Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing from Repo!.
Author's Note: This was written for angelfan86, for being the first person to find the hidden quote in the last story. Congratulations, and I hope you like this!
Important: Implications of sex.
"Scars are just roads to healing."
The first time was an accident.
The crumpled sheets lay between them like a molten ocean, undulating and crimson in its heat. They reside on either side, stiller than Death as they stare at the cracking ceiling.
The words are pale, a stark contrast to the color of their skin; sharp shades of tinted scarlet.
The sentences are enveloped in the womb of night, fading as the pregnant silence stretches.
On the ceiling, a cobwebbed fan spins slowly.
There is a rustle, and then nothing. She lifts the sheets from her beautifully scarred body, sitting boldly and calmly and unashamedly naked in the humid air. Reaching down, scrambling fingers find a compact. She flips it open, eyes her smudged makeup, and swears.
She leaves without a word.
Their next meeting is forced.
Her gloved fingers are tangled in the holes of his rat-eaten coat, and it is with a surprisingly strong jerk that she shoves him against the wall. His eyes are wide, not from fear but from amusement at the forcefulness of his client.
"I said," she whispers, voice wild and raw, "that I want a hit." The exaggerated points of her nails threaten to sink into his neck.
"And I said," he whispers back, thick eyebrow rising on his painted face, "that I'm out."
She snarls, slamming him against the wall again in anger. He simply takes it. There was no use fighting her when he could go along for the ride.
He stares into her feral eyes, and immediately he knows that she wasn't going to leave without getting something out of this encounter.
Her full, bitter lips crash into his flaked and pasty ones, and soon they are a jumble of outcast puzzle pieces, lying on the floor for the world to see.
Three weeks later, he sees her again.
He can sense that this time is different. She wears a new face this time, and with it a new attitude. Her long legs stride with the confidence of invincibility. Her hair is a short shag of blonde.
When she sees him beside the trashcan, she sneers.
Going against his better judgment, he responds and waves back.
She snorts and passes by without another glance at him.
He doesn't care.
She comes to him that night.
"I need a hit." she says, voice sultry and thick between foreign lips.
He shrugs and gives it to her without hesitation, asking only for his payment in return.
She hands over the money, but still she lingers, indecisive about something.
Like that first time, the silence between them is weighty and pregnant.
Surprisingly gentle, she awkwardly places a hand on his arm.
That's not the kind of hit I need.
She doesn't say it, but he can see it dancing in her eyes.
Wordlessly, he leads her away.
In time, it becomes a sick, twisted ritual.
Insults. Abuse. Two hits.
It's a cycle. Brutal, contaminated, but a cycle nonetheless.
Somehow, he can't bring himself to stop it.
There is no escape.
The realization is sharp and sudden like a needle, and it comes to him in the midst of one of their encounters.
The air is silent, for there is no need for words between them, but the silence is just as effective.
She smirks at him, trapping him beneath the bare, unashamed curves of her naked body. Her body presses into his, taking him roughly.
There is no escape.
And as he lies there, taking in the aura of her dark existence, he knows she is a poison. Working beneath his skin, working against him.
And in the end, he knows that it will be her poison that kills him.