Uncontrollable

Written 2/19/26

A very short piece for my fiction writing class to show the two sides of Clover

!!! Content warning: !!!

Some sexual innuendo... and Clover describing women as Clover does

Hypnotic. That was the word that came to Clover's mind as he smirked at his reflection, sitting with his narrow legs crossed. His low-buttoned shirt revealed just enough chest and his dark hair fell into perfect waves on his shoulders, but his large black eyes captivated him the most, looking back from sunken cheeks...

"So, Clover Hill, where do you see Fire Magnolia in five years?"

The journalist's young voice brought him back. He let out a teasing giggle, uncrossing his legs.

"My, what a question! Five years would be... when? 1981?" He sighed, putting a delicate finger to his lips, "Don't get me wrong, love, I like the group. But it gets to be a tad small, even for a short straw like me. I need room to move, you know?"

She laughed, twirling her puffy auburn hair. Beyond that feature, she was rather bland- too much makeup here, too much skin there. A cloying perfume overwhelmed the little dressing room. As she laid aside her clipboard and pen, however, he knew that the spell was working.

"It's like... a twin bed for someone who rolls around too much?"

"Exactly. Speaking of which..." He leaned closer to place a hand on her exposed knee, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Did you know that they make beds larger than king size? I can show you one if you're free tonight. I'll even let you test the stereo sound system."

Her breath caught, blue eyes growing wide. "You mean..."

Clover quickly pulled away, "Oh, but I'm sure you're sooo busy. It's too bad-"

She rushed to stand up, nearly tripping on her heels. "After dinner?"

He took her hand and slowly rose, ending an inch below her. "Ah, yes. We shouldn't rush, shall we? Let's call it a date, er... Erin? Ellie?"

"Erika," She said, blushing.

"Right." He smiled as he walked away with her, hoping she'd see the gap between his front teeth. "Erika."

A plate smashed against the green wallpaper, scattering into a million tiny shards. Clover grabbed another from the dishwasher, letting out a shrill scream as he broke it against the counter.

Jesse. Jesse. JESSE. That high-and-mighty son of a bitch. Clover broke his back for that shitty band, trying to make every keyboard part good for him, always checking in on him, always complimenting him, always trying to win him over every single day. And what did he have to show for it? A disgusted grimace, a hand-wave, another cold rejection.

He slammed a bowl down over an open drawer, splintering the wood. Fire coursed through his bloodstream. He didn't even notice the red ink dripping from his palm.

What do you want, Jesse? Is this body not good enough for you? WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT? Crispin shrieked with rage as he tugged a metal skillet from the rack, the weight of it burning with destructive energy. Then he saw it. The unmistakable face of a child on the surface, cheeks red and puffy, fat ugly nose pinched in a grimace, breath rattling through his crooked teeth. Everything stopped. Even the screaming in his head went silent as he glared at this stranger, this intruder.

The skillet clattered onto the floor. Clover crumbled against the stove, pressing his trembling hands to his face. Tears ran through his hands and mixed with the blood.

Just the same, the fury was ebbing but still there. Beneath it laid the unbearable hurt that Jesse's name invoked and a million other emotions that he thought he'd grown past.

But with every heave of his chest, Clover felt overcome by one thing in particular: fear.