mellari

The doctor was off the deep end. Everyone knew it. Whispers among the faculty, among the reagents, eventually reached you. A fun little game of telephone. Hence, why you're in his office. The head of a very much spiraling man with balding hair in your lap, nursing a cigarette to his lips like it did less harm than good.

“I can't believe it.” he says, shadows hiding his face in the dimly lit room. Various awards hang at an angle, lining the walls in achievement. They look almost mockingly down at Easterman, who presses his cigarette-holding hand more towards his lips to soothe his frayed nerves.

“All these people threatening to leave me.” He sounds hurt, almost. Almost. Easterman shakes his head, strands of hair falling past his hairline. “After all I've..” He pauses to exhale. The smoke swirls from his lips. The cherry glows a bright red. “Done.” He finishes, feeling slightly more loose now with nicotine running freely through his system. Along with his own personal cocktail of drugs that he had taken in the morning.

“Those ungrateful little..” He shakes his head again, deciding not to say what's exactly on his mind.

Easterman gets up, fixing then tugging down a couple inches off his tie to breathe. He leans back against his desk. The backs of his tweed slacks press comfortably into its carefully carved edge. “You won't leave me, right?” he asks. “I know you won't.” He cuts you off with a laugh that goes on a little too long than you wanted it to.

He's slipping more and more each day.

You were one of the very few reasons Easterman had left for him to stay sane. It was a dangerous game, playing along with him. Whatever antics Easterman had at the time, you went along. Happily. Willingly. God's favorite lamb yet to be slaughtered, as he so lovingly put it.

“Come here, lamb.” He says, tired. With a small gesture, he summons you forward, and you obey. Just like he taught you. It's enough to make him smile, really. Leather creaks under your weight as you push off the couch. You already know where this is going.

It was almost routine.

Easterman's arms wrap around your form. He presses you to his chest and takes a deep inhale of your scent. It does more to calm his nerves than the long forgotten cigarette on his table. He pauses for a beat of silence. Then he starts to speak. That charismatic, all-knowing, all-forgiving tone hitting your ears in real time, not through a radio.

“Do you know what makes a relationship, my dear? The foundations of someone like me being with someone like you?” Easterman looks down at you, harsh shadows casting his deep-set eyes in darkness. “A relationship, my dear,” he continues, his voice bordering on affectionate as he hooks a knuckle under your chin. “A relationship is more than just gentle touches like this. More than just frilly words and silly little rhymes to show how much you love me.”

He leans closer, his eyes boring into yours with unnerving intensity. “A relationship requires discipline, my dear. Discipline. Guidance. Unwavering loyalty to the strong,” his grip on your chin tightens. Easterman's thumb digs into your skin, weighing down your lower lip. “Firm hand that guides you in the right direction.” He smiles too widely as the gears in your head start to turn. The wrinkles from countless tired nights in the office seem worth it with the way you looked up at him. It's enough to make him proud, almost. But it took more than just a look in your eye to satisfy a man like him.

You'd be so lost without him. Without all the work he put in to help you. You'd probably lose your head if it wasn't screwed so tightly between your shoulders. You need him as much as he needs you.

Easterman holds you closer, his other hand on the small of your back.

“Can you trust me, lamb? Trust me to guide you?”