Chapter Text
The rain drove down in thick, lashing sheets around the pair as they stood too far apart outside the manor. Rody’s ginger hair stuck untidily to his forehead, his eyes squinted and a nervous smile on his face.
“Manon, what do you mean?”
The beautiful blonde girl in front of him had tears in her deep, dark brown eyes, her soft hands wringing her wrists with guilt. She backed slowly and slowly into the drive of her house, and at first Rody followed, but then stopped.
“Rody, I- I'm sorry!” she wailed, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore!”
“Manon, please, what can’t you do anymore? Am I doing something wrong? I’m so sorry, if you just tell me, I swear I’ll do better-”
“No!” she yelled. She took a deep breath and promptly started crying. Rody stepped forwards in concern: this was not the brave, warm, resilient Manon he knew. Something was wrong. “This... this is too much, Rody!”
“Manon, what’s wrong? Please tell me, I swear I’ll try and help.” He wrapped his strong arms around her, but she did not hug him back. “I-I don’t understand. I thought we were doing good – what happened?””
“Nothing happened, Rody, I just can’t do this anymore. Rody, I love you-”
“I love you too, Manon!” He grinned desperately, releasing her and gripping her hand tenderly in both ofhis own.
“I know, and I think that’s the problem.”
“The- the problem? Is it- is it the appartment? I’m saving up for a nicer place, I swear, really, it won’t be as nice as your parents’ house but-”
“It’s- it’s not that, Rody. I love you so much, but I can’t stand seeing you do this! Day in, day out, you do everything you can for me, give everything to me, sacrifice everything for me!”
He itched behind his left ear sheepishly, shaking droplets of water loose from his shaggy curly hair. “Of course I do Manon, I want to give you the world- or my world, at least.”
“I know, Rody, it’s just that- you sacrifice too much. I can’t watch you ruin any smeblance of progress you make with yourself while trying to make me happy, it’s exhausting- You do everything for me, everything you have, you give to me, and it’s ruining you!”
“It’s not, it’s really not-”
“But it is! I don’t think- I don’t think you’re ready, Rody.”
“Ready for what?”
“For a relationship. For us.”
“Manon, please-” He was growing desperate now. His heart was pounding as if more than just a person was being ripped away from him, as if his whole life was being cut to pieces.
“No, Rody. You’re killing yourself for me and- I can’t have you spending money on someone you don’t need.”
No. No. No, no, no, no, no. His head was an endless swirl, his stomach plummeting as if he had just stepped off a building with no chance of survival. He tried to say the words aloud, but it was like his tongue had stuck to roof of his mouth and his throat had swollen closed, and-
“Manon-” It was barely a whisper, but she heard him as if he had shouted it.
“You mean well, and I do love you still. I- I really do. But until you can learn to care about yourself not just me... this will only do harm for the both of us. I... I’ll see you around, Rody.”
“Manon-”
But the beautiful girl was walking away now, golden locks tossed by the wind, her shoulders shaking with rueful sobs. Rody watched in a kind of numb horror as she made it to the door, and she looked back at him. He stretched out a hand as if he could reach her, but then the silhouette of a tall man – her father – joined her at the door. Rody could have sworn that he saw his ever-reproachful gaze fix smugly on him, just for a moment. He led her inside with a stiff hand on her shoulder.
Never to be seen again.
Rody stood there for- he didn’t know how long. The rain soaked through the soles of his shoes, and when he walked back to the taxi his jacket stuck to his back and his soaked shoelaces whipped around his ankles. He collapsed in the backseat, dishevelled, disheartened, and defeated. The taxi drove to his house in silence. He passed the driver a twenty euro bill, all he had left in his moth-eaten wallet, left the car, and trudged up to his apartment.
The apartment building was a shabby, decrepit old place, with cracks spider-webbing through the exterior walls. A few beat-up cars stood slumped in the parking lot, docile. None of these cars belonged to Rody: as he slouched through the main doors, he cast a weary eye over the chipped beige paint on his bicycle, leant pathetically against the wall and dripping wet. It wasn’t chained up – nobody was desperate enough to steal it.
“Name?” The receptionist, a rather unpleasant looking woman with a nasally voice and a beehive hairdo, didn’t even look up from filing her scarlet claws.
“Rody Lamoree, Room 13.”
“Go ahead.” She clicked the button to unlock the door leading into the building.
“Thanks,” he muttered. He could’ve sworn he saw her roll her eyes.
He trudged up the stairs, walking along the corridor until he found his room. He turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. It was a miserable room. The pale yellow paint was peeling to reveal suspicious black patches that he wasn’t quite sure was mould, and empty takeout boxes, newspapers and crumpled up pieces of paper littered the stained carpet. Dirty dishes covered the kitchen counter – he wasn’t even sure he could remember what colour the tiles were. He kicked off his muddied shoes, which squelched in the puddle he had dripped onto the floor, not caring when the laces flicked mud into the room, and collapsed in a huff onto the squishy green couch. The springs pressed roughly into his ribcage, but he didn’t have the energy to get up.
“Manon,” he thought. “Manon...”
And all of a sudden, he was crying. Great, ugly tears rolled down his flushed face, and they wiped roughly on his too-baggy jeans as he curled into a ball. As he lay there, it felt as if his mind was swelling with dysphoria, the weight of it dragging him down further into the uncomfortable bumps in the couch. He could of sworn he could feel his heart slowly break apart into a million pieces as he lay there, shaking for what felt like forever, until he must have fallen asleep. When he awoke some time into the afternoon, the sun had risen and birds were chirping merrily outside the somewhat dingy window. He rolled off the couch, and rubbed his sleepy eyes, still swollen from the night’s crying, his back aching from the lumpy sofa.
His breath was foul in his mouth, and he stumbled over to the sink to lap desperately from the taps. Like a thirsty dog. He braced himself against the counter and began to cry again.