[ Printer Friendly Version ] [ Report Abuse ]
Chapter 1 : So They Ended
| ||Rating: Mature||Chapter Reviews: 5|
Background: Font color:
A/N: New one-shot! Everything you don't recognise is mine, characters can be anyone, choose yourself :] I realise that 'mark' could be misunderstood for something else than what it's meant to be, but it doesn't matter, you can interpret this just the way you want to:]
She hugs herself close, rocking back and forth in the cramped smelling room. She’s sitting on the bed, on the washed-out sheets of the cheap hotel she hazardly remembers entering with staggering steps.
She remembers the bit about the money though, always the money.
How she had slurred ‘a room please,’ and had thrown the money onto the disk, how the lady would slowly and painfully count them with her five-dollar-manicured nails dragging along the worn and abused bank notes. A key with a faded eight on the blue front, had been the humble exchange for the sacrifice she had made, she had slurred a ‘thanks’, and made her way up the stairs. An almost unnoticeable sign had hung from the ceiling, dangling slightly in the before motionless air, stating that this was first floor. She had stumbled in across the doorstep to her room, giggling to herself, the key dangling from her finger.
She has succumbed to the tears finally, it seems like forever she has fought, but it’s over now, it’s the end.
Room service is on him, she decides, picking up the phone to call the God-forsaken people in the hotel. A dismally voice informs her, that ‘the institution unfortunately doesn’t try to play hotel and therefore there is no room service, but that she by all means is welcome to come down and make a sandwich herself,’
She slams the phone down instantly.
She’s trying desperately to act like this is not her life, like this is unusual; it is not. Old habits are gone and somewhere along the road they have been replaced by these new ones. She tries not to pay notice.
This is their hotel, she tries not to remember everything but even the room is theirs, the bed where they made love, the old bathroom with the leaking shower, also there they made love, she smiles softly and tries to remember a place that didn’t witness their act of love. She fails and it’s oddly affirming of their love, but she doesn’t need that; it’s the end, not the beginning.
She eats chips and empties the mini-bar on her own; she’ll gain two pounds for sure, and she doesn't care.
The ending is tranquil, she finds, it’s indefinable and oh so significant. She breathes deeply and dries her eyes with effort. There are black smears on her sleeves.
She keeps whispering this to herself, promising herself way too many things that she’ll never do.
She hasn’t left yet and it’s been two months now. The bills are getting big and she’s come to a point where they are binned before she even opens the envelope. She blames him.
Her mother calls; she’s worried. She wonders idly how Mother found her, Mother was not meant to find her. She curses Mother, but that doesn’t prevent Mother from asking the dreaded, ‘Are you coming home soon, hun?’ she clutches the phone, and a ‘no’ slips. She slams the phone down; this is also becoming a habit.
She dreads life and decides she won’t live, in that way she won’t die either, funny how her logic works. She doesn’t walk out her room in the so-called hotel, people are worrying and she doesn’t give a damn; she’s not alive, and she’s not dead, she’s not anything, because being nothing is everything and the only thing as life-assuring as living, is being, simply being. So she just is.
She’s still in that faze: the ’I’m-not-quite-dead,-nor-quite-alive,-I’m-anything-but-this.’
It’s getting old.
He calls and she’s at a lost of words. The conversation is short; a question asked, an answer.
"How are you?" she sighs cherishing the sound of his voice. "I'm... I'm, I'm not good." she walks around the room in a frenzy, nervous as hell.
"Your mother is worried." he says and it breaks her heart knowing that her mum knows her weakness.
"I know she's worried, she's called already." she snaps, finally standing still in front of the mirror. She hasn't worn make-up for so long that she nearly can't remember.
"Do... Do you miss me?" she places a hand on the cool surface of the mirror, looking at how the light is reflected in it.
The silence stretches, she asks another. "Do you regret ending it?"
He sighs deeply and answers softly that he doesn't. Her heart is ripped to pieces once again and she's being as foolish as ever, believing that he would ever come back, ever regret.
She slams the phone down; habits die slowly.
The owner comes up to her room, he’s bald: the light reflects off the smooth almost mirrory surface on the top of his head. He asks if she’ll come down and she answers that of course she won’t come down.
She stands, hands on her hips looking disdainfully at the middle-aged man. He fumbles for words, sweating like a pig and pitiful she watches him as he stammers an okay. He apologises for the interruption and she nearly expects a bow from him. He closes the door soundlessly after him and she looks at the spot he stood on before, smiling to herself.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
She rolls her eyes at him, still stradling his lap. "of course!" she kisses him again, fingers eagerly working on his shirt, he returns the kisses hesitantly and she can't help but silently compare him and her former lover, he moans almost shyly and she returns her attention back to him, ripping the shirt open.
His fingers fumble at the zip to her dress, impatiently she pushes his hands away and with ease she rids herself of both bra, pants and skirt. He stares at her chest for minutes and she fears he's stopped breathing, cationately she tries a 'baby...?' he finally looks away with effort and she grabs his hands and moves them up to her chest. Tentatively he brushes across her breasts and she moans lustfully in his ears. He's sporting a faint blush and the fruit of her efforts is awaiting inside his boxers.
She moves teasingly up and down, careful to brush against him as much as possible, he groans deeply and slowly she inches her hand down towards his boxers, he doesn't stop her.
He ends up naked and they end up making love, moaning and sighing desperately until it ends.
Afterwards she lies awake beside him, listening to his even breathing. She smells of him now and it's a nice change, the scent of her former has been stuck on her until this very moment and finally she's losing it, new memories are replacing the old ones and he is becoming a long distant past that she at long last is seperating herself from.
Sighing happily she snuggles closer into his warmth, marveling on how different he is.
She’s forgetting now and she hates it, his scent is gone along with the memory of his voice, laughter and touch, she has been ruined by another man, him. She hates him, the Owner, the guy she very well know whose name is. She just doesn’t like saying it out loud.
There, she’s said it; she feels oddly accomplished now, doesn’t stop the burning feeling though.
He comes every day now and she’s getting used to it, like she dreaded; and even though he’s a baldy, and a Muggle, and an owner of a hotel that’s not even really a hotel, she can’t help but think he’s nice.
"Do you miss him?" he breathes next to her, she turns, pushes his bangs away from his sweaty forhead and smiles, "I guess I do." Her finger trails down his chest and she can hear his breath catch, "but does it matter?" he shakes his head hurried. She smiles, withdrawing her finger and turning away with a sigh, "I figured..."
She really has got every intention of leaving, but the hotel has become her sanctuary and she finds she cannot leave. His mark is fading.
She hasn’t walked out a door in a year now, but somehow it doesn’t matter, George is here.
They have sex and do the things couples do, kiss, lie a bit to each other, trying to ignore that really, she's not happy and really, it kills him to know.
"Tell me about your family." he kisses the top of her head and this is the thing she dreads. She turns around in her embrace and kisses him, "let's not go there." she breathes against his lips.
He forgets and she pleases him, pretends to be pleased as well, pretends that it's him and not George, pretends that George knows how to love her like he did, pretends that every touch, kiss, moan and sigh belongs to him and not George, pretends that she's anywhere else than here and tells herself that when she opens her eyes it won't be the now familiar blue eyes of George, but his.
She ends it, she’s getting tired of comparing and it’s never enough and it’s never what she wants.
"You’re scared, nothing else, you’re just a scared little girl." He’s bitter, she’ll give him that. But he’s right.
She even cries, despite everything, she realises that George actually had a place and that his touches actually were quite nice and that she maybe just kinda loved him like he loved her.
George sells the hotel and it's never quite the same, it's too late to say she's sorry.
Finally after a year she leaves everything; her past and present behind in the fight for the future. She’s not very whole, but she’s not very broken either, she’ll be okay, because she’s always been so.
For me this was supposed to be a 'how to get over love'- kind of story, but you can interpret this in different ways. Feels free to tell me what you got :]
There's another way to interpret this and I sincerely hope that somebody gets this.
Take care and leave a review, I thrive on them!!
Other Similar Stories