14 Vhalar 718
“I feel like you’re not paying as much attention as you could to me, doctor.” Fiona said. “And I demand to your complete attention.”
“Hm.” Mads made a scribble in his notebook. A literal scribble, and eyed her over the rim of his wired half-moon spectacles. “And how does that make you feel, Fiona? This feeling that I am I not paying as much attention to you as I could?”
“It makes me want to kill you. I’m kidding, of course.” Her facial expression, tone, and the way her nails gouge their way into his too-expensive chair said the exact opposite. “I feel demeaned, doctor. I feel like I have a problem.”
And indeed, Fiona did have a problem.
Okay, that was an understatement: Fiona had problems the same way sharks had teeth - in abundance and continuously replacing themselves. It had taken her the better part of three failed marriages, one attempted mass poisoning of the local water supply, a scrapped bid at ascending into a being of pure energy, and a mental breakdown provoked by a failed Doran carving session to finally admit to herself that, yes, maybe, maybe, maybe she needed help. Mind doctors -shrinks, psychologists, alienists, whatever they chose to call themselves- weren’t exactly in abundance, nor were they easy to find. The reputable ones were far away, the local ones were questionably shady, and so she settled on the first feasible option that looked like knew what he was doing.
Looked like being the operable term. Whatever expertise she thought him possessed of was gradually fading as the session dragged on.
“Doctor?”
“Mhm…” Another scribble. “And what do you envision, exactly, when you feel as though you are being made to feel as though you want to kill me. In your jest, of course.”
“I’m envisioning a wasted expenditure.” Her nails dug in as the scribbles came, as if the chair itself was the neck she so desperately wanted to strangle. She turned away, staring out at the window; even looking at him was making her blood boil. “I’m envisioning the part where you get to the point.”
“Hm. Mmm…” He set a finger on his bottom lip, just the tip of his obnoxiously well-manicured nail. “So you feel as though we have yet to arrive at… ‘the point’?”
“You know we have not.”
“I know only what you tell me, Fiona. What is ‘the point’ to you?”
Her mouth was moving, she was about to snap off something… except nothing came. Words had failed her. An insult did not come. What was the point? She’ll say something harsh, he’ll rob the insult away with his carefully cultivated professional indifference, and they’ll go back into this limbo of pointlessness.
More importantly, What was the point? She could tell him a thousand things about herself and she wouldn’t come close to arriving anywhere close to his answer.
She tried honesty for once.
“I don’t know.” she said. She was trying to find something interesting outside the window now, away from what was inside his gaze. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“I see.” For once, he didn’t make a scribble. “In that case, what would you want ‘the point’ to be, Fiona?”
She thought about it for a moment, still staunchly refusing to meet his gaze. Money? A means, not an end. Power? Likewise. It was masturbatory without a purpose to fuel it. Family? Ha. Friendship? A contract of mutual gain. As the list went on, it started to dawn on her that maybe the point was that there was no point at all.
She didn’t want anything; and that was the problem.
She didn’t try honesty this time.
“I want to be touched.”
Another scribble. “Mm.” Another. “Hm.”
“You do know I can kill you with a thought, doctor.” Now she could face him. Only in the guise of hostility could she met his eyes. “I would advise you-”
“So you have said…” He glanced at the scribbles. “Fifty-three times. Fifty-four, now.”
“Maybe Fifty-Fives’ where you get off.”
“What do you hide behind your threats, Fiona? What is so important to you that you must keep it safe, even if it means tearing apart everything and anything that even suggests it might be discovered?” His voice was frustratingly void any any emotion, save the slightest hint of polite curiosity. It made her want to do exactly that: tear him apart, literally.
“You’re not even writing anything.”
“Does that bother you, Fiona?”
“Wouldn’t it? Nothing is being done. Just going through the motions.”
“And what would you rather, Fiona?”
She wondered how satisfying it would feel to punch him straight to the face. Walk up calmly and throw a jab that would smash the shards of his spectacles straight into his unprotected eyes.
But for the first time in her life, she had the anger flood out rather than flood through her.
“I want to be fixed.” She tried to look away again but forced herself to try to meet his eyes. She settled for looking at his shoulder. It was the closest she may ever get. “I want to to wake up in the morning and think the world deserves to be better.”
“Do you feel as though you deserve to be better, Fiona?” This time, though he continued to speak slowly and evenly as ever, the quill remained still. “To be ‘fixed’?”
“Do I need to be fixed?” He had powerful shoulders, she thought. Well shaped. Strong. Beneath the tweed suit was something so far from Nero’s frail, geekish physique. She had tried to get him to exercise for arcs. It never took. “Or is it something else? Maybe it’s the world that needs fixing, and I’m the only thing whole out there.”
Another gods be damned scribble. “Perhaps.” He adjusted his spectacles, blinking three times in quick succession - short, miniature eclipses that passed over the sunbeam of a gaze his bright grey eyes seem incapable of shutting off. “Some would say that the world cannot be changed, and the only thing we are capable of changing is our self.” His left brow raised just a hair. “But I am not some. What about the world needs fixing, Fiona?”
“What doesn’t need fixing?” Scribble. She was sounding like him now: answering questions with even more questions. “You seem a well-to-do fella. You grow up with nel?”
Scribble fucking scribble. “Did you grow up with nel, Fiona? Is wealth something you seek to amass?”
“Put down that quill.” Fiona said. She saw his eyes again. “Or I will take it from your corpse. You feeling lucky about Fifty-six?”
“And what would that accomplish, Fiona? What would you gain from killing me? How would my death affect the world that you believe so desperately needs fixing?” Another scribble. She pushed up from her chair, walked the few steps it took to close the distance between them, and snatched the quill out of his hand. It started to fizzle and melt even before she finished arc of her motion.
“Hm.” Without missing a beat, Mads reached into his tweed suit’s inner lapel pocket and drew out another quill, identical to the one that had just been destroyed, swiftly and effortlessly dipped it into the small well that sat on the end table beside his chair, and scribbled another fucking scribble on his fucking piece of shit paper. “And what did that accomplish, Fiona? Do you feel better?”
She punched him right in the face in response.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. His spectacles didn’t even dent. In fact, she couldn’t even feel the satisfying heat and supple give of his face flesh at all. “Mm.” Another. Scribble. “And now? Do you feel better now?” There should have been a taunt in his tone, a smug “Fuck you, Zipper.” in the way he stared up at her with those bright, bright eyes. But there wasn’t. Anything. Nothing. He merely sat there, quill in hand, meaningless scripples on a sheet of yellowish paper, in that fucking tweed suit, as calm and steady as he’d been the trill he’d first opened his admittedly impressively carved mahogany office door.
She should have been surprised. Instead, she simply felt a drowning sense of desperation. Violence was always her final refuge. Her first and last friend, her true soulmate where the Neros and the Odds fell through the cracks. If her words failed her, if trying to play politics fell short, if verbal taunts couldn’t scare, her fists and her magic were always there to cut the knot.
Not this time.
She pressed her forehead down to his, their noses touching, their faces so close she could tell he wasn’t even breathing. “Give me the answer,” she said. No hostility, no anger, no threat of violence, just a quiet, hungry plea. “Give me the answer and you can go on doing what you do and I can go back to what I do, doctor.”
“I feel like you’re not paying as much attention as you could to me, doctor.” Fiona said. “And I demand to your complete attention.”
“Hm.” Mads made a scribble in his notebook. A literal scribble, and eyed her over the rim of his wired half-moon spectacles. “And how does that make you feel, Fiona? This feeling that I am I not paying as much attention to you as I could?”
“It makes me want to kill you. I’m kidding, of course.” Her facial expression, tone, and the way her nails gouge their way into his too-expensive chair said the exact opposite. “I feel demeaned, doctor. I feel like I have a problem.”
And indeed, Fiona did have a problem.
Okay, that was an understatement: Fiona had problems the same way sharks had teeth - in abundance and continuously replacing themselves. It had taken her the better part of three failed marriages, one attempted mass poisoning of the local water supply, a scrapped bid at ascending into a being of pure energy, and a mental breakdown provoked by a failed Doran carving session to finally admit to herself that, yes, maybe, maybe, maybe she needed help. Mind doctors -shrinks, psychologists, alienists, whatever they chose to call themselves- weren’t exactly in abundance, nor were they easy to find. The reputable ones were far away, the local ones were questionably shady, and so she settled on the first feasible option that looked like knew what he was doing.
Looked like being the operable term. Whatever expertise she thought him possessed of was gradually fading as the session dragged on.
“Doctor?”
“Mhm…” Another scribble. “And what do you envision, exactly, when you feel as though you are being made to feel as though you want to kill me. In your jest, of course.”
“I’m envisioning a wasted expenditure.” Her nails dug in as the scribbles came, as if the chair itself was the neck she so desperately wanted to strangle. She turned away, staring out at the window; even looking at him was making her blood boil. “I’m envisioning the part where you get to the point.”
“Hm. Mmm…” He set a finger on his bottom lip, just the tip of his obnoxiously well-manicured nail. “So you feel as though we have yet to arrive at… ‘the point’?”
“You know we have not.”
“I know only what you tell me, Fiona. What is ‘the point’ to you?”
Her mouth was moving, she was about to snap off something… except nothing came. Words had failed her. An insult did not come. What was the point? She’ll say something harsh, he’ll rob the insult away with his carefully cultivated professional indifference, and they’ll go back into this limbo of pointlessness.
More importantly, What was the point? She could tell him a thousand things about herself and she wouldn’t come close to arriving anywhere close to his answer.
She tried honesty for once.
“I don’t know.” she said. She was trying to find something interesting outside the window now, away from what was inside his gaze. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“I see.” For once, he didn’t make a scribble. “In that case, what would you want ‘the point’ to be, Fiona?”
She thought about it for a moment, still staunchly refusing to meet his gaze. Money? A means, not an end. Power? Likewise. It was masturbatory without a purpose to fuel it. Family? Ha. Friendship? A contract of mutual gain. As the list went on, it started to dawn on her that maybe the point was that there was no point at all.
She didn’t want anything; and that was the problem.
She didn’t try honesty this time.
“I want to be touched.”
Another scribble. “Mm.” Another. “Hm.”
“You do know I can kill you with a thought, doctor.” Now she could face him. Only in the guise of hostility could she met his eyes. “I would advise you-”
“So you have said…” He glanced at the scribbles. “Fifty-three times. Fifty-four, now.”
“Maybe Fifty-Fives’ where you get off.”
“What do you hide behind your threats, Fiona? What is so important to you that you must keep it safe, even if it means tearing apart everything and anything that even suggests it might be discovered?” His voice was frustratingly void any any emotion, save the slightest hint of polite curiosity. It made her want to do exactly that: tear him apart, literally.
“You’re not even writing anything.”
“Does that bother you, Fiona?”
“Wouldn’t it? Nothing is being done. Just going through the motions.”
“And what would you rather, Fiona?”
She wondered how satisfying it would feel to punch him straight to the face. Walk up calmly and throw a jab that would smash the shards of his spectacles straight into his unprotected eyes.
But for the first time in her life, she had the anger flood out rather than flood through her.
“I want to be fixed.” She tried to look away again but forced herself to try to meet his eyes. She settled for looking at his shoulder. It was the closest she may ever get. “I want to to wake up in the morning and think the world deserves to be better.”
“Do you feel as though you deserve to be better, Fiona?” This time, though he continued to speak slowly and evenly as ever, the quill remained still. “To be ‘fixed’?”
“Do I need to be fixed?” He had powerful shoulders, she thought. Well shaped. Strong. Beneath the tweed suit was something so far from Nero’s frail, geekish physique. She had tried to get him to exercise for arcs. It never took. “Or is it something else? Maybe it’s the world that needs fixing, and I’m the only thing whole out there.”
Another gods be damned scribble. “Perhaps.” He adjusted his spectacles, blinking three times in quick succession - short, miniature eclipses that passed over the sunbeam of a gaze his bright grey eyes seem incapable of shutting off. “Some would say that the world cannot be changed, and the only thing we are capable of changing is our self.” His left brow raised just a hair. “But I am not some. What about the world needs fixing, Fiona?”
“What doesn’t need fixing?” Scribble. She was sounding like him now: answering questions with even more questions. “You seem a well-to-do fella. You grow up with nel?”
Scribble fucking scribble. “Did you grow up with nel, Fiona? Is wealth something you seek to amass?”
“Put down that quill.” Fiona said. She saw his eyes again. “Or I will take it from your corpse. You feeling lucky about Fifty-six?”
“And what would that accomplish, Fiona? What would you gain from killing me? How would my death affect the world that you believe so desperately needs fixing?” Another scribble. She pushed up from her chair, walked the few steps it took to close the distance between them, and snatched the quill out of his hand. It started to fizzle and melt even before she finished arc of her motion.
“Hm.” Without missing a beat, Mads reached into his tweed suit’s inner lapel pocket and drew out another quill, identical to the one that had just been destroyed, swiftly and effortlessly dipped it into the small well that sat on the end table beside his chair, and scribbled another fucking scribble on his fucking piece of shit paper. “And what did that accomplish, Fiona? Do you feel better?”
She punched him right in the face in response.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. His spectacles didn’t even dent. In fact, she couldn’t even feel the satisfying heat and supple give of his face flesh at all. “Mm.” Another. Scribble. “And now? Do you feel better now?” There should have been a taunt in his tone, a smug “Fuck you, Zipper.” in the way he stared up at her with those bright, bright eyes. But there wasn’t. Anything. Nothing. He merely sat there, quill in hand, meaningless scripples on a sheet of yellowish paper, in that fucking tweed suit, as calm and steady as he’d been the trill he’d first opened his admittedly impressively carved mahogany office door.
She should have been surprised. Instead, she simply felt a drowning sense of desperation. Violence was always her final refuge. Her first and last friend, her true soulmate where the Neros and the Odds fell through the cracks. If her words failed her, if trying to play politics fell short, if verbal taunts couldn’t scare, her fists and her magic were always there to cut the knot.
Not this time.
She pressed her forehead down to his, their noses touching, their faces so close she could tell he wasn’t even breathing. “Give me the answer,” she said. No hostility, no anger, no threat of violence, just a quiet, hungry plea. “Give me the answer and you can go on doing what you do and I can go back to what I do, doctor.”
