a/n: in which a fiction world exists where double personalities totally work like this and everyone else is stupid as hell.
All of her confidence drops when the very gray walls crowd around her and she's settled in the stiff chair with a table across from her. Across the glass wall, she sees him, and every bit of confidence she'd had before drops to the floor in a crash; a flood of emotions rush through her and she has to look down and away from the blank face he imposes on her, glaringly. Her once lively, amber-eyed ex-husband is merely a shell now.
Empty.
She inhales a deep breath and clears her throat.
Her soft, perfect voice reaches his ears and he looks up to see her. He knows enough that the make-up and glasses and the perfection hides the dark circles under her eyes and the sleepless nights she has. Her throat goes dry when she connects with his eyes and what she sees makes her want to go hide under the covers (or the table in front of her) and never come out again.
(but she has to.)
She lowers her eyes again and pulls out her clipboard and pencil.
Psychologist Rukia is on.
How are you, Mr. Kuchiki?
.
.
He laughs psychotically a few minutes later. She stares at him without flinching, her mask rigidly set in stone as he looks at her with those crazy eyes like she's the one who's gone mad.
(and perhaps she has. for doing this.)
The guards are on high-alert, but they do absolutely nothing as he sits there and chuckles to himself, and for her to listen. He stops and looks at her calmly, and hisses: "How do I look like to you, Miss Kuchiki?"
She internally shudders at the foreign voice and feels the need to run outside and breathe the fresh air and never come back again; but she solidifies her resolve and glues her feet to the ground. "Terrible," she says simply, jotting down the usual. "I hope you are doing as asked."
"I do," he slouches, annoyed that he is not enough to crack that rigidness, "but I think the medication is just there to drive Ichigo outta here, and so you get me." He smirks, leering at her from the other side of the room, and it feels like the glass wall and separate rooms are miles away and it's just she and him and they're much, much too close.
Still, she remains stony and continues to write whatever the fuck else there is, and then (finally, finally) she gets to the end of the page and clicks her pen, the sound resounding throughout the room. It is the end of their time together and she, with all her expertise in her job, could not help her ex-husband. Shoulders slumped, she admits defeat, and looks up to witness a cocky grin mocking her and everything she is.
"I am finished," she hisses in defiance.
The words echo throughout the room. He grins harder.
"See you in hell."
.
.
Once the guards escort her out, she drops to her car and all the tension in her drops. She leans back on the driver's seat and looks at the tattoo imprinted on her finger. On their marriage day, they forgo the traditional marriage of white shit and expensive-ass rings and all that bullshit that doesn't represent them. Instead, they'd gotten artistic tattoos; she smiles at the memory.
(that'd been a long time ago.)
She stops and drops the cigarette to her ash tray, smudging away the remains firmly before climbing out of her car.
.
.
The guard is there again, eyeing her firm stride towards her jail cell. She gives him a polite nod before stepping into her grave.
.
.
She touches the cold glass and grows colder still at the sight of him, lying on the hard-wired bed with a doctor preparing the injection. Her heart skips a beat when he finally sees her; his cackles rebound throughout the room and bounces off the glass wall beneath her hands.
Unmoved, the syringe's sharp tip dives into his skin and effectively silences him. She feels their hearts move in sync, slow and dull and heavy and it takes the breath out of her. His glazy eyes find her and keeps her there, the gratitude in them overwhelming her, and she knows it's him.
(so he was still there after all.)
He smiles.
thank you
.
.
.
(she grips the rails tightly, and let's a tear fall down a cheek; sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry-)
.
.
He stills.
She collapses down to her knees and even the guard pities her and rubs her shoulder comfortingly. A doctor writes down how long the drug takes effect to finish him off and the other releases his straps from the bed before moving to shove his body into the bag.
-bang-
The doctor's face is screaming in pain as the guards just stand there at the man who's supposed to be dead is standing and alive and well and grinning maniacally. It's enough pause for him to take them out in a matter of seconds in a messy action: blood and bodies dripping everywhere and anywhere. She hears his footsteps stop in front of her, and rises her face to look at his.
"You," he sighs dramatically, "you are such an evil, cunning bitch you know that? Even I wouldn't go that far-"
"Oh shut up," she snarls and pulls him down by his tie and smashes her lips to his before letting go again; she leans her forehead against his and stares at him hard, "do you know how fucking hard it was to get her out to be a bitchy psychologist when all I wanted to do was fuck you? Lie to myself over and over for six months 'til I got it ingrained into my head that I was the ex-wife who hated you for your personality and then come here? Make a fake death medicine for you and replace the actual shit? You fucking ungrateful-"
He slams her into the glass behind her and quickly rips off her underwear before proceeding to unzip his jeans and roughly pushes himself into her and slams into her again and again; all in the bloody mess.
She grins and rolls her eyes back into her head.
(just like before.)
.
.
It's when they're back into a dingy hotel room that she has time to think and reflect that she asks: "so, how's Ichigo doing?"
"Scared like a little pussy as usual," he says casually, grabbing her ass and pulling her on top of him. "Worried about him now?" She doesn't answer; he squeezes tighter.
"No." She answers with amusement and tweaks his nose 'til he's forced to gasp for breath from his mouth; she grins. "Payback for acting like an asshole to Rukia earlier, and this-" -she grabs his balls- "-for almost letting her freakin' remember."
"Heh," he smirks, "I always like a little danger, y'know?"
"A little my ass," she mutters and grabs his chin to take his mouth into hers.
.
.
Then it's his turn to churn his brain (and it honestly surprises her when it's usually her fucking job): "how's Rukia doing?"
"Scared like a little pussy as usual," she repeats mockingly, circling his nipple with her finger playfully, then she stops uncharacteristically altogether (though it is not unfamiliar). "we're so fucked up."
"That's why we're together." He bites down on her ear as punishment for being a little bitch and weak and whatnot (and also to snap her out of it, though he'd never say). "You're the only one I'm not willing to kill."
"Romantic," she says dryly, and then she plops her head on top of her hands and smiles sweetly: "so, who's next?"
"You," he grins mischievously, as he hikes up her dress and rubs himself against her in a slow manner; she giggles. "Then, the bad guys."
.
.
It's night and she wakes up again; she looks to her side and sees 'Ichigo' snoring away. She stares at his face and wonders what it is that brings her to repeat this cycle for this stupid man. Impulsively, she stands up abruptly and pulls out a gun from her drawer and fingers it in her hand before pointing it at the sleeping man.
She imagines the bullet finally hitting him through the skull, the blood splattering across the bed and onto the floor before all the fabric could soak it up, and the glory it would be for her to have conquered her own weakness. She imagines it, but stops when she knows she'd have to do herself in as well.
(the thrill was never fun anymore without him.)
She lowers her gun and chucks it into the drawer before climbing on top of him again.
.
.
.
Ichigo's been arrested again, and it's only been a four months, she sighs; she thinks it's on purpose, since he is a psychotic sadist who manipulates people including herself. Fucking son of a bitch loves making her go through pain like this; and now she was going to have to come up with a new plan, though in the end, it was all the same result anyways, she muses.
She slips into her best professional gear on along with her rimmed glasses before applying a dosage of make-up. She pauses and stares at the mirror: it's strange how one's appearance can cover up the insanity within her this easily; though it wouldn't be quite complete yet without her in it to finish the appearance off. She shuts her eyes.
.
.
.
Rukia finds herself before the mirror and checks her make-up and smiles, liking the perfection and professionalism. She twirls once confidently and decides that facing her ex-husband's two-faced personality wouldn't be difficult at all. She looks through her files once more and nods to herself before going out the door.
.
.
(and thus the cycle begins again.)
a/n: please leave a review to fulfill my insatiable desire for instant gratification.