003: Avalanche [uprising]
Aug 26, 2016 21:47:21 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Aug 26, 2016 21:47:21 GMT -5
LOCATION: Milwaukee, Wisconsin
DATE/TIME: May 30, 2005 || 11:03PM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Kitty stood in the gloom, her eyes turned towards the sign that flickered and buzzed, the letters in the vacancy sign flicking on and off at random. The place was a dive – of course it was. She should have known she'd find him shacked up in a place like this. She was soaked to the skin, her hooded sweatshirt sticking to her small frame rather unflatteringly. His car was here, parked in front of number fourteen, sporting Illinois plates now instead of California. She'd heard he'd moved to Chicago, found a gig working with some promotion based out of Louisville. She'd heard that he'd really gone downhill after they'd split and she'd gone on tour in the UK.
"Lookin' for Jackson?"
Her eyes narrowed, trying to determine the identity of the man in the shadows. The glow of his cigarette barely illuminated craggy features. Somehow his voice was familiar, despite the raspy baritone. She steeled herself, hands clenched into fists, already on the back foot. "Is he here?"
"Maybe."
"Listen asshole, do you know where he is?" Her green eyes picked up the color of the neon sign, making them flash demonically.
"May've seen 'im. Who's asking?"
"I'm Kitty."
The man snickered, the sound filled with derision, his words slurred. "Kitty. Pussy... lemme ask, if I tell him I saw you's he gonna know who y'are?"
She snorted, very unladylike. "I should hope so, I'm his wife."
He flicked away the deadhead, stepping out of the shadows.
"Jesus Chri-"
"Nope," Jackson forced a laugh that was more a wheeze, ambling past her towards the room, "found me... so, what d'you want, Kaitlynn?"
She realized he wasn't pretending because that slur was still there. He was either drunk or high, that lazy drawl throwing her off in ways she couldn't explain. "I..." she licked her lips, feeling pity instead of the hate that had brought her here.
He stared right back, his expression carefully controlled, other than the muscle that was flexing in his jaw as he slowly ground his back teeth together. He finally broke the spell, reaching into his pocket for the little blue plastic keychain with the motel key attached. He shouldered past her, fumbling with the lock, trying like hell to insert the key with a hand that was badly shaking, and not just from nerves. The key fell from his fingers, clanging against the worn wooden walkway. "Goddamn it," he ground out, between his clenched teeth. He bent to grab it, only to find it in her hand, inches from his face.
"Lemme do it," she pushed him aside, placing the key in the lock before kicking the door open.
Glass tinkled, bottles rolling in the wake and she cast a disgusted look at him even though he was already storming past her, already unzipping his wet jacket. He completely ignored her, pulling off his wet shirt next, letting both fall to the floor. His hand went to his belt buckle, and then he hesitated, glaring back over his shoulder. "For Chrissakes, close the goddamn door."
She stood there, wet and miserable, half in the rain, half outside, looking like she was about to bolt. With a low growl he grabbed her hand, pulling her inside before slamming the door. She stood shivering, pressed back against the door. "Brad... I..." she swallowed hard, wishing she wasn't seeing him like this. She'd expected to crash some epic orgy, not to see him looking like a strung-out wreck.
He grabbed her arms, the sodden hoodie squelching loudly. He released her almost immediately, afraid of the sudden surge of emotions. "What the hell do you want from me? You want money?" He pulled out his battered wallet from his back pocket, extricating several mutilated twenties. He threw these in her face, making her flinch. They fluttered to the floor, littering the carpet between them.
He turned away from the accusing look in her eyes, crossing to the tiny bathroom. He returned a moment later with a towel in hand, running it briskly over his hair while he paced, the tension in the room mounting with each step. It was like watching a caged tiger, or some other deadly predator.
"Why are you here?" he demanded, whirling around and pinning her with a malevolent glare.
"Brad," her voice was soft, eyes downcast as she finally replied, "I just needed... to talk to you. Face to face," she mumbled, "I came back early. Because I needed to... I have to..." she couldn't get the words out.
"About what?"
"Avery has the papers. I already signed them and I don't want anything. No support or anything." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I met someone. H-his name is Mikhail and I really think he might be–"
"What?" The way he said it didn't spell confusion. The look on his face was something else and she felt a cold chill pass over her that had nothing to do with the rain.
"A divorce," she whispered, "please?"
DATE/TIME: May 30, 2005 || 11:03PM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Kitty stood in the gloom, her eyes turned towards the sign that flickered and buzzed, the letters in the vacancy sign flicking on and off at random. The place was a dive – of course it was. She should have known she'd find him shacked up in a place like this. She was soaked to the skin, her hooded sweatshirt sticking to her small frame rather unflatteringly. His car was here, parked in front of number fourteen, sporting Illinois plates now instead of California. She'd heard he'd moved to Chicago, found a gig working with some promotion based out of Louisville. She'd heard that he'd really gone downhill after they'd split and she'd gone on tour in the UK.
"Lookin' for Jackson?"
Her eyes narrowed, trying to determine the identity of the man in the shadows. The glow of his cigarette barely illuminated craggy features. Somehow his voice was familiar, despite the raspy baritone. She steeled herself, hands clenched into fists, already on the back foot. "Is he here?"
"Maybe."
"Listen asshole, do you know where he is?" Her green eyes picked up the color of the neon sign, making them flash demonically.
"May've seen 'im. Who's asking?"
"I'm Kitty."
The man snickered, the sound filled with derision, his words slurred. "Kitty. Pussy... lemme ask, if I tell him I saw you's he gonna know who y'are?"
She snorted, very unladylike. "I should hope so, I'm his wife."
He flicked away the deadhead, stepping out of the shadows.
"Jesus Chri-"
"Nope," Jackson forced a laugh that was more a wheeze, ambling past her towards the room, "found me... so, what d'you want, Kaitlynn?"
She realized he wasn't pretending because that slur was still there. He was either drunk or high, that lazy drawl throwing her off in ways she couldn't explain. "I..." she licked her lips, feeling pity instead of the hate that had brought her here.
He stared right back, his expression carefully controlled, other than the muscle that was flexing in his jaw as he slowly ground his back teeth together. He finally broke the spell, reaching into his pocket for the little blue plastic keychain with the motel key attached. He shouldered past her, fumbling with the lock, trying like hell to insert the key with a hand that was badly shaking, and not just from nerves. The key fell from his fingers, clanging against the worn wooden walkway. "Goddamn it," he ground out, between his clenched teeth. He bent to grab it, only to find it in her hand, inches from his face.
"Lemme do it," she pushed him aside, placing the key in the lock before kicking the door open.
Glass tinkled, bottles rolling in the wake and she cast a disgusted look at him even though he was already storming past her, already unzipping his wet jacket. He completely ignored her, pulling off his wet shirt next, letting both fall to the floor. His hand went to his belt buckle, and then he hesitated, glaring back over his shoulder. "For Chrissakes, close the goddamn door."
She stood there, wet and miserable, half in the rain, half outside, looking like she was about to bolt. With a low growl he grabbed her hand, pulling her inside before slamming the door. She stood shivering, pressed back against the door. "Brad... I..." she swallowed hard, wishing she wasn't seeing him like this. She'd expected to crash some epic orgy, not to see him looking like a strung-out wreck.
He grabbed her arms, the sodden hoodie squelching loudly. He released her almost immediately, afraid of the sudden surge of emotions. "What the hell do you want from me? You want money?" He pulled out his battered wallet from his back pocket, extricating several mutilated twenties. He threw these in her face, making her flinch. They fluttered to the floor, littering the carpet between them.
He turned away from the accusing look in her eyes, crossing to the tiny bathroom. He returned a moment later with a towel in hand, running it briskly over his hair while he paced, the tension in the room mounting with each step. It was like watching a caged tiger, or some other deadly predator.
"Why are you here?" he demanded, whirling around and pinning her with a malevolent glare.
"Brad," her voice was soft, eyes downcast as she finally replied, "I just needed... to talk to you. Face to face," she mumbled, "I came back early. Because I needed to... I have to..." she couldn't get the words out.
"About what?"
"Avery has the papers. I already signed them and I don't want anything. No support or anything." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I met someone. H-his name is Mikhail and I really think he might be–"
"What?" The way he said it didn't spell confusion. The look on his face was something else and she felt a cold chill pass over her that had nothing to do with the rain.
"A divorce," she whispered, "please?"
