Paint It Black (open)

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Paint It Black (open)

Post  Dr. Matthias Savage on Thu Jan 26, 2012 4:31 am

This thread is backdated: Jan 23th

Lydia is dead.

Sitting at his desk in his office, Matthias stared at the telephone. Placed in its usual corner on the large wooden desk, it seemed like some foreign thing. In the span of a few seconds, it went from being an innocuous piece of office machinery to a vessel for which ill tidings had been carried forth to him. Lydia is dead. When he’d first walked into his office, he was prepared to sit and work. The files of the residents under his care were neatly stacked in the center of his work space. The files were organized in alphabetical order from top to bottom. Abbot, Cade. Durand, Remi. Finn, Ace. Lydia is dead. Greydon, Maddox. Richardson, Laura. Webb, Ashton. Each child had their own particular set of issues. Each child represented a different challenge. Dark brown eyes dragged themselves from the now silent telephone to the stack of files and finally came to rest on the untouched cup of tea. When he’d sat down, the cup still had steam rising slowly from its brim. The faint smell was a familiar and welcomed friend in the doctor’s pre-work ritual. Under normal circumstances, he would have shed his suit jacket and left it hanging on the coat hanger stationed behind his chair. Next, the hot cup of tea would have been repositioned to the right of the stack of file folders, near the telephone.Lydia is dead. His intent had been to familiarize himself and memorize the files in front of him. But his plans had been corrupted by that call.

Brown eyes shot back to the telephone. Feeling the heat of anger rising in his gut, Matthias stood to his feet. His hands flat on the desk, he couldn’t keep his eyes from the communication device. When he’d heard that voice on the other end of the line, his mind instantly began to run through possible scenarios. Was the call business or pleasure? Was the beautiful doctor drunk and feeling sentimental again? Was she calling to complain about her appointed task as his ex-wife’s psychiatrist? His imaginings didn’t prepare him for the news that he received. Lydia is dead. Nor did his self control prevent him from taking his anger out on Katherine. Never send your mistress to do a man’s job. He also didn’t have to launch an “investigation” into where Lydia got the razor that she used. What was she thinking? Damn fool woman!

Feeling the anger rising further upwards, it was burning in his chest now; Matthias forced himself to calmly turn around and reach into his suit jacket pocket. He didn’t have to search long for what he wanted. He knew exactly where the pills were. Slipping them swiftly from the inner pocket of his jacket, he could almost smell the relief that would soon wash over him. The blanket of emotional numbness that would smother the torrent that was churning in his chest. This was not how this was supposed to play out. Lydia is dead. Almost snatching the cup from his desk, Matthias used the now cold tea to wash back the pills from his jacket. He winced in disgust at the cold tea but it was better than nothing. But a glass of scotch would have been better suited for what he wanted. What he needed. The feelings needed to disappear. They needed to fall back into their medicated coma; along with the rest of the emotions that he tried to tell himself that he didn’t need. With the pills now in his system, he needed a drink. He didn’t have the patience to wait for them to kick in; he wanted to be numb now. Lydia is dead.

“Fuck!”

Succumbing to the momentary fit of childish rage, Matthias scooped the telephone up from the desk with his right hand and launched it across the room towards the door. Shit. Slipping his jacket onto his tall frame, the agitated psychiatrist pocketed his keys and made his way out of his office. He needed some air. He needed a drink. Leaving the broken pieces of the telephone on the floor, he left the office in a hurry. He could only imagine the sight of himself when he left: his tie slightly askew, his jacket unbuttoned, his veiled eyes and obviously hurried gait. These were the signs of a man in distress. Unreadable to some, glaringly obvious to others.

The journey from his office to The Wagon & Horses was a blur. He’d taken his car, but the details of the actual drive were lost to him. His eyes barely registered the people inside of the establishment, as he walked through the door. Where normally his eyes would have registered specific details and possible diagnoses, he only saw vague human shapes with masculine or feminine characteristics. Why he’d rushed himself to this tiny town pub, he didn’t fully know. Lydia is dead. But he was there, tie-less, sitting at the bar with a glass of scotch in his hand. The bottle, left nearby per his request, was nearing the halfway empty point. The scotch that he kept at the house was much better. So why was he in this place? You know why you’re here. Lydia is dead. Even sharks socialize...every now and then. Matthias refused to believe that he needed the warm and fuzzy comforting touch of human socialization and company to help ease his pain. That’s what the valium and the scotch was for, all. But there he was all the same.
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Re: Paint It Black (open)

Post  Fabien Moreau on Fri Feb 03, 2012 10:41 pm

Fabien squinted out at the pub from the window of the taxi. Ah, we meet again. So good to see you, my old friend. Not realizing that his housemate was out because he was also going to the pub, Fabien had returned home to an empty cottage, took a quick shower, threw on a clean change of clothes, and pocketed his cigarettes and keys before heading back out. The reclusive Frenchman didn't make a habit of going out on Monday nights, but he needed the distraction after the day he'd had. Ordinarily, he didn't have any problems with the kids he had to oversee during kitchen chores, but apparently the majority had picked today to act up. He doubted that it had been a premeditated thing, but it was just his luck that the first day back to work after a long, refreshing weekend had been met with sullen attitudes and argumentative behavior. One of the older boys had tried to bum a cigarette off of him as he was going on break, which had been a headache and a half. Then one of the younger girls had had an emotional breakdown crouched in the corner between the wall and one of the stoves, refusing to talk to anyone but her therapist. Top that all off with a snarky email from his stepfather, asking him isn't it about time you called your mother?, and Fabien was already over this week in the worst way.

The daily grind was getting pretty damn boring. Truth be told, Fabien valued his peace and quiet, but it had been too quiet lately. Staff was often too busy to fraternize amongst themselves, which left him starving for social connection. To be sure, he'd never been a man with a lot of friends, but at least back in Paris he'd had a handful of buddies he could go partying with on the weekends. Here, he had nobody. A handful of acquaintances, sure, like Victoria, the cute redheaded teacher, but he didn't want to ask her out and have his intentions be misunderstood. On-the-job awkwardness was not a goal he was aiming to achieve anytime soon, so he kept to himself and took few risks. Maybe he should man up and do it anyway, but the possibility that he might be rejected was enough to make him think twice. He wasn't particularly looking for companionship beyond friendship, but things didn't always happen the way you planned them, and he reckoned it was better not to tempt fate. After all, it had been awhile since he'd last been laid, and who knew what a few drinks and the company of a pretty girl would do to him. It was best to keep his distance, at least until the loneliness got to be too much, and for now it was still tolerable. He would have been lying to himself, however, if he didn't often venture down to The Wagon & Horses hoping to find a bed partner for the night. Not likely to happen in this quaint country town, but a man could dream. Hell, even some small talk would do at this point, and normally Fabien hated it.

Hopefully spring would come early this year. Fabien was suffering from cabin fever in a bad way. Was it too early to take a vacation? Could Highgrove's kitchen function without him if he took off for a week? And where would he go, anyway? Back to Paris? That was boring. The Bahamas? As nice as it sounded, tropical beaches, suntans, and fruity drinks weren't really his thing. He'd like to visit New Orleans, but Mardi Gras was just around the corner and tourists would be flocking to the sultry southern American city in droves. It was a hassle he didn't feel like dealing with. California was an option, but flights were outrageously priced this time of year, when everyone in the northern hemisphere was trying to get away from the snow and cold, and he wasn't sure he could spare that kind of cash. It looked like he was stuck in The Lake District for now, waiting for the ice to thaw so he could finally take his bike out of storage, fire her up, and take her for a nice long ride through the winding countryside. The motorcycle was his pride and joy, and it was a torment keeping it locked up in some dingy shed for a good six months out of the year.

As usual, there was no one Fabien recognized inside the pub, not at first glance. It was sparsely populated, but then again, it was a Monday night, and the people of Grove End didn't seem like such insufferable alcoholics that they couldn't bear to wait for Friday, or even Thursday, to tie one on. Fabien knew he could have stayed home and dipped into a bottle of wine if he wanted to do the same, but there was that pesky determination not to be alone niggling at the back of his brain, so it had never been a legitimate option. About to snag a stool at the end of the bar, Fabien got a glimpse of man at the other end of it and quickly recognized his housemate, Dr. Matthias Savage. Fabien didn't know a lot about the man, but he knew that he was a psychiatrist, and that he was also French and seemed to enjoy his solitude. He couldn't blame him for what he had to deal with all day. Fabien couldn't imagine being a psychiatrist, listening to kids' problems day in and day out, futilely trying to reason with them, but then some men were cut out for that kind of thing and some weren't. It was the same with any other profession, he supposed. Some men weren't natural cooks, but he was, and it was a skill many envied, one he tried not to take for granted. Changing course, Fabien slid onto the barstool beside his housemate and eyed the half-empty bottle of scotch by his elbow. "Hey, looks like you got an early start. Not a bad idea." Fabien signaled to the bartender and ordered one of what Matthias was having.
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