Atlas Demetri Cornwell (notagoodboy) wrote in breaking_point, @ 2009-09-22 16:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | *complete, 2024 09, former character: atlas cornwell, former character: minerva longbottom |
Owl: Minerva Longbottom
Who: Atlas and Minerva
Where: his flat, her house
When: September 22, evening
Summary: Atlas wants to tell her he's sorry. . . again
Warnings: language
Status: Complete
With another sigh, Atlas crumpled up the piece of parchment on the table and tossed it to the other side of the room, adding to the growing pile. "What the fuck am I doing?" he asked, looking down at Octavius.
A whine was all he got in response, and the large shepherd set his muzzle on his master's leg, looking up at him with sad eyes. He didn't like when Atlas was upset. He didn't understand why he was upset, but he hoped it wasn't anything that he did, and he just wanted his master to be happy. "Don't worry, boy," Atlas said with a grin, moving his hand to scratch the dog's ears. "It's not you. It's me."
Turning back to the stack of parchment, he grabbed his quill and started writing again. He'd been trying this ever since he'd left Minerva's house nearly a week before. He hated himself for what he'd done to her, and wanted nothing more than to make up for it. But how could he do that when she hated him. She said she didn't, but he'd seen the look in her eyes. He'd held her face while she cried. He was such a bastard.
"She was never supposed to know," he muttered. "She was never supposed to find out. Then again she was just supposed to be a quick fuck too. Now look what it's gotten me."
Sighing for what seemed like the millionth time, he pressed quill to parchment and began writing again.
Minerva,
I'm sorry.
-Atlas
Two words. . . they would do. He rolled up the paper and went over to Bartholomew, handing the note to the bird. "Just like last time. . . make sure she reads it," he told him before sending the owl off.
Reaching a hand behind his head to scratch at his neck, Atlas walked across his flat to the door to his bedroom and pushed it open. "C'mon," he called to Octavius as he fell into the bed. A nap would be good. Maybe a nap would take his mind off his major fuckup. . . if only he could stop dreaming about her face drenched in tears.