Nightmares

Flashback- Last Year

Feeble light crept around the curtains, dappling his peaceful features as he dozed atop the still made bed, fully clothed. Mud clung to his boots, dropping to the floor as it dried.

Silence crashed down around him, the voice of the night, the sound the darkness made. The void, the mysterious and ineffable. A sound shattered sleep, and he drew in a deep breath, his eyes snapping open. He pulled himself slowly upright, throwing the Gideon Bible away into the darkness when he looked down to find it still clutched in his stiff hand. Why the fuck he was reading that to fall asleep, he'd never know. He listened to the sound of it slapping against the wall, and then wiped his hands on his pants, as though trying to remove a taint. Peaceful. Silence reigned supreme once again here in this hotel room in the French Quarter.

The sound came again, the buzz and rattle of his cell phone against the crystal tumbler filled with an inch of muddy water that used to be expensive Scotch and ice cubes. With a groan, he reached for it, knocking the glass to the floor unnoticed.

"…lo?" His voice cracked, filled with sleep and the aftereffects of a night of binge drinking.

The voice on the other end of the phone was frosty, decidedly feminine. "Hello? Is this Brad Jackson?"

Jackson tensed, the last vestiges of sleep fading as a seed of dread planted itself in the pit of his stomach, making the sour contents curdle. Strangers generally didn't call on his unlisted private number this early in the morning. There were only three people who had this number. He almost wondered if this was some recruiter- corporate headhunter wanting him to jump ship on HiWF. "Shit… if Wakefield gave you this number… I'm going to skin him alive." He grumbled into the phone, managing to turn himself over.

"Is this Mr. Jackson?" The voice prodded, decidedly icier than before.

"Depends who wants to know," came the reply, his voice more a rumble than anything else.

"Mr. Jackson? Good morning, this is Detective Dupin from-"

His groan drowned out her location, forcing him to begrudgingly ask her to repeat it. "Sorry… what?"

"Detective Dupin, Homicide," she snapped, all traces of civility bleeding from her voice. Jackson had that affect on people, whether he realized it or not. "New Orleans PD."

Delicious irony. A local pig, calling him on his Chicago number. "Little early for a solicitation call for the charity benefit fund," Jackson quipped as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, placing them on the floor, "so, what's the problem, toots?" His laughter was raucous, a bark of hysteria that bubbled from his lips, carried over the phone lines to her ears. He reached for his cigarettes, trying like hell to silence his off-kilter sense of humor as he slipped one between his lips. She heard the sound of the lighter snapping open, and then the telltale sound of his deep inhale. He was rattled, deeply rattled.

"Mr. Jackson, I assure you my investigation is no laughing matter. A woman is dead-"

The rest of the words faded away, replaced by a hollow buzz in his ears as the floor fell out from under him, metaphorically, of course. The name spilled forth from the faceless detective's lip: Jacquelyn Moreau. No. Not that.

"No." He had to swallow hard to force the words past his lips. "Not Jackie…"




Flashback- September 13, 2006
Chicago, IL

She huddled at the far end of the couch, shaking as though chilled from within. She'd been crying for hours, silently. Her eyes were hollow, red rimmed and sunken above the sharp outlines of her cheekbones. Her raven hair flowed loose over her shoulders, tangled and lank as though the concept of washing it was foreign to her. Perhaps, in her current state, it was.

The Chardonnay was sweet, chilled the way a good wine should be. Not really intending to drink it, she toyed with the glass, tasting the sickly sweet tang of fruit in her mouth. Her fingers pressed against the delicate crystal curves, creating rings of condensation as she brought it to her lips, sipping delicately, almost ladylike. The motions of a robot.

"Jackie," he said, making her flinch as he broke the silence. He stood in front of the fireplace, the black dress shirt open over his tattooed chest, the firelight dancing over his exposed skin. His eyes were fastened on the shadowbox above the mantle, and the golden belt inside. The former PCW World Heavyweight belt. Every little ripple in the metal and scar in the leather preserved for eternity; his name there etched for posterity. A sigh escaped his lips as he bowed his head, looking down at the greedy flames. Just a token to remind them both of times that had been markedly better than they were now. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She said nothing, averting her eyes. She downed the rest of the wine, in a messy gulp that spilled over her chin, trickling down her neck to soak into the top of the shapeless black sweater she wore. Her thumb poked through a hole in the ragged material as she picked at the broken threads. Silence spun out between them.

The glass fell from her numb fingers, shattering on the hardwood. The musical tinkle of broken glass filled the silence, drawing her attention for a moment before the light faded in those troubled orbs. She moved to her feet, slowly as though in a trance. "I'm so tired," she whispered, lifting those wounded eyes to stare at him.

"That's probably the V talking," Jackson mumbled, moving to her side and freezing there as she straightened up with that flawless grace.

Her hair hung like a black curtain over her face, obscuring everything but her mouth. A sad smile curved those chapped and swollen lips.

He held out his hand to her, feeling that familiar ache in his chest. She wasn't the same girl he remembered. He never should have listened when she said she was happy. "Jackie... tell me what's wrong?"

She'd appeared out of nowhere tonight, pulling him from his press conference at the United Center.

She paid him no mind, letting her arms fall as she turned in a circle, hair flying out like a dark cape behind her. Dizzying colors, matching with the lies that rattled around in her head. Her skin tingled, aching for his touch. Weakness betraying her.

"I can't stand it anymore," she whispered, sinking to her knees right in the middle of the broken glass. Her palms slapped against the floor, the bite of the glass lost in the numbness that consumed her.

"Jackie!" Immediately, he felt a stirring of anger as his shadow fell over her."Hey," he whispered, reaching out to touch her shoulder as he knelt beside her, feeling the glass against the heavy denim, "fuck, you're all cut up," he mused aloud, shaking his head as he brushed her hair back from her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, spilling from her colorless eyes as though she was shedding her soul through her tear ducts.

Instinct took over, and he hooked his hands under her armpits, hauling her upright. "Shh," he admonished, wrapping his arm around her waist as he pulled her towards the bathroom. "You're ok now. I'm here… no monsters have got you."

"He made monsters of us all," she whispered, her voice broken with anguish.

He sat her down gently on the top step of the Jacuzzi tub, letting her slump back against the wall. He knelt beside her, picking up the still damp washcloth from the towel bar. Her eyes closed, her head falling back as she tried to stay conscious. Had she been looking for him, or was it coincidental? "Jackie," he murmured, taking her hand in his and pulling out the glass with his callused fingertips, "what has he done to you?"

Blood welled in the gashes, but they weren't severe. They'd heal quickly. He wiped away the blood, and reached for the drawer, pulling out a roll of medical tape, and some squares of gauze. Never ill prepared, he was a man with frequent injuries.

She said nothing, those eyes opening and fixing on him for a moment before the light dimmed. He caught her before she could fall, and seriously injure herself. He picked her up, cradling her to his chest almost tenderly as he brought her over to the bed. He lay her down slowly, careful not to jostle her too much. She looked as fragile as a porcelain doll, with the heavy dark circles beneath her eyes. Lying on this oversized bed, she resembled a small frail child. Her skin showed the impact of hands, fists and worse. Various bruises, scrapes and assorted abrasions festooned her body like the work of a sadistic tattoo artist; she looked like a third world refugee from some guerilla war.

Something came over him, in that strange moment, looking down at the wreckage that hadn't been his fault in the slightest. Some drastic change that he didn't even realize until he felt the prickle in his sinuses. Tears filled his eyes, worse than a punch in the nose, and Jackson shook his head.

He bent over her, and brushed her matted hair back from her face. A tear dripped down his nose, hitting her square in the forehead. Warm and wet, it startled her, and her eyes snapped open, widening in shock as her blurry vision cleared. Her lips worked, but she couldn't seem to find enough saliva to utter the words. After a moment, she croaked out a few, her eyes blazing with intense hatred.

"I'm not Ophelia." She struggled to speak again, her voice growing thick and blurred as she began to succumb to the sedative he'd given her. Not a painkiller at all. "What ha-have you done to me?"

The words were twisted with venom, her eyes not focused on him at all, but on the dark shape that loomed in her mind. The sick being that had torn her mind out and burned her soul…



"Yes. I know her… well. We've been friends for a couple years, give or take," he heard himself saying, filling the silence with awkwardness. "I set aside tickets for her. I've got this gig this weekend in Monroe." He pictured the worst. Dead of an overdose. Just another escape for her.

He didn't ask what happened to her, and Dupin found that strange, almost unsettling. "When did you see her last?"

"Uh… couple months, maybe? I can't be sure. Last time I wrestled close by, I sent her front row seats. Took her out for coffee after the show. She looked good, finally off the junk, y'know? For a while there, it was touch and go… she was filling one sick addiction with another. Sad, but it happens all the time in this business. You try anything to fill that void, drugs, booze… sex… whatever, and when it gets too much, you sit down in the dark and eat your gun. The Von Erich legacy."

She heard the creak of the bedsprings as he moved to his feet; that carried across the wire as well as his tension did. Her cop nose was prickling; she could tell he knew something. "Who told you she was shot?"

Fuck. "Nobody," he replied, his voice hard as steel, "I just assumed. You wouldn't be calling me if she OD'd on a bottle of Xanax. Listen, Detective. If you need an alibi, I was in England… then Phoenix … and then Montreal, Canada. Nowhere near New Orleans until last night. You're barking up the wrong tree. If someone iced Jackie, it wasn't me. It was-" the words died on his lips before Spiral's name could pass them. He didn't know for sure that's what happened. Some twisted sense of loyalty kept him from blurting what he felt.

"Mr. Jackson? You misunderstand. We know who did it. What we need is a motive. Would you be willing to come down to the station house and fill out a statement?" Silence spun out as he tried like hell to breathe past the vise gripping his chest. "Hello?"

His voice caught, almost a sob as he rubbed the back of his neck hard, "I don't think so." He said finally, breathing slowly through his mouth. "I don't know anything. Jackie and I haven't been... as close as we used to be. If you need anything further, Detective, call my agent." He hung up the phone, letting it slip from his fingers to bounce against the carpet. He made no move to pick it up as the tears filled his eyes, scalding his skin as they spilled down his cheeks.

Real men don't cry.

He didn't care.