I’ll have to intro this part myself, because Storm’s frame of mind is currently in such a state that  he’s not able to .   If you missed part 1 (or if you deleted it ), Storm went to see an old friend of his to have a tattoo done.  Problem is, his so-called friend ended up forcing him into sex against his will.  On to part 2, and what he thought would be his revenge – at least, that’s what he thought before his own mind turned against him…

This part is long, but I promise that I *am* going somewhere with all of this.  ^_^

**NOTE: Thoughts are in =  =.**
 
 

 
    It was the high-pitched ringing of the bedside phone that woke him.

    Storm groaned loudly and flung an arm over his eyes, trying to shield them from the bright afternoon sunlight that was pouring in through his bedroom window. Grunting, he ignored the insistent ringing and rolled onto his side, trying to go back to sleep.  The caller, however, had a different idea.  He sighed and gave up his effort, rolling onto his back again and opening his eyes to stare blearily at the ceiling. =Alright, already!= he thought disgustedly.  =If I haven’t answered the fucking thing by now, it’s a pretty safe bet that I’m damn well not going to.  So leave me alone and let me get back to sleep!=  As if the caller had heard him, the phone stopped, and the room once again filled with silence.  =About damn time!  Now I can flip the machine on and- =  His eyes widened in shock as the events of last night washed over him in an unwelcome rush, merciless in their assault on his half-asleep senses.

    “Holy Christ,” he whispered.  Not willing to believe that Tigra had raped him, he lifted his trembling hands up and covered his face with them.  There was no way – NO WAY AT ALL – that what he was remembering was real.  It had to be a nightmare, or an acid flashback; anything *but* reality!  <<Afraid so…>> his conscience snickered darkly.  <<You never imagined it, and it’s not a dream.  It is indeed a reality, and your worst fears just came true.>>

    “NOOOOOOO!!!” Storm screamed.   Diving up from the bed, he hit the floor running and tripped over the towel he had thrown so carelessly on the rug the night before.  He fell onto his knees, wincing at the twin jolts of pain that shot through his legs.  Ignoring the throbbing in his kneecaps, he scrambled back to his feet and concentrated on making it to the bathroom.  The pain would fade quickly, but the nagging insistence to dispel the horrifying thoughts racing around inside his skull would not.  He choked back a sob and raced into the bathroom, where his unsteady hand slapped at the wall three times before he managed to turn on the light.  Bracing himself against the counter surrounding the sink, Storm tried to still the shaking in his arms and took a deep breath.  He forced his eyes upward and looked into the mirror.

    The face that gazed back at him was his own, but its eyes were bloodshot and its face was milk-pale.  The long black hair that was usually so shiny was sleep-tangled and matted with sweat; sometime during the night, a blotchy five-o’clock shadow had taken over his upper lip and jaw.  <<You may have been a successful rock star,>> his conscience brayed, <<but no one would guess that if they looked at you now.  Frankly, my dear, you look like hell.>>

    “Shut up,” Storm grated.  “Just shut the fuck up.”  Glaring at his reflection, the realization dawned on him that he’d slept in his clothes.  He swore again and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall into a heap on the floor.  His eyes followed the glass of the mirror slowly down his torso, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his neck, chest, and stomach were unmarked.  Storm wasn’t exactly sure why he thought they *would* be, but he checked his shoulders and back also, hoping that the lack of physical evidence would negate the nightmarish mental images that were running unchecked through his mind.  Shuddering, he slowly unzipped his leather pants and studied the bandages that covered most of his hipbones.  He peeled each one off slowly, flinching as they stuck to his skin briefly before  pulling free.  =See?  Nothing here but tattoos,= he reassured himself.  =And even if I no longer wanna go near him, even if he *is* a bastard, he does awesome work.=  He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pushed them down, then kicked free of them and turned on the shower.  Satisfied now that the entire incident had been a figment of his lurid imagination, he scratched his belly and frowned when his nails snagged a long, stringy… something.  <<And I wonder what that could be?>> his conscience jeered.   He nearly fainted when he looked down and saw the long, purple hair that had caught underneath his fingernails.

    “Oh, God, no.  No.  Nuh uh.  This can NOT be fucking happening!!!”  Storm moaned.  He closed his eyes and shook his head rapidly, desperately wishing the awful reminder out of existence.  But when he opened his eyes, it was still there.  The damning and irrevocably real strand of hair broke in two and drifted to the floor as he clenched his jaw and slammed his fist into the wall.  Cold sweat rolled down his spine as his legs gave way, and he slid bonelessly to the cold floor.  He groped for the toilet bowl and retched miserably, his stomach roiling with violation as the bitterness he felt forced its contents out of him.

    When he was sure his legs would support him again, Storm ran a shaky hand through his sweat-slicked hair and stood up gingerly.  The water raining down the shower walls was nearly cold, but it didn’t matter.  He stepped inside, closed the frosted glass door, and plunged straight into the cool spray, letting it revive him and washing the stench of sick-sweat from his clammy face and aching body.  Shivering, Storm picked up the soap and lathered his entire body.  His skin reddened and began to sting as he scrubbed at it with the rough washcloth, but he ignored it and scrubbed even harder.  The only thought he allowed to surface was that he had to wash the bastard’s scent off of him.  All too soon, however, his conscience once again took control of his mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

    <<Well, well, my dear.  It seems that everyone was right about you,>> it chuckled musically.  <<You know what they say – once a whore, always a whore.  It’s a shame you never thought to strike a bargain with Tigra *before* you let him take you – after all, the only thing YOU got out of the ‘arrangement’ was a couple of tattoos and some hurt pride.  I can remember a time when you charged a lot more for an evening’s festivities.  Tsk, tsk.  I guess that some small part of you must even have liked it.  You never put up a fight, did you?  Oh, no.  You just lie there and let him do whatever… he… wanted.  I suppose that’s to be expected, though.  Someone like you would let *anybody* use you and throw you away.  You’re not exactly known for being picky when it comes to choosing a bed partner.  A past such as yours speaks for itself, my dear Storm.  But I must admit, the funniest thing, the most laughable thing, is that you actually have the gall to hope that a man like Dion could want you.  That is the single most amusing notion you have ever entertained in that dim little brain of yours.  What can you possibly offer him that he couldn’t find in someone else?  A pretty face?  Those are a dime a dozen, my friend.  A warm body?  He could find that anywhere, and undoubtedly he could find a much nicer, much more pleasing body than yours.  Someone to have sex with?  You flatter yourself.  The last time I checked, Dion had no shortage of willing partners.  Even your old pal Siva treats Dion better than you could ever hope to.  It’s no wonder that they’ve been so close for so long.  So, as someone who knows you even better than you think you know yourself, I would advise you to forget about Dion and let him lead his life happily.  I’m afraid there’s no tactful way to say this, so I’ll just give it to you straight.  If Dion wanted an easy, stupid little slut, he would find himself one.  So grow up and leave him alone.>>

    The tears Storm had held in check since last night finally overwhelmed him, spilling down his cheeks unheeded and warming his face even as his stomach clenched into a cold, tight ball of misery.   =I can’t deny it.  Any of it.=  He closed his eyes on a fresh wave of despair and choked back a whimper.  =If he knew what I was, all the ugly shit I’ve done and seen, he’d leave me.  And I know I could never find the balls to tell him, because if I did, the disgust in his eyes would kill me.  Damn it, whether I wanted to or not, I care about him – hell, maybe I’m even starting to love him.  So the best thing I could do for him would be to stay the fuck out of his life.=  Feeling as if his very soul was being ripped out from inside of him, Storm sat down on the floor of the bathtub, hugged his knees to his chest, and let the sobs wrack his body.

    He cried until he’d purged himself of the last tear, and tried to find the energy to stand up as the sense of numbness set in.  Wiping his eyes, Storm reached his hand up and turned off the taps.  He leaned back against the cool fiberglass wall of the shower and stared at the dripping faucet until he was too chilled to stay there any longer.  It was a hell of an effort to reach for the towel hanging above his head, but he managed to get out of the shower and pull it off the bar so he could wrap it around his waist.  When he looked down to secure the towel, his eyes wandered over the tattoo that obscured most of his left hipbone.  It was the one he had designed in memory of Illusion, and the breath he took hitched in a broken sigh as he remembered his best friend.

    “Am I ever gonna stop missing you?” he whispered, feeling another piece of what used to be his heart break and dissolve somewhere inside of him.  But he couldn’t dredge up enough feeling to care.  “You were always the only one who would understand whatever I told you.  Even if you hated what I did, you were always there when I needed you.  Always.  Even if I did my best to push you away, you never gave up on me.  You told me you never would.  And now you’re gone, and I still need you.  But I guess it’s too late to tell you that.”  Avoiding his reflection, Storm reached into the mirrored cabinet and pulled out the Valium the doctors had prescribed for him when he’d learned that Illusion was dead.  He shook six of the small pills out of the container and swallowed them with a handful of water, then reached out to turn off the bathroom light.  He headed towards his bedroom, and throwing off the towel, draped himself naked and still damp across the center of the unmade bed.

    Storm crossed his arms behind him and lay his head on them, wishing with every fiber of his being that he was dead, too.  As he drifted off to sleep, he swore that he saw Illusion grinning at him.
 
 
 
                                                  ***Part 3 coming soon!***