Our Sonnets // Narumitsu

Lie To Me

Info
Song: Lie To Me - Depeche Mode
Note: CONTAINS SWEARING, INAPPROPRIATE THEMES AND DEPRESSIVE THOUGHTS, skip if you're light-hearted

Story
A smile shone upon Phoenix's blushing face as his lover, sweet beloved angel, lay beside him on the bed with her arm wrapped around his shoulders in a symbolic act of unison. Phoenix's arms were glued stiffly to his own body - he was too scared to even touch her, for fear of tainting such an immaculate human being. She was everything to him. The lavish pink jumper he lived in, the long crimson locks he was resting his head upon, the flowery perfume invading his nostrils, the golden vial his neck proudly bore. Dolly was everything to him. The pair lay in silence, mostly, occasionally sharing glances - ones which Phoenix often broke the eye-contact of; Dolly's stares could be a little frightening at times, especially like the one she was giving him now. Her hazel-brown eyes seemed to lose their mellow kernel, replacing it with some form of ironclad substitute which did nought but quicken the pace of Phoenix's heart. She looked angry. Had he done something wrong?
"Feenie,"
"Yes, Dolly?" Phoenix's heart laid back. She didn't sound angry.
"You know that necklace I gave you?" The young lawyer beamed at the memory, his ocean blue eyes glittering with nostalgia:
"Yes, I-"
"Can I see it?" Dolly batted her pretty, sweeping eyelashes and Phoenix felt as though his cheeks were a raging inferno as he abashedly nodded and rummaged beneath his crimson scarf - one which Dolly had picked out for him on the basis of his 'cuteness' (her words, not his) - for the sacred item. Eventually his fingers brushed against a familiar shape: cool, soothing metal, and gingerly brought it out to see the light of day. Its golden embellishments glinted alluringly in the streaks of daylight filtering through the windowpanes, happily seated in the palm of its bearer's hand. Dolly smiled.
"Take it off,"
"Huh?" Phoenix self-consciously tugged at the corners of his muffling scarf with his free hand, his other occupied in worship of the object, revelling in its perfection, thumbing the corners of the alluring blue crystal.
"Take it off, Feenie," The pet-name was added as an afterthought - the culmination of a brief pause -, Dolly knew exactly what buttons to press to make the young lawyer melt (the pink glow highlighting his face a living testament to that fact), which was why she was rather surprised to find that Phoenix simply shifted uncomfortably at the request.
"Is there something wrong with what I asked?"
"No, it's just..." Funny black eyebrows scrunched up as bright blue eyes lowered to meet the gaze of the winking vial, staring at it in a fixated manner for a while.
"I never really take it off," A soft mumble followed the tender moment. Dolly stared at her boyfriend. Her arm retracted its provided support to Phoenix's shoulders in favour of snaking round his entire torso, giving him a comforting squeeze:
"Not even for me?" When she received little in response but an incoherent mumble, her hand reached out to graze one of the boy's blazing cheeks, tilting his head to face her own. Dumbfounded, Phoenix simply blinked.
"Feenie, I'd really like you to take it off for a bit,"
"Mm.. Why?"
"Because," Dahlia's face inched closer.
"You're making things very difficult for me, Phoenix." Dahlia wasn't smiling now - and her eyes were still as ironclad as before. It was as though she was pricking him repeatedly with that incessant, sadistic stare - her sickly, floral plastic nails digging their jagged edges into his cheek's soft flesh, creating tears which bled excessive pain. Phoenix wanted more than anything for her to release her grip, but she kept tightening it, all with that same smile on her face. Contorted as he struggled against her bindings - he couldn't breathe at one point and felt faint (that was when she went for his neck). And then there came the pleading:
"D-Dolly, I'll give it to you, please just let me-" which would be followed by her following up on his offer - getting what she bargained for with a sweet, reverent kiss and the premise of love. God, Phoenix loved her, the dolt. It didn't matter what she did. She had every right to constrict his airways on a whim - he shouldn't have denied her the vial.

It was a lonely night when he remembered this. He was crying, caged in the rotting carcass he once called his own, his hot tears streaming down the ragged cheekbones onto a naked mattress. Even the mattress wasn't his - not really -, it was a gift of pity from an old friend: Larry. He was a sham and ashamed. Hollow glass-bottles of grape-juice littered the scene. Phoenix Wright was a penniless whore - and it wasn't as though clothes had been the only thing he'd been stripped of in recent years: no, his pride and joy, his occupation had been taken by some grubby bastard in the business of forgery. He had nothing left to give except his body - which seemed to now be throwing a tantrum in these few desperate hours of the evening where it should have been claiming some form of solitude from the constant creaking of rickety beds and aching of repeatedly abused muscles. The industry was a grim one - becoming enslaved to another for a set period of time under the pretence of monetary gain - but at least whilst he was working his brain would be so numbed that he'd forget all the details. Like this one. Dahlia Hawthorne. The sour apple to his leaking eye. He'd been a fool. She'd abused him countless times - the marks were still there to prove it. That was another advantage of his current occupation, actually - none of his clients stopped to ask about the calloused marks or the plethora of bloodthirsty scratches: it was considered normal. He wept into the mattress, hoping the grotty fabric muffled his uneven wailing, for he knew that the frail, crumbling walls would not. Trucy wasn't around that night - she'd gone to some other friend's house for a sleepover, thank god, so perhaps containing the noise didn't matter so much for once. It was a long and laborious few hours, the fully clothed Phoenix shivering upon his stiff mattress (if Trucy wasn't home then even the meagre heating he usually allocated to the radiators was fully switched off: no use in wasting money on himself), his constant flow of tears seemingly freezing upon his quivering skin, filled only with the deflating knowledge that he had another client to appease (whose name was still unbeknownst to him) at 5:00am. There was another person - a man - who kept reappearing at the forefront of his mind, tormenting his sorrows, but Phoenix daren't acknowledge his name: the mere memory brought him a heart-wrenching ache. The whimpering figure tossed and turned.