Cinnamon Swirl 24, Black raspberry 25, Dark Chocolate 11: Shatter Point
Title: Shatter Point
Author: Memirra
Challenge: Cinnamon Swirl #24 (face to face), Black Raspberry #25 (the best things in life are free), Dark Chocolate #11 (compulsion)
Toppings/Extras: Hot fudge, Rainbow Sprinkles, Fresh Peaches
Story: [No name as of yet]
Word Count: 749
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You cannot fix what does not belong to you.
Notes: Another about Resmon, for he is addicting to write for, though he's a manipulative little thing. That's part of his charm I suppose.
Resmon has watched them suffer as they pass through the alabaster walls of the clinic, either outside pristine windows of his equally pristine office, or inside its walls. He has seen their torment, their scars, their darkened eyes and sunken hearts - and has gotten drunk off it. Despair is a free substance, and he gets paid to work with them, either way.
But he doesn’t care about money, especially so as he sits in his chair and gazes like a wild cat at whomever sits in the chair on the opposite side. The occupant of said chair is usually broken and disturbed, some pathetic shell of a person whom society has shunned. Their eyes never seem to meet his.
Today, however, the chair’s inhabitant’s gaze burns just as severe as his own. She is not broken and she is not disturbed, but well-dressed (maybe too much so) and smelling of lilacs. She is Clover Mayr, with downy auburn locks and sun-kissed skin and -
He doesn’t care for any of it.
He only sees her eyes; razor-sharp, voracious, and the stormy gray-blue shade of ever-turbulent waters.
“What ever could you wish to gain from visiting me, Clover?” Resmon finally speaks, tilting his head to the side with a small twitch of his lip which was supposed to be a smile but wasn’t quite.
He knows this woman; or, he knows enough. He knows that she is layers upon layers of lies, wrapped around a single sliver of truth that he doesn’t care for (her lies are probably more interesting than her truths, anyhow). He knows that she is a psychologist with a complex, whose self-proclaimed sole purpose is to mend all the broken souls in the world (by suffocating them and molding a reliant bond from them to herself).He knows she is more like him than she probably would like to admit (but whatever she denies makes it all the easier for him to slide around her words with the grace of a viper).
But most of all, he knows she wants to fix him.
“You know,” She says cryptically, the ghost of a girlish giggle blooming on her lips, “You know.”
Resmon leers, leaning over his immaculate desk, his eyes momentarily obscured by the light reflecting off his spectacles. “Perhaps…but no.”
This is what their talks are - a game of cat and mouse where neither is the cat and neither is the mouse. He knows how it will end, and so does she (only she thinks he doesn’t). They continue onwards, and he dances around her words like a shadow, but she still thinks that she has drawn him into herself like she does in every talk they have. That is her weakness, her supposes and doesn’t bother to suppress his grin, her inability to look beyond her own assumed influence.
“I know your mind,” Clover says at last, eyes as watchful as a hawk’s. There is a kind of poison in her words, a kind of raw, gravely grating that lingers in the air but is obscured by the scent of lilacs.
He has been waiting for her to say this; this is usually what she says just before their meeting reaches its climax.
“Doubtful,” He says with equal amounts casualty and indifference. He doesn’t care if she does, but knows she doesn’t. He just knows the conversation has climbed to its peak and can only plummet from here.
And so it does.
When it reaches rock bottom, they make love.
They don’t do this because they are lovers, because they secretly admire each other, or even because they are friends with benefits.
They do this because Clover wants to repair something that she does not have the ability to repair, for sexual favors and tactfully translucent words do not always root addictions in your favor. You cannot fix that which is not yours.
Remon knows this and has known this for a very long time. It is why he sits up in the cot while Clover is still asleep; why he doesn’t care when the thin sheet, half-wrapped around his waist, slides to the ground like a fallen dove; why he pulls on his clothes, in reverse order of how they came off; why he leaves the still-sleeping woman alone in the vacant infirmary and traipses up the stairs and down the halls with a sentiment of a prowling feline.
Because knows he will never belong to anyone, and that, in itself, makes him broken.
Author: Memirra
Challenge: Cinnamon Swirl #24 (face to face), Black Raspberry #25 (the best things in life are free), Dark Chocolate #11 (compulsion)
Toppings/Extras: Hot fudge, Rainbow Sprinkles, Fresh Peaches
Story: [No name as of yet]
Word Count: 749
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You cannot fix what does not belong to you.
Notes: Another about Resmon, for he is addicting to write for, though he's a manipulative little thing. That's part of his charm I suppose.
Resmon has watched them suffer as they pass through the alabaster walls of the clinic, either outside pristine windows of his equally pristine office, or inside its walls. He has seen their torment, their scars, their darkened eyes and sunken hearts - and has gotten drunk off it. Despair is a free substance, and he gets paid to work with them, either way.
But he doesn’t care about money, especially so as he sits in his chair and gazes like a wild cat at whomever sits in the chair on the opposite side. The occupant of said chair is usually broken and disturbed, some pathetic shell of a person whom society has shunned. Their eyes never seem to meet his.
Today, however, the chair’s inhabitant’s gaze burns just as severe as his own. She is not broken and she is not disturbed, but well-dressed (maybe too much so) and smelling of lilacs. She is Clover Mayr, with downy auburn locks and sun-kissed skin and -
He doesn’t care for any of it.
He only sees her eyes; razor-sharp, voracious, and the stormy gray-blue shade of ever-turbulent waters.
“What ever could you wish to gain from visiting me, Clover?” Resmon finally speaks, tilting his head to the side with a small twitch of his lip which was supposed to be a smile but wasn’t quite.
He knows this woman; or, he knows enough. He knows that she is layers upon layers of lies, wrapped around a single sliver of truth that he doesn’t care for (her lies are probably more interesting than her truths, anyhow). He knows that she is a psychologist with a complex, whose self-proclaimed sole purpose is to mend all the broken souls in the world (by suffocating them and molding a reliant bond from them to herself).He knows she is more like him than she probably would like to admit (but whatever she denies makes it all the easier for him to slide around her words with the grace of a viper).
But most of all, he knows she wants to fix him.
“You know,” She says cryptically, the ghost of a girlish giggle blooming on her lips, “You know.”
Resmon leers, leaning over his immaculate desk, his eyes momentarily obscured by the light reflecting off his spectacles. “Perhaps…but no.”
This is what their talks are - a game of cat and mouse where neither is the cat and neither is the mouse. He knows how it will end, and so does she (only she thinks he doesn’t). They continue onwards, and he dances around her words like a shadow, but she still thinks that she has drawn him into herself like she does in every talk they have. That is her weakness, her supposes and doesn’t bother to suppress his grin, her inability to look beyond her own assumed influence.
“I know your mind,” Clover says at last, eyes as watchful as a hawk’s. There is a kind of poison in her words, a kind of raw, gravely grating that lingers in the air but is obscured by the scent of lilacs.
He has been waiting for her to say this; this is usually what she says just before their meeting reaches its climax.
“Doubtful,” He says with equal amounts casualty and indifference. He doesn’t care if she does, but knows she doesn’t. He just knows the conversation has climbed to its peak and can only plummet from here.
And so it does.
When it reaches rock bottom, they make love.
They don’t do this because they are lovers, because they secretly admire each other, or even because they are friends with benefits.
They do this because Clover wants to repair something that she does not have the ability to repair, for sexual favors and tactfully translucent words do not always root addictions in your favor. You cannot fix that which is not yours.
Remon knows this and has known this for a very long time. It is why he sits up in the cot while Clover is still asleep; why he doesn’t care when the thin sheet, half-wrapped around his waist, slides to the ground like a fallen dove; why he pulls on his clothes, in reverse order of how they came off; why he leaves the still-sleeping woman alone in the vacant infirmary and traipses up the stairs and down the halls with a sentiment of a prowling feline.
Because knows he will never belong to anyone, and that, in itself, makes him broken.