This is just a little one shot about Gillian. I love writing about her because i find her such a fascinating character. And i can see her developing something like this. Just quickly, I hope i don't offend anyone with this story, because that was never my intention. I just hadn't written anything for a while (apologies to all those waiting for the next chapter of my stories. I've just lost all inspiration at the moment) and then I came up with this idea and it kind of wrote itself. Disclaimer blah.
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She washes her hands for the third time. Squirt the soap, scrub for a good minute until a thick layer of foam forms. Rinse, feeling the cool water wash over her palms. She looks up at her reflection in the mirror. Disgust. The expression is written all over her face. Disgust in herself. Disgust in her actions. Disgust that she can't control herself.
Every time it happens it's the same. Usually she can manage it. Sort of. Well, she can at least hide it. Hide it from Cal. And hide it from herself. But then he goes and does something stupid. Throws himself in front of harms way, like a guy that bungee jumps off a cliff. Except the guy that does that has a cord. Cal just free falls, hoping to find something to soften his fall. And that thing is usually her. Not usually, always. She is always there for him, always there to pick up the pieces, to comfort him, even when he shows no signs of wanting it. He would come to her, say nothing, sit in silence, and then walk away. She knows it helps him, him just being in her presence, but every time he walks away without saying anything, without showing her anything, he takes a little piece of her with him. And bit by bit she is falling apart. As a psychologist she knows there is only so much the brain can take. And hers is almost at breaking point.
The psychologist in her is screaming to get help. Ha. How ironic. The psychologist needing a psychologist. The other part of her screams that she can do it on her own. She knows all the facts, the diagnosis, what she has to try and do to relax herself, to stop her from washing her hands that one more time, to stop her from opening and closing that drawer that one last time, to stop her from organising her desk again because that pencil wasn't quite straight. And the other small part of her wants to run crying to Cal. To tell him everything. To tell him what he does to her, how she can't take it anymore. What she is doing to herself, just to function. But that part of her always gets quietened quickly. Usually by washing her hands one more time, or opening her drawing that one last time or straightening her pencil. Again.
Control. It is all about control. She can't control Cal. She can't control his actions. And she can't control how she feels about him. How he makes her squirm inside, every time he looks at her. How she has to stop herself from physically shuddering in her seat when his eyes latch onto hers. She sighs. Closes her eyes and opens them. Looks down to see a wrinkle in her dress. Damn. She smoothes it once, twice, three times. A fourth and then a fifth. She finally stops herself and slams her hands down on the sink. Her mind is driving her crazy.
So, so many risks. So, so many times she thinks it is all over. So, so many times she has cried herself to sleep. And now here she stands. Doing what she does to cope. Hoping like hell that it will all be over soon. Knowing that she is lying to herself by thinking that. She looks at her reflection in the mirror and sees a broken woman. Sighing, she turns on the tap and begins to wash her hands. Again.