocked but he won’t answer. I went to see the landlord downstairs, I’m sorry, but he’s not leaving us any option, is he?”
“Oh, I’ll talk to him,” Viggo ensures her.
“I’ve talked to him about it a thousand times. I’ve warned him last time that I would call the police, but he didn’t listen to me, apparently. I think he’s become deaf from all this loud music.”
Viggo smiles. Orlando wasn’t deaf; he was just stubborn and headstrong.
“No need to call the police. I’ll try to explain to him.”
“He won’t listen to you,” Ms Andler says. She looks at him doubtfully. Why would the young insolent man of 9B listen to * this* man when he ignored hers and the other tenants’ entreaties and warnings? Little did she know that Viggo had his own special way of putting sense into Orlando. Viggo smiles, reasoning that some tender “oral” persuasion from his part might do the trick.
The elevator doors slide open and at once the deafening music deluges them. The cat in Mrs Andler’s arms meows discontented. Viggo eyes the grey furball with detestation, as if the cat stands in the way of his and Orlando’s happiness. Soon, he thinks, all this will be over. No more overbearing neighbours, no more hiding, for both of them. They’d buy a house somewhere in New England- they had fantasized about it over and over again-, and they’d buy horses and dogs and Orlando would play his music so loud that Viggo would be able to hear it as he’d chop wood for the fireplace and-
“Listen to that!” Ms Andler fumes. Viggo smiles in apology. He recognizes the music; it’s one of Orlando’s favorite albums, The Downward Spiral. Viggo has associated this raw music with his lover’s violent side and when he hears the screaming cries of a song called Eraser, something dark and ominous rises inside him.
“I’m sorry about that,” he murmurs and unlocks the door. He hurries to close it behind him as Ms Andler looks curiously into the apartment behind his shoulder.
The music pounds and bruises his ears. He makes a grimace. The music *is * too loud. The walls are trembling, the windows rattle. And Orlando is nowhere to be found. Viggo shouts his name but he can’t even hear his own voice as the singer wails: “Smash me. Erase me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.” A shiver passes through his frame.
“Orlando!” he yells futilely. “Orlando, turn the damn thing off, you’re going to blow up the entire fucking building! Orlando! That old hag next door will call the police, we can’t afford that right now! Orlando!”
Whom is he talking to? Nobody, the sepulchral voice of the CD seems to cry out in response. Viggo has the ugly feeling he is alone in there, and yet not really alone. He looks for Orlando in the kitchen, hoping he’ll find him there, engrossed in his cooking and singing along to the lyrics.
The kitchen is empty. The dishes from their breakfast wait unwashed in the sink, the butter has begun to melt on the table. Viggo can still see the dents of his fingers on its soft, yellow surface. This induces a quick flashback of that morning when Viggo had dipped his fingers in the butter and used it to lubricate Orlando who was waiting for him on the table with legs open. Viggo had felt so Marlon Brando at the time.
“Orlando! Where the hell are you?”
He walks attentively towards Orlando’s room, one more door at the end of the dim-lit maze of doors shut on Viggo, doors that again seem to harbor so many dangers behind them. He fears that he’ll open his bedroom’s door and find Orlando with one of his subjects. Viggo doesn’t know if he can take that.
When he opens the door with bated breath, he sees the room is empty. He tosses the bouquet on the bed- he wasn’t aware he was still holding the flowers- and ruffles through the tangled sheets for the remote control. He can’t find it so he kneels on the floor, beside the audio system. His face contorts with pain until he pushes the stop button. The silence following is still vibrating with the former violence of sound. His ears ring.
“Orlando? Baby?” He rises to his feet slowly, with a grunt. “Baby, you’re not playing games with me, are y-”
His words fall void as his eyes see something on the floor, tossed by the feet of the bed. He approaches and realizes it’s only a bundle of tangled covers and sheets chucked out on the floor, which Orlando was too lazy to pick up and neaten.
He almost screams when he sees Orlando’s feet popping out of the mingled sheets.
With leaden limps, he kneels by his side. He can’t breath so he gasps. Viggo tears at the covers, and he moans hard when he realizes they’re soaked. His wet palms are reddish. That’s no dye. He moans. The last piece of clothing reveals Orlando’s face, bruised and swollen. His left side is covered with blood from a big gush along his cheek. Viggo growls.
“Oh God, baby, baby, who did this to you, my baby, oh God-” He cries and touches Orlando’s bleeding face as if he can magically make the bleeding stop. He’s crying in terror as he dips his fingers against Orlando’s blood-soaked throat, searching for a pulse. He can’t tell if the blood is from the cut on the cheek, or from the throat being slashed as well.
“OH GOD, please no, please don’t do this, don’t, please…”
He knows Orlando is dead. He knows Orlando is dead because of him. Because Viggo was never meant to be happy. And now he has ruined the only thing that had made him happy.
As long as he waits for the ambulance, Viggo remembers of Orlando’s diary. The young man had this obsession that something bad might happen to him, and Viggo recalls with bitterness how he teased him for that.
“In case something happens to me,” Orlando had told him once, “find my diary and get rid of it. I don’t want people to find out who I was.”
There were names in that diary. Prominent names. One of them is the killer.
Viggo looks everywhere for it, hoping he’ll find it before the police shows up; but the diary is gone.
TBC
Author: Theo (
sever_it)Pairing: VM/OB
OB/others
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: not true
Summary: Orlando is an escort specialized in S&M. Viggo is one of his clients.
Feedback: I’m a whore for it
Archive: my LJ: http://sever-it.livejournal.com/
Warnings: angst, AU, mention of BDSM and drug- taking, mention of kink, hints of het sex, *implied* character death
Prologue
Viggo is walking briskly by the river, taking in deep breaths of the filthy-smelling air that rises from the water. A silly smile of happiness stretches on his lips. He is aware he is murmuring to himself once in a while, and, at times, he even bursts into small yet powerful unbelieving chortles. He doesn’t care about the looks the passersby give him. He is happy and he doesn’t care.
He must be quite a sight, though. A respectable-looking man in his mid forties dressed in expensive, prim clothes and holding to his chest a briefcase of fine Italian leather that matches his shoes, storming down the pavement and looking like a crazy elf with his trenchcoat flowing behind him. He doesn’t give a damn about how demented he might look. Most people have forgotten what happiness looks like and therefore tend to mistake if for insanity. Oh, maybe he is a little insane. Viggo doesn’t know how one could feel so happy without going at least a bit mad.
That morning, he and his wife talked like they had never talked in many years. The confession bled from his heart. He didn’t hold anything back. For the first time, Viggo felt like he could be completely honest, not because Julia would appreciate it but because he had gathered so many secrets inside him he could no longer hold them in.
He told her everything, from the very beginning. He told her he was in love. That he felt alive after all those years of walking around like a breathing corpse. He said he was sorry for deceiving her, not only for this past year that he had the affair, but also for all those years that he let her believe their marriage stood a chance.
“I deceived myself as well,” he told her. “I always believed that this was the natural conclusion of marriage, of love. The routine. The silence. You just bring food on the table, send your child to the best schools, do what you’re supposed to do and that’s it. The cycle will repeat itself everyday, until one day one of us goes out. Yes, I know this talk sounds macabre but I already was dead, in more than one aspect. And I want you to know that until now, until this happened a year ago, I was completely faithful to you.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” she said provocatively. She was certain the new data would shock him and bring him back to his senses. But Viggo smiled wearily and took her face in his hands. He looked her in the eyes.
“I know,” he said, “I’ve always known. I don’t mind now as I didn’t mind then.”
“What about Henry?” she then asked, using every way and device to keep him trapped, to keep him there. Being so close to freedom, Viggo looked on the slavery of his past with magnanimity. He had endured it with remarkable patience and tolerance, and now regarded himself as a martyr. Well, * this * martyr would not waste one more second of his life trying to justify himself. Nothing would stop him now.
“I’ll talk to Henry and explain everything to him,” he said.
“What exactly are you going to explain to him?” she laughed shrilly, contemptuously. “That his dad fell in love with a male prostitute and now abandoning his family?”
“I’m not ashamed of this. I’m sorry if it bothers you, or Henry, but this is who I am. Yes, I’m in love with a “male prostitute”- if you want to call him like that- who decided to leave everything behind in order to be with *me *!”
“It must’ve been such a tough call for him,” Julia sneered. “Stop selling ass or having a rich sugardaddy to feed him for the rest of his life?” Julia brought her hands in front of her, palms facing up like they were a scale on which she pretended to weigh the two alternatives. “Hm, a really touching sacrifice, you should be proud of him.”
“Cut it out, Julia! He’s not taking advantage of me. Since I’m going to stop working for your dear old dad in the firm and until I find a new job in America, Orlando will be the one who’ll be supporting * me*, believe me.”
Julia started clapping her hands, a savage smile of irony on her full, once so adored, lips. Of course Viggo didn’t expect her to throw him a party when he told her, but this reaction revealed such a new and ugly aspect of her self. She had managed to conceal it in the fifteen years of their marriage, even though Viggo had on many an occasion detected several expressions of this basic cruelty. Now he realized that underneath this lovely, docile exterior a tyrant lived and thrived.
“How touching!” she kept mocking him.
“Ah, Julia…You’re making it so easy for me to leave you. Thank you for this.”
“It doesn’t make any difference, does it?” Julia unintentionally allowed the hurt she was feeling seep into her voice. Viggo wavered. “Since you’ve already made up your mind. Nothing of what I’ll say or do now will change your decision.” Her eyes blazed cruelly as she seemed to regain the control of her emotions. “So, why can’t I have some fun as well,” she winked at him.
Viggo laughed, shaking his head derisively.
“You’re just amazing, Julia,” he said to her insinuating the very opposite.
“Don’t look at me like I’m the disgusting one here, Viggo! It’s you who’s gonna run straight to your boyfriend to share the good news, and then celebrate by sucking off each other’s cock, or whatever it is that you of your kind do.”
Viggo smiled. “To be honest, I’m actually looking forward to telling him the good news and then sucking him off to celebrate.”
Julia lost her temper. She grabbed the first thing she saw and smashed it onto the floor. Little pieces of china came flying against the rounded leather tips of Viggo’s shoes.
“Get out of here!” she screamed. “Next time we talk it will be only through our lawyers!”
“I make no claims. You can have everything: the money, the houses, everything. I just want to be able to see Henry.”
“Like hell I’m going to allow this! Having him live in the same house with a whore, that would be an excellent example for him!”
Viggo darted at her and grabbed her tightly by the arms.
“He’s not a whore, you hear me?”
“Nice example you give your child! The only way you’ll get his custody is over my dead body!”
“You’re a heartless bitch,” Viggo completely lost it and he felt like he was this close to slapping her. He moved back. “We’ll see what Henry has to say about this. He’s almost of age, his opinion will be heard in court. And I don’t think I’ve raised him to be a homophobic bigot like you are.”
“Right,” Julia murmured hiding her face behind her hand, “I’m sure he’ll prefer seeing his dad sucking face with another man.”
#
Allright, Viggo thought to himself. Things *could * have gone better. But he knew his son. He knew Henry would never denounce his father for being in a relationship with a man. Yes, it would be awkward, and yes, it would be tough, but Viggo hadn’t raised Henry to behave like one of those puritan narrowminded shits that tossed witches and homosexuals into the fire.
His resignation at the firm further consolidated his sense of sudden, unhoped for and undreamt freedom. He felt like he was capable of doing everything now. Freedom was intoxicating, especially for him who had spent half his life roaring behind the bars of his cell.
He had Orlando to thank for all this.
#
Passing by the window of a flower shop, his eyes catch the wonderful explosion of colours that seem to express so well what he is now feeling. He thinks it would be ridiculous to show up at Orlando’s doorstep with a bouquet in his hands, as if he is his prom date, or something. Then he sees his face reflected on the glass, and it’s the face of a free, happy, careless man, and most of all, a man in love. He steps in the flower shop. He’ll buy the flowers for himself.
#
He crosses the last couple of blocks as he’s whistling some cheerful tune from one of Orlando’s favorite songs. He can’t quite recall the title.
He meets Ms Andler in the elevator, and she’s holding one of her cats in her arms. He nods friendly at her and she eyes him fiercely.
“You’re going up to 9B?” she then asks.
“Yes, to Orlando.” He smiles at the sound of this. It’s like saying Orlando’s name out loud for the first time, and in a way, that’s exactly what he does.
“He’s playing his music all through noon, and it’s so loud my walls are shaking. I knocked but he won’t answer. I went to see the landlord downstairs, I’m sorry, but he’s not leaving us any option, is he?”
“Oh, I’ll talk to him,” Viggo ensures her.
“I’ve talked to him about it a thousand times. I’ve warned him last time that I would call the police, but he didn’t listen to me, apparently. I think he’s become deaf from all this loud music.”
Viggo smiles. Orlando wasn’t deaf; he was just stubborn and headstrong.
“No need to call the police. I’ll try to explain to him.”
“He won’t listen to you,” Ms Andler says. She looks at him doubtfully. Why would the young insolent man of 9B listen to * this* man when he ignored hers and the other tenants’ entreaties and warnings? Little did she know that Viggo had his own special way of putting sense into Orlando. Viggo smiles, reasoning that some tender “oral” persuasion from his part might do the trick.
The elevator doors slide open and at once the deafening music deluges them. The cat in Mrs Andler’s arms meows discontented. Viggo eyes the grey furball with detestation, as if the cat stands in the way of his and Orlando’s happiness. Soon, he thinks, all this will be over. No more overbearing neighbours, no more hiding, for both of them. They’d buy a house somewhere in New England- they had fantasized about it over and over again-, and they’d buy horses and dogs and Orlando would play his music so loud that Viggo would be able to hear it as he’d chop wood for the fireplace and-
“Listen to that!” Ms Andler fumes. Viggo smiles in apology. He recognizes the music; it’s one of Orlando’s favorite albums, The Downward Spiral. Viggo has associated this raw music with his lover’s violent side and when he hears the screaming cries of a song called Eraser, something dark and ominous rises inside him.
“I’m sorry about that,” he murmurs and unlocks the door. He hurries to close it behind him as Ms Andler looks curiously into the apartment behind his shoulder.
The music pounds and bruises his ears. He makes a grimace. The music *is * too loud. The walls are trembling, the windows rattle. And Orlando is nowhere to be found. Viggo shouts his name but he can’t even hear his own voice as the singer wails: “Smash me. Erase me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.” A shiver passes through his frame.
“Orlando!” he yells futilely. “Orlando, turn the damn thing off, you’re going to blow up the entire fucking building! Orlando! That old hag next door will call the police, we can’t afford that right now! Orlando!”
Whom is he talking to? Nobody, the sepulchral voice of the CD seems to cry out in response. Viggo has the ugly feeling he is alone in there, and yet not really alone. He looks for Orlando in the kitchen, hoping he’ll find him there, engrossed in his cooking and singing along to the lyrics.
The kitchen is empty. The dishes from their breakfast wait unwashed in the sink, the butter has begun to melt on the table. Viggo can still see the dents of his fingers on its soft, yellow surface. This induces a quick flashback of that morning when Viggo had dipped his fingers in the butter and used it to lubricate Orlando who was waiting for him on the table with legs open. Viggo had felt so Marlon Brando at the time.
“Orlando! Where the hell are you?”
He walks attentively towards Orlando’s room, one more door at the end of the dim-lit maze of doors shut on Viggo, doors that again seem to harbor so many dangers behind them. He fears that he’ll open his bedroom’s door and find Orlando with one of his subjects. Viggo doesn’t know if he can take that.
When he opens the door with bated breath, he sees the room is empty. He tosses the bouquet on the bed- he wasn’t aware he was still holding the flowers- and ruffles through the tangled sheets for the remote control. He can’t find it so he kneels on the floor, beside the audio system. His face contorts with pain until he pushes the stop button. The silence following is still vibrating with the former violence of sound. His ears ring.
“Orlando? Baby?” He rises to his feet slowly, with a grunt. “Baby, you’re not playing games with me, are y-”
His words fall void as his eyes see something on the floor, tossed by the feet of the bed. He approaches and realizes it’s only a bundle of tangled covers and sheets chucked out on the floor, which Orlando was too lazy to pick up and neaten.
He almost screams when he sees Orlando’s feet popping out of the mingled sheets.
With leaden limps, he kneels by his side. He can’t breath so he gasps. Viggo tears at the covers, and he moans hard when he realizes they’re soaked. His wet palms are reddish. That’s no dye. He moans. The last piece of clothing reveals Orlando’s face, bruised and swollen. His left side is covered with blood from a big gush along his cheek. Viggo growls.
“Oh God, baby, baby, who did this to you, my baby, oh God-” He cries and touches Orlando’s bleeding face as if he can magically make the bleeding stop. He’s crying in terror as he dips his fingers against Orlando’s blood-soaked throat, searching for a pulse. He can’t tell if the blood is from the cut on the cheek, or from the throat being slashed as well.
“OH GOD, please no, please don’t do this, don’t, please…”
He knows Orlando is dead. He knows Orlando is dead because of him. Because Viggo was never meant to be happy. And now he has ruined the only thing that had made him happy.
As long as he waits for the ambulance, Viggo remembers of Orlando’s diary. The young man had this obsession that something bad might happen to him, and Viggo recalls with bitterness how he teased him for that.
“In case something happens to me,” Orlando had told him once, “find my diary and get rid of it. I don’t want people to find out who I was.”
There were names in that diary. Prominent names. One of them is the killer.
Viggo looks everywhere for it, hoping he’ll find it before the police shows up; but the diary is gone.
TBC
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Date: 2006-02-13 09:01 am (UTC)