002: Everything's Made To Be Broken
Oct 15, 2016 15:04:34 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Oct 15, 2016 15:04:34 GMT -5
LOCATION: Chicago, IL
DATE/TIME: August 31, 2008 || 3:12AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Wrecked with exhaustion, strung out from a week on the road (and probably a shitload of nose candy), Jackson sprawled across the bed. The roomed smelled like sweat, body odor and cigarettes, so damned familiar. The candles on the nightstand had burned down to misshapen lumps, spreading in rapidly cooling pools. He snored softly, eyelids twitching, chest rising and falling with regular breaths.
Like a fool, she'd been there to meet him. Shirlea sat in the gloom, her back against the corner, knees up as she shivered and sobbed. Tears streaked down her face, her nose running as she swiped the back of her hand across it. Her eyes were fixed on a framed picture, resting on the table beside her. With shaking hands, she reached over and picked it up, fingers cold against the gilded frame. Shane Sanders. That stupid white trash whore that had gotten under Jackson's skin, twisted him all up and then tossed him aside.
"Bitch," she whispered, whipping the picture across the room. It clattered against the wall, bits of glass raining down against the hardwood floor. She didn't look at the bed, didn't need to. He'd be out for at least another hour or two, if she left him alone. If she touched him, however, he'd jerk awake, instantly alert and totally pissed off.
His pants were on the floor at her feet, streaked with dust. Something metallic caught her eye, and she bent down to retrieve it, extracting Jackson's cell phone from his pocket. "Jackpot," she murmured, flipping it open. He never let the damned thing out of his sight, but here it was now. The equivalent of his little black book. The phone buzzed while she held it, the message waiting light blinking. She pressed the message button, and what she saw there made her blood run cold. A message from last week; a message from Shane. "I love you, too?" What? She scrolled up, seeing that Jackson had sent I still love you three weeks ago. The sound of disgust came from between her lips as she dropped the phone on the floor, pulling herself to her feet.
Her bare slipped on the dust that covered the floor as she fled the room, trembling in anger as the tears flooded her eyes. She pushed inside his office, pacing restlessly now. She felt wild, anger burning in her veins. Green-eyed monster. A Japanese katana was on his desk, resting atop a carved mahogany frame. Something his sensei had given him in Osaka, after training him for nearly a month. It beckoned, and before she knew it the sword was unsheathed, and in her hand.
She touched her finger to the tip, confirming what she thought. It was razor sharp, Jackson was too precise about things for it to have been anything else but.
She moved back into the bedroom, and leaned over him. His features were peaceful, the hint of a small smile curving his lips. Minutes ticked away, her hands shaking as she held the wicked blade. She couldn't breathe. Restless eyes skittered around the room – his room above Club Paradox. His private sanctum. As far as she knew, she was the only one allowed up here out of all the girls. It didn't make her feel special anymore. It made her feel cheap and trashy.
Bruises on her throat ached as she swallowed hard, trying to pull in a good breath before she passed out. She studied his face, hands throbbing where they gripped the sword hilt. She looked at his hand, the discolored scar tissue across his knuckles. Tonight they'd been around her throat – his version of sex, sick and twisted. How many more times would she go crawling back to him? How many more times would she lie in bed with him, letting him kiss her while she bared her soul? All the presents he'd lavished on her – the diamonds, dresses and furs, the sparring matches as he taught her how to wrestle – was she willing to flush it all away?
Her eyes strayed to the crack in the plaster on the wall where the picture frame had hit.
"I can't do this," she whispered, "I won't be second to her. Not again."
Tears streamed from her eyes as she pressed the tip of the blade against his chest. She meant to carve out his heart, right then and there, but Jackson instinctively moved from the contact, and the blade skipped, trailing down his abdomen to the top of his worn black shorts. The cut was deep, the blade razor sharp. Blood welled, and the pain came crashing against his senses like a wave, dragging him from sleep. "Shitfuck," the expletive was on his lips as his eyes snapped open, just in time to see her readying the blade again, steadying her own hands.
Not having sufficient time to mount a defense, he moved in the nick of time, rolling away only to feel the fire awakened in his belly. He slid off the side of the mattress, flopping to the floor and moving into a crouch. Keep the position low, assess the situation. Sleep fled rapidly, leaving him clearheaded, galvanized by the pain.
Shirlea cursed, trying like hell to pull the blade from the mattress.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Jackson snarled, finally looking down to assess the damage. There was blood everywhere, dripping down and pattering on the floor and mattress. "Jesus, fuck." The two words burst past his lips as he looked back up at her, anger flashing in his dark eyes.
"I hate you," she snarled, giving up on the blade, and searching for another suitable weapon. "You lied to me!"
The insanity of the entire series of moments since he woke up drew a hysterical burst of laughter from between his lips. "I don't even want to fucking hear it," he snapped, rounding the end of the bed, advancing on her with murderous intent. The déjà vu was washing over him in waves. This same room, raised voices and accusations. Reminders of that night he fucked everything up with Shane. He put a hand to his head, feeling the headache like waves crashing against an unseen shore. The room wavered, but only slightly. Anger helped keep him on his feet. "Lies? Never to you, babe."
"Don't... don't say that shit to me – you don't get to call me babe anymore, you... you PIG!" Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked crazed, almost maniacal. "You... you... told me... I was... special."
He closed the gap, stepping right up against her, toe to toe as he glowered down at her. His blood dripped on her, his fingers leaving a crimson smear on her cheek as he grabbed her face. "Get the fuck out, Shirlea. Get out before you get hurt."
Tears spilled down her cheeks, smearing her eye makeup as she slammed her fist into his chin, hitting him with all her might. He barely registered the impact, not even swaying. Rock steady. She pulled her hand back, teeth bared like an angry cat as she swung for his face again. He caught her wrist this time, using it to pull her against him. She crashed against his chest, drawing a groan of pure agony from between his lips as her fingers grazed the open wound.
Optimism died inside her, turning to sick hate as she looked into Jackson's eyes, finally seeing nothing more than pity and contempt. "Don't, please don't make me... I don't want to go. I just... she texted you... and... NO!" Desperation filled her voice, making it crack and falter. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean... I..." the words fell silent as he fisted a hand in her hair, jerking her head back so hard he almost snapped her neck.
"LISTEN TO ME, YOU STUPID FUCKING WHORE!" He roared, vibrating with anger. "I am not your fucking possession." He shook her, so hard her teeth rattled, gnashing against her tongue and filling her mouth with blood. "I am not your fucking boyfriend, fiancé, whatever in the fuck you imagine we are, you delusional little cunt – get a clue! We fuck, sure but I put a roof over your head. I put food in your belly. I'm more your father than-"
"DON'T YOU DARE SAY THAT, BRADLEY JACKSON!"
Blood trickled over her lip, dripping down her chin as he jerked her head to the side, bending to press his lips against her cheek, tenderly before breathing softly against her ear. "I don't love you, Shirlea. I made that perfectly clear from day one."
She shook her head, words spilling from those trembling lips in a desperate, breathless plea. "Jax, please. Give me a chance... I can...I can make you... if you let me try."
His hand flashed through the air, gripping her cheeks hard. "Shut up, just once, do yourself a favor and shut it." He licked away the tear that fell from the corner of her eye before moving to her ear again, this time taking a slow, labored breath. "GET. THE. FUCK. OUT!" He bellowed, directly into her eardrum before releasing her. She stumbled over her feet, flailing as she went down hard. His bare foot slammed into her ribcage, driving her back towards the door, and the hallway. Another well placed shot, and she was in the hall. He reached down, pulling her up by the hair, and sending her down the stairs with a casual push. She stumbled, going to her knees before catching the banister, fleeing as she sobbed.
Her feet tangled together, and she fell down the last three steps, crashing to the floor at the bottom. Her hand hit first, her wrist taking the full impact of her body weight. It snapped and she screamed, a high keening sound that became a wail of agony.
She lifted her head, cradling her arm to her chest. The sound of the door slamming at the top of the stairs reverberated through the space, the sound of grim finality. She was alone again. Fishing out her cell phone, she stabbed a button and waited out the rings.
"Vivi-" her voice cracked, she had to stop and take a breath, "I... need help."
DATE/TIME: August 31, 2008 || 3:12AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Wrecked with exhaustion, strung out from a week on the road (and probably a shitload of nose candy), Jackson sprawled across the bed. The roomed smelled like sweat, body odor and cigarettes, so damned familiar. The candles on the nightstand had burned down to misshapen lumps, spreading in rapidly cooling pools. He snored softly, eyelids twitching, chest rising and falling with regular breaths.
Like a fool, she'd been there to meet him. Shirlea sat in the gloom, her back against the corner, knees up as she shivered and sobbed. Tears streaked down her face, her nose running as she swiped the back of her hand across it. Her eyes were fixed on a framed picture, resting on the table beside her. With shaking hands, she reached over and picked it up, fingers cold against the gilded frame. Shane Sanders. That stupid white trash whore that had gotten under Jackson's skin, twisted him all up and then tossed him aside.
"Bitch," she whispered, whipping the picture across the room. It clattered against the wall, bits of glass raining down against the hardwood floor. She didn't look at the bed, didn't need to. He'd be out for at least another hour or two, if she left him alone. If she touched him, however, he'd jerk awake, instantly alert and totally pissed off.
His pants were on the floor at her feet, streaked with dust. Something metallic caught her eye, and she bent down to retrieve it, extracting Jackson's cell phone from his pocket. "Jackpot," she murmured, flipping it open. He never let the damned thing out of his sight, but here it was now. The equivalent of his little black book. The phone buzzed while she held it, the message waiting light blinking. She pressed the message button, and what she saw there made her blood run cold. A message from last week; a message from Shane. "I love you, too?" What? She scrolled up, seeing that Jackson had sent I still love you three weeks ago. The sound of disgust came from between her lips as she dropped the phone on the floor, pulling herself to her feet.
Her bare slipped on the dust that covered the floor as she fled the room, trembling in anger as the tears flooded her eyes. She pushed inside his office, pacing restlessly now. She felt wild, anger burning in her veins. Green-eyed monster. A Japanese katana was on his desk, resting atop a carved mahogany frame. Something his sensei had given him in Osaka, after training him for nearly a month. It beckoned, and before she knew it the sword was unsheathed, and in her hand.
She touched her finger to the tip, confirming what she thought. It was razor sharp, Jackson was too precise about things for it to have been anything else but.
She moved back into the bedroom, and leaned over him. His features were peaceful, the hint of a small smile curving his lips. Minutes ticked away, her hands shaking as she held the wicked blade. She couldn't breathe. Restless eyes skittered around the room – his room above Club Paradox. His private sanctum. As far as she knew, she was the only one allowed up here out of all the girls. It didn't make her feel special anymore. It made her feel cheap and trashy.
Bruises on her throat ached as she swallowed hard, trying to pull in a good breath before she passed out. She studied his face, hands throbbing where they gripped the sword hilt. She looked at his hand, the discolored scar tissue across his knuckles. Tonight they'd been around her throat – his version of sex, sick and twisted. How many more times would she go crawling back to him? How many more times would she lie in bed with him, letting him kiss her while she bared her soul? All the presents he'd lavished on her – the diamonds, dresses and furs, the sparring matches as he taught her how to wrestle – was she willing to flush it all away?
Her eyes strayed to the crack in the plaster on the wall where the picture frame had hit.
"I can't do this," she whispered, "I won't be second to her. Not again."
Tears streamed from her eyes as she pressed the tip of the blade against his chest. She meant to carve out his heart, right then and there, but Jackson instinctively moved from the contact, and the blade skipped, trailing down his abdomen to the top of his worn black shorts. The cut was deep, the blade razor sharp. Blood welled, and the pain came crashing against his senses like a wave, dragging him from sleep. "Shitfuck," the expletive was on his lips as his eyes snapped open, just in time to see her readying the blade again, steadying her own hands.
Not having sufficient time to mount a defense, he moved in the nick of time, rolling away only to feel the fire awakened in his belly. He slid off the side of the mattress, flopping to the floor and moving into a crouch. Keep the position low, assess the situation. Sleep fled rapidly, leaving him clearheaded, galvanized by the pain.
Shirlea cursed, trying like hell to pull the blade from the mattress.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Jackson snarled, finally looking down to assess the damage. There was blood everywhere, dripping down and pattering on the floor and mattress. "Jesus, fuck." The two words burst past his lips as he looked back up at her, anger flashing in his dark eyes.
"I hate you," she snarled, giving up on the blade, and searching for another suitable weapon. "You lied to me!"
The insanity of the entire series of moments since he woke up drew a hysterical burst of laughter from between his lips. "I don't even want to fucking hear it," he snapped, rounding the end of the bed, advancing on her with murderous intent. The déjà vu was washing over him in waves. This same room, raised voices and accusations. Reminders of that night he fucked everything up with Shane. He put a hand to his head, feeling the headache like waves crashing against an unseen shore. The room wavered, but only slightly. Anger helped keep him on his feet. "Lies? Never to you, babe."
"Don't... don't say that shit to me – you don't get to call me babe anymore, you... you PIG!" Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked crazed, almost maniacal. "You... you... told me... I was... special."
He closed the gap, stepping right up against her, toe to toe as he glowered down at her. His blood dripped on her, his fingers leaving a crimson smear on her cheek as he grabbed her face. "Get the fuck out, Shirlea. Get out before you get hurt."
Tears spilled down her cheeks, smearing her eye makeup as she slammed her fist into his chin, hitting him with all her might. He barely registered the impact, not even swaying. Rock steady. She pulled her hand back, teeth bared like an angry cat as she swung for his face again. He caught her wrist this time, using it to pull her against him. She crashed against his chest, drawing a groan of pure agony from between his lips as her fingers grazed the open wound.
Optimism died inside her, turning to sick hate as she looked into Jackson's eyes, finally seeing nothing more than pity and contempt. "Don't, please don't make me... I don't want to go. I just... she texted you... and... NO!" Desperation filled her voice, making it crack and falter. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean... I..." the words fell silent as he fisted a hand in her hair, jerking her head back so hard he almost snapped her neck.
"LISTEN TO ME, YOU STUPID FUCKING WHORE!" He roared, vibrating with anger. "I am not your fucking possession." He shook her, so hard her teeth rattled, gnashing against her tongue and filling her mouth with blood. "I am not your fucking boyfriend, fiancé, whatever in the fuck you imagine we are, you delusional little cunt – get a clue! We fuck, sure but I put a roof over your head. I put food in your belly. I'm more your father than-"
"DON'T YOU DARE SAY THAT, BRADLEY JACKSON!"
Blood trickled over her lip, dripping down her chin as he jerked her head to the side, bending to press his lips against her cheek, tenderly before breathing softly against her ear. "I don't love you, Shirlea. I made that perfectly clear from day one."
She shook her head, words spilling from those trembling lips in a desperate, breathless plea. "Jax, please. Give me a chance... I can...I can make you... if you let me try."
His hand flashed through the air, gripping her cheeks hard. "Shut up, just once, do yourself a favor and shut it." He licked away the tear that fell from the corner of her eye before moving to her ear again, this time taking a slow, labored breath. "GET. THE. FUCK. OUT!" He bellowed, directly into her eardrum before releasing her. She stumbled over her feet, flailing as she went down hard. His bare foot slammed into her ribcage, driving her back towards the door, and the hallway. Another well placed shot, and she was in the hall. He reached down, pulling her up by the hair, and sending her down the stairs with a casual push. She stumbled, going to her knees before catching the banister, fleeing as she sobbed.
Her feet tangled together, and she fell down the last three steps, crashing to the floor at the bottom. Her hand hit first, her wrist taking the full impact of her body weight. It snapped and she screamed, a high keening sound that became a wail of agony.
She lifted her head, cradling her arm to her chest. The sound of the door slamming at the top of the stairs reverberated through the space, the sound of grim finality. She was alone again. Fishing out her cell phone, she stabbed a button and waited out the rings.
"Vivi-" her voice cracked, she had to stop and take a breath, "I... need help."
