The Schemer

The Visitor

Many people underestimate the power of routine. But only the lucky ones can actually have a fulfilling existence without something constant. Familiar. Clara was not one of the lucky ones. She was a schemer. A theoretic, who needed constant insurance, not the one of money, but of her environment. She needed warrant predictions of what will happen the next minute. 

Her whole life she was sure of everything. If she wasn't, she made sure she was. Self-reliance helped a lot. One can be poor, rich, homeless or live in a castle, as long as he relies on himself, his future is set in stone. A stone that only the man himself can alter. The moment you share your life, your thoughts, your guts with someone else and allow them to become a significant part of your existence, nothing is sure anymore, because there comes this second constant in the equation of what equals you. 

Then, add the fact that everything of the above was being done without your agreement. It sucks. Simple as that.

Clara let out a sigh. A deep one, making her lungs collapse. Almost. She wouldn't be a doctor if she believed one could actually make his lungs collapse that way. A wry smile, thinking about her habits, grazed the woman's ever-chapped lips. They were soft, but completely bitten-down, not to the point of drawing blood, but enough to make the tender flesh peel off slowly. It was the assassin's way of biting off nails, or chewing on the insides of cheeks or picking on the skin around nail beds. One of those nasty habits you can not get rid off. 

"Clara?" The woman's startled grey eyes drifted back to the mirror, except now meeting another set in the back of it. A beautiful blue-green colour, darkened by the dim light, staring at her with a guarded, careful concern. It lowered briefly, taking in her reflection, and then shot back. A rosy shadow appeared on the intruder's neck, but the man refused to lower his head.

"You're too young to be a pervert, Ash." 

"I knocked at the door. You did not answer."

"Sure thing." The surgeon nodded, bringing her gaze back to the cut-off limb. "How does that look?" At her question, the man moved his head a bit, shrugging his broad shoulders at the same time.

"Like a healed up wound?" Clara swayed her head from side to side, 

"Hmm. It kinda does. Matches both my gorgeous, scarred skin and personality." She referred to a set of various-sized scars on her abdomen, back and hands, clearly visible due to the lack of shirt concealing her upper body. She felt Ashwood's gaze caressing the huge crocodile tattoo on her back, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. "I am too old for you, Ash. You know that, right?"

"My father was older than my mother by a decade. It did not prevent him to impregnate her twice."

"Some people believe the Earth is flat, and dinosaurs never existed. It does not mean we should follow them with our own beliefs."

"No. But it means we would not be alone. It happens around us all the time. Besides," He cleared his throat, a rumbling sound echoing in the empty bathroom, while Ashwood's eyes finally stopped examining the inked flesh of her backside. "As I said, I do not expect you to jump my bones anytime soon. Ever, to be more specific." To that, Clara lifted both of her eyebrows, mirth plastered all over her bony features. 

"Right. Sure you don't."

"I do not. My body and my consciousness have different personalities."

"I can see that." The woman sounded as if she was on the verge of letting out a burst of laughter. It didn't help that the crimson colour travelled from the man's neck to his face. It was a sight worth memorizing. A devilishly handsome man with his sculpted cheeks flaming hot, his eyes shooting daggers at her. "Don't worry. I am a doctor. I don't mind explicit sights. You should relax."