"STOLKHOLM SYNDROME"

DISCLAIMER:

I DONT OWN IT. I NEVER WILL. SHUT UP.

WARNINGS: THERES A REASON ITS RATED "R". DRINKING, BULIMIA AND SOME NON-CON THATS NON-GRAPHIC AT THE END.

"Its not something you can rush", he says to you, as he wipes out a heavy looking glass with a dirty rag. His beard is scraggly, overgrown. His eyes are yellow, the irises black. His skin is grey. His hands are stubby and fat and its just so captivating how the veins are so thick under his skin.

The air is thick and cold, crisp in the saddest sun England had ever seen. Smoke is still in the air, years later, and the clouds never seemed to part. The grass is sickly and the trees are rotting from the inside out. Too many drizzles. Too much lethargy. Too much.

He smiles tiredly and puts the glass up on a shelf on the other side of the bar. He reaches into the sink and pulls out another glass. His shirt is grubby and pale, his slacks stained and worn looking.

"These things take time. It just doesn't happen all at once.", he continues, and its striking just how gently intelligent he is. The lights of the bar flicker off in the morning light.

0...0...0

At first, it was white. Things were a perfect white, just like her teeth. It was so plain and simple, the white. So full of energy, so ready, so vibrant. You wonder how long it took to steal the life from that white. How long?

And when did it start fading?You pause and wait for the answer to fall from the sky and into your lap.

Now you remember.

She fell in love. Oh her love, beautiful, was it not?

Oh you laugh now, but you remember. So faintly you remember how she fell in love.

With another man.

She ruffled his black hair, kissed the eyelids that covered green eyes. Green eyes meant for another woman, not her. And oh it pained you so, you remember, to see her so pained. She knew it, knew he loved someone else. She was crushed, so crushed, and inadvertantly, so were you.

You counted every eyelash on her lids, counted every faint freckle, every trip to the loo when she emerged with red, blotchy skin and sniffles. Every trip to the library that found little rain drops littering the pages of her books like so many fallen leaves. Every time you sat in your shared common room and listened as she poured her stomach out to the toilet, wishing she were pouring her heart out to you.

Could you have stopped her?

Probably.

Did you?

No.

Because after she was done, you did the same thing.

It was then she turned a pale yellowish white, so sick. So sick.

She was so white, sick, but white, as compared to the jet black mark gracing your arm. You think with a smile of her tracing the contours of your scar, and immediately note this for later. A good idea, that one.

She was seventeen and knew nothing of the world. You were seventeen and knew everything about her. And sometimes you wished, wished deep down, to save her.

Spy? You? Never.

You think fondly of her brown eyes and your eyes sparkle. You wouldn't spy. What a foolish endeavor. You chuckle.

"You're a man in love.", says the barman, smiling. "But these things take time young man." He serves you another drink and you tiredly reach over and bring it your lips. Its foaming white at the top.

She fell in love with someone else. Then your smiles and sparkles drop. She fell in love with someone else. You take a deep drink, hoping to swallow your thoughts.

You do and they burn in your stomach, sizzling with every other acidic thought you ever forced yourself to keep burried underneath your food and drink.

Ah, but that did end soon, didnt it?

She was so sick when it did, so sick, you think to yourself. So thin, so pale. So pale she wasn't even white anymore. She was more of a fading color. Transparent- like a wet sheet waving in the breeze.

The sun peeked shyly through the grimy windows and you think of her nose, peppered with freckles. You wish you had freckles too, just so you didnt so much like a slab of marble. Or pure concrete.

You are so much more than just a rock.

0...0...0

He died in a flash of green and you were left with what he had refused to hold close. Oh yes, what he had refused. He knew, and still pushed her to become transparent. She always thought she was to blame. She wasn't thin enough, she wasnt pretty enough. She wasnt smart enough, she just wasn't enough. The truth was, and you knew it too, she was everything. She was everything, and that green-eyed monstrosity wanted only half of her.

Maybe, you sometimes think to yourself, that what she was trying to do was rid herself of her insides so she could be just the shell of a person he wanted. You wanted her whole, so you ridded yourself of your insides as well. You thought that if she was half, you could be half with her, and together you'd make one.

But dear boy, you realized that a half can never be made whole, even by another half. So you stopped yourself on the rim of the sink and skittered back to the shower and turned it on, stepped inside, and swallowed more of what made you so fat in the first place.

And it wasnt water.

0...0...0

He died in a flash of green and you are now left with his left-overs.

You dont like left-overs.

But you don't mind these too much.

0...0...0

"Son, don't you think you ought to head on home? She's probably worried about you."

He's right, so you leave.

0...0...0

"Shhhh", you whisper, and slide the blind fold over her eyes. She doesnt like looking at you and you know it.

You slide a hand over her very pregnant belly and sigh.

Your hand closes over hers and brings her trembling fingers to your arm, where you trail her fingers over the ugly black abnormality etched into your skin. It sends shivers up and down her spine. There are wet spots on the blind fold and you ignore them. They're tears. And what's a man to do with a crying woman?

She struggles and you tell yourself everything will be alright. Afterall, you love her right?

She's thin again, shes been binging and purging.

You skitter fingers over her ribs. Shes beautiful. So beautiful.

"Thats bad for the baby", you whisper, and she sobs.

You dont know what to do.

"Shhhh", you say. What else should you say?

Theres nothing left for her but this.

Her green eyed boy is dead. Her family, her friends, they're gone too.

She's the last of the Order, and she's all yours.

You move to kiss her but she turns away. Her body is pressed close to yours and you can feel every panicked breath with the rise and fall of her breasts.

"We're going to name him Tom", you say to her. Tom, after the man who killed her mother and father. Tom, after the man who brought her to him. Tom. Tom, a name only adding insult to injury.

She moves to hurt you, clenching her fists then moving to strike. You easily catch her wrists, she still can't see with the blindfold in place.

You sigh and kiss her neck.

She wriggles and tries to break free. She's only rubbing her body against yours. You like it.

You coo at her, and she shivers with what you hope isn't disgust.

She continues this for awhile, struggling and crying. You whisper in her ear.

"You can pick the name if its a girl."

She goes quiet, gives up, and you make-believe she is smiling. You don't look up. It is easier to pretend that she loves you than to know that she doesn't.

0...0...0

"These things take time, young man. She'll come around."

0...0...0

Authors Notes-

Yeah, its midnight and im loving it.

Sick sick stuff right thur, im not even sure i wanna post it...

Whatever. Have fun with it kids...

Motherfucker.

PLEASE REVIEW!

-9clouDs