castle of glass ,

[phoebe galena monroe]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #322423 solid 30px; ] BECAUSE I'M ONLY A CRACK OUTFIT: click TAGGED: asia! LOCATION: streets of downtown vside NOTES: yay! --- "SO, how has you week been so far, david?" phoebe asked. she crossed her legs as she sat down in her chair and david sat down in the chair from across her. "i've been doing better, doc. i think it was because of the medicine you put me on last week." phoebe nodded. "the citalopram is working ok with you? have you had any side effects?" she asked him. david was one of her newer patients. he was a college student at the university. going to be a college junior for the next semester. he came to her a week before the semester was over, and he was diagnosed with depression. at first, he didn't want to try medicine. he wanted to try and work on it by just talking, but last week he told her he wasn't feeling any better and that maybe they should try some kind of antidepressant. so she prescribed him with some. today wasn't one of their normal bi-weekly appointments. she wanted him to come in a week after he started the medication. make sure his body was taking to it. "um," he asked scratching the back of his head. "i had a really bad headache when i first started taking it. couldn't eat for a few days..." he said. she nodded. "those are common side effects. has your appetite returned to normal?" david nodded. "yeah." phoebe smiled. "that's great, david. here's what we'll do, we're going to keep you on the citalopram, take everyday, same time, it should be making you feel better after several weeks of taking it consistently. in the mean time, i still want to keep meeting with you. especially with the next semester starting in some weeks here." david nodded again. "yeah, that all sounds good, doc. so, next week wednesday at two?" he started getting up, but phoebe turned towards her desk and wrote their next appointment on her card. she stood up and handed it to him. "yes, next week." she walked him to the door and opened it up so he could leave. "see you then," she said and closed the door behind him. it was completely ironic that she could help everyone else but herself. sighing, she returned to her desk and looked at the appointments for the rest of the day. it was almost noon now, and she didn't have another patient until one thirty. phoebe leaned back into the spinny chair behind her desk. she spun back and forth slowly as she played with her i.d. badge clipped to her shirt. 'dr. phoebe monroe' it read with her little picture above it. she glanced out the window of the building she was in. she worked in the downtown area, the business district you could say. she picked up her purse and dug pass the compact, the lipstick, and the planner until she grabbed the transparent orange pill bottle of the xanax she always carried around with her. she sighed. she wanted to quit. thing was, once upon a time ago, she was actually prescribed it. it was during the time in her life where her father... well, biological father haunted her every waking moment. she'd still get extremely panicky even though she knew, she knew jacob sumner was locked up in a maximum security california state penitentiary. phoebe was scared she would end up like him. she had several files she never stopped researching on the link between violent killers and their children. the thing was, she started abusing the drug when she was twenty four and four years and a marriage later, she still used. was she proud of it? absolutely not. phoebe knew what it could do to her career. she'd lose her license to practice medicine. her entire life had been this career. she honestly didn't know what she would do if she didn't have it. she dropped the pill bottle back into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. another thing that could potentially lead to her demise. whatever, fuck it. she got up and left her office. and took the elevator down to the lobby. the building was used for more than just a doctor's office as many companies occupated the building. she left the building, though half of her wanted to run back up to her office and pop in a xanax before her next appointment. leaning against the wall near the end of the building she pulled out a cigarette and her lighter. she stuck the cigarette in her mouth and started to light it, but not flame was coming. "dammit, come on," she said, a bit too loudly where a few people passing her looked at her, looked at her badge and snickered away shaking their heads. in their goddamn suits and briefcases like they were an extension of a king. typical. assholes. "well," she said under her breath as she continued to try and light the damn lighter, the cigarette hanging from her lips, "fuck you too then. your wives are cheating on you anyway." IN THIS CASTLE OF GLASS

[/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY LINKIN PARK

[/center]

[asia ?!]

mineminemine. <3

[atticus mikael svenenström]

,

[/size]THIS WAS THE <sub>halfway mark of his daily assembly with his parole officer therapist. he liked to call himself a psychiatrist, because that made him seem more important than a psychologist. he was. sort of. doctor christopher moor's office was painted with thick layers, a hundred shades of beige. the bookcases lining the walls were a rich wood, stained into polished cherry perfection. the blinds were white. and he needed to wash his floor. atticus svenenström was an expert on the details of this man's office. the leather couch had deep indents, because to be the best you need to pretend to be the best. at one time, doctor christopher moore had countless patients. his prescription pad was worn thin. thirteen hours a day, sobbing mental patients damaged brains falsified themselves, because they thought pills and echoed advice would fix them. they could tell themselves the very same things, find a drug dealer. but you feel better when someone else confirms it. that's what the "psychiatry for dummies" claimed. the book was yellow and black, more of a mockery than a basic explanation. atticus burned it. it didn't help. he found himself here instead. again. refusing to sit on that repulsive couch, preferring the floor, pushed against the wall, as far from doctor christopher moore as possible. the handle on the cupboard was harsh against his spine, so everytime the words "try" or "health" or "better" or "i'm trying to help you" were uttered, he pushed against it. the blunt ache was sweet. when those words leaked into their conversations, atticus stared at the pearly blinds, falling into a moody silence.

this was when he studied his surroundings. he could write a magazine article. doctor christopher moore furnished his office quite splendidly. it wasn't blue, which is supposed to calm people. his degrees, thick parchment, were framed obnoxiously. and he wore tenure and medical doctor and patience with glazed glasses and a finely trimmed moustache.

"have you thought about it, atticus?" it was always the fbi agent who broke the quiet. what the fuck. doctor christopher moore was afraid of him. most people were. but his words were firm, seemingly frustrated with himself. remember how you have to be the best by pretending to be the best? "your filing cabinets are empty." his words were soft, an unusual murmur. this was the point in their session were it was fifteen minutes of silence. doctor christopher moore broke the rules by speaking. atticus svenenström challenged him because he didn't want the psychiatrist with dark circles to win. his light eyes slid down the office until they rested on his doctor, sitting on the leather couch. over the last several sessions, he had left his desk chair. to the loveseat. then the recliner. and now he tried the couch because it was closer to the broken mind he couldn't fix. he shifted at atticus' words, because he wasn't as stupid as everyone seemed to assume. they wore disneyworld sweaters, so he forgave them. he moved down a cushion, now in the centre of that stupid couch. instinctively, much to his disgust, atticus shifted farther against the wall, defensive overtaking his casual demeanour. "you're here all the time. my file has been reprinted three times. are you that obsessed over me?" he didn't like offending the doctor. atticus had come to respect the doctor. useless, but warm. he honestly wanted to help. he looked at doctor christopher moore again. "your next patient is about to breakdown. i won't escape. promise." the cool, aloof female voice followed his prediction, demanding the good doctor disappear to make sure the red-eyed woman hadn't died. "i don't know what to do with you." his voice was defeated, the first slice of ice atticus had ever heard from his doctor. and then he was gone.

i think it was for ten minutes. but i don't remember.

the world settled into a gentle fuzz. those words danced in front of atticus, the tone echoing in his ears. it wasn't angry, it wasn't even disappointed. it was a man accepting defeat. atticus svenenström had heated doctor christopher moore. but he never honestly thought the doctor would stop. he was obsessed over the agent, lightening his patient load, staring at the same words late into the night. every night. he ruined someone else's life. the reaction was automatic now, because it was all he knew. atticus svenenström is not a monster. not really. a small part of his brain was still human, emotional and sad. it wanted to help, to scream and choke all of the evil out of him. he shut it up. doctor christopher moore's letter opener was classy, like his office. it was a sharply carved handle, an imported ivory. the blade was sharp, reflective. it was important. he left it out because he thought atticus was recovering. fixed. sort of. trying. thinking about it. focusing on his personal issues, which was step three in his program. i think. it had been a week since he'd read it, upside-down on the messy notepad of that stupid intern who tried to break into his brain. angry flared in his eyes, somewhere between minute four and six. when his body took over, it was not neat and precise, just so. most of the time, he was careful. clean, straight slices, over the same spots on his wrists, easily hidden. his hands, cool and chapped, gripped the handle, educated and tenured like its owner, shoved his sleeve up - the same clothes he had worn for three days - and dug deep into his forearm. it was in the very middle, where veins were broken and scars, thick milky stalks, shot down from his elbow to his fingers. he dragged it down, watching as the scarlet plasma dripped onto the floor. he should hire someone to wax it. it was minute nine, thirty-two seconds in, when he collapsed.

he was supposed to be readmitted, penguin-marched back into the psychiatric ward. with power blue walls and medicated hazes, fogs that turned days into seamless hours without rest. that was on his discharge papers. but he wasn't. through a dark, shadowed smoke he watched as doctor christopher moore calmly shut his door and approached the fallen fbi agent. failed fbi agent? no one knew. he didn't speak, i don't think. no one did. he pulled the letter opener out of atticus' hand, placed it on his desk, ruining the wood, and touched his shoulder. i guess he helped him up. maybe the swede helped. he was considerably bigger than his therapist. leaning heavily against the wall, he watched as more tight bandages were wrapped around his arm. it was stained quickly, so he replaced it. he slathered the inside with acid, because atticus hissed as it seeped into his cut. no one was ever gentle with him. it probably wouldn't get better, because he probably wouldn't. they both knew he would kill himself if he was trapped in the hospital again. that was probably why atticus continued going to their sessions.

the bright sun of valkyrie, california did nothing to ease his headache. where is the seamless movement, the description between office, interaction, avoiding staff, pretending he was alive, and then leaving? he didn't care. he didn't even follow it. no one said anything because there were no words to be exchanged. "same time tomorrow, doc"? his body carried him from floor to door, to reception, out the door. he collapsed because his body was weak and his mind was stressed and he'd taken too many pills that morning. he probably didn't eat anything. and he drank too much. he wasn't dying, his body wasn't losing too much crap that pretended to keep him alive. or doctor christopher moore would call someone to save his life. i think that's what he said. it didn't make any sense. whatever. he stumbled through the streets of valkyrie, sunglasses covering his red eyes, hand clutching his head. people stared. the bandage was stained with blood again, and he didn't care. duh. atticus svenenström had very little empathy for everything but dead puppy jokes. that's why when he saw phoebe monroe, he smiled. sort of. he liked her because her brain was broken and she refused to acknowledge it. personally, he figured her chosen profession was a band aide. but what did he know? nothing. the peroxide seeped deeper into his wound and the pain throbbed. good. he deserved it for reminding everyone of how fucking stupid he was. he needed a nap.

she was leaning against her car in a haze. he knew the look. she couldn't light a cigarette. maybe her body was telling her to recover, it didn't want to break more. probably not. she just couldn't do it. his approach was casual, a familiar smirk on his face. he liked her. he did. the same way he liked dead puppy jokes. "you think? yogalaties instructors are usually gay." he smiled sardonically at her, pulling his perfect mask up again. taking the cigarette from her mouth, pulling the lighter from her hand, he let it hang from between his own lips. striking the flame, putting the end of the cancer stick alight, he exhaled at her in a cloud of dark smoke. "if the american psychos can't hold onto their hardbodies, what hope do the rest of us ask?" putting a dark reference to his favourite book, atticus looked at her again, offering up the cigarette.</sub>[/blockquote][/blockquote]

-----------------------------------------------------------

TAGGED, phoebe <3
LENGTH, 1587 words.
ATTIRE, hurr.
NOTES, why can't i do short atticus posts? D: sorry it's horrid.
CREDITS, format to me. gif to tumblr.
lyrics to linkin park - "forgotten"

[/blockquote]

[phoebe galena monroe]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #322423 solid 30px; ] BECAUSE I'M ONLY A CRACK OUTFIT: click TAGGED: asia! LOCATION: streets of downtown vside NOTES: you sort of made me reply right away. --- HER language was foul, her habits would be frowned upon, and she was one of those doctors that probably shouldn't be currently practicing. but, on account that she was excellent, it cancelled out all her flaws. she was worse when she was alone, which happened to be a lot. she got the house in the divorce. it wasn't some big rolling mansion by any means, but it was a decent starter home. the kind of house couples bought when they were first starting their lives together. one that had three bedrooms, two point five baths, decent sized kitchen that just led into what was the family room. she probably should have let him keep it since after the divorce, she barely lived on it, since she went on the book tour. and even now, the house was too big for just her. one of the bedrooms, right off from the master bedroom, was her office that would have served as a nursery for the time when she would of had kids. self-loathing was a terrible trait to carry around when you lived alone. phoebe could hide it well, she could hide a lot well. she could hide her addiction, she could hide her depressive state of mind, and she could hide that she hated being alone. her life's work was dedicated to trying not to become her father. father being jacob sumner. how would you feel if you knew your father was planning on killing you? she was envious of her younger sister, who barely remembered anything that happened fifteen years ago. phoebe would rather be the untainted one. she and her brother, elliot, had a tough time with this in their adolescent years. did you think the transition from her first home to the monroe home was a clean cut? no. they acted out. she loved her adoptive parents very much, she called them mom and dad, and she was happy she ended up with them, but there was a bumpy road during that time for sure. at first, they were all very happy, they were living with the detective that saved them from death. and he and his wife wanted to raise them. no doubt she would have been split up from her brother and sister if they went into the system, placed in foster homes. chelsea, her sister, would have been adopted. her young age always worked in the system's favor. there was a chance for phoebe herself to end up adopted. she had been thirteen, well-behaved for the most part. elliot could have been tricky. he had been fifteen at the time, and his chances of adoption would have been slim. probably would have just moved from foster home to foster home until he was eighteen. but the monroes provided them a family and a home, and they all stayed together. william and melissa monroe didn't have kids of their own, and never would. phoebe later learned that melissa couldn't have children. though her birth mom raised her and her siblings, she was dead. melissa did just as good of a job in raising them as well. and they did a great job. elliot was now a officer, phoebe a doctor, and chelsea just started college. but, when she was younger, she did act out. probably more than the average teenager. she lived in constant fear of becoming like her father. because of that, she had a hard time adjusting. would she wake up one day and want to kill someone? phoebe hadn't spoken to her father since that night fifteen years ago. she testified in court, but she never had a conversation with him. some of her colleagues would ask if she ever wanted to visit him in prison. she hadn't, not yet, at least. she was close to visiting him several times. twice in college and a few times now since her divorce. but, she just didn't have the balls to do it. trust her, she wanted to. she had about a million questions to ask him. since she became a psychiatrist, she had combed through every fine detail of her father's case file. reading every gory detail of the murders to every grisly picture that accompanied it. by now, she knew the case probably better than anyone. but, there was a large part of her that just didn't want to visit him. she knew he would be there. he would have to die several times before he would be released. maybe that made her more at ease. to know what she wasn't working on borrowed time on him. if he was on death row, she would have the courage to go visit. just because she hadn't talked to him, didn't mean he hadn't tried contacting her. elliot and chelsea, too. through letters. every year they got birthday cards. she didn't know what her brother and sister did with them. she might have recalled elliot telling her that he just threw them in the fire right away. "we don't owe him anything, pheebs." he would say and that would be the end of that conversation. she did hope her sister threw them away. she was tainted by what he did. phoebe didn't want her to have this falsified image of him and have the impression that he was good. phoebe never read any of the letters. the curiosity burned at her sometimes. she kept all the unread letters in a shoebox that was buried deep in her closet. sometimes, she forgot about them, but then there were those few nights a month she'd be laying in her bed and staring at the ceiling. she'd think about what they would say. did he apologize for what he did? killing all those people, killing their mother, almost killing her. or, did he just pretend like nothing happened? did he start the letter by calling her pg? a nickname he had given her when she was younger. sometimes, the thought of what the letters said would eat her from the inside out. but then, she would just pop in a xanax and eventually forget about it. her fingers twitched with the failed attempts to light her goddamn cigarette. it was the withdrawals maybe. she knew what she really should be having is a certain pill back up in her purse in her office. she couldn't help but think that she'd be happy with her life if she wasn't addicted. would she be still married? without a doubt. xanax was the sol reason for their divorce. but there was no box on the file for the divorce that said 'because of xanax' so they settled on 'irreconcilable differences.' maybe she would have kids by now. she always wanted to be a mother. but, it just hadn't happened. yet, at least. some of her fears leaked through. all involving serial killers, bad parenting, and a past she truly couldn't escape. "you think? yogalaties instructors are usually gay." she looked up. well, as if her day couldn't get any fucking worse. atticus svenenström strolled up to her because they were close like that.. more like 'irreconcilable colleague'. or occasional colleague. he was an fbi agent she worked with on a case before who was just as broken as she was. and that wasn't her psychiatrist in her assessing him. that was just one self-destructing soul to another. he pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and her lighter and lit it on the first try. asshole. all she did was glare at him. it was no secret that they didn't get along. arguments was what came easy to them. especially on cases. he handed her back her cigarette after he had his inhale. ick, germs. but, she took it anyway. it was the reason she came out here. she noticed the bandage on his arm as he gave it back to her. she raised an eyebrow at him. "papercut?" she asked, her tone sounded innocent but her face said anything but. she put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. it was fresh. she could tell on account it was still bleeding. she turned her head to the side a little to blow the smoke out. "looks like some things don't change, yes?" she asked him. "how is doctor moor?" she was guessing that was where he was coming from. he had sunglasses on even though it wasn't overly bright outside. from one addict to another, she sort of got it. sort of. IN THIS CASTLE OF GLASS

[/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY LINKIN PARK

[/center]