You guys are truly awesome. I also wanted to let you know while this is more character building stuff--not much is shaken loose, Haze is a slow build (and I apologize); however, soon more is going to happen. Then you're going to wish that you had time to make more sense of things, because it's trippy, loves.Good luck with that. (I sound so cruel, but it's true--I have to pace slow, get you in a little bit, so you can deal with all the break-neck action, trigger-warning-ness, and gore. It's required, you see.)
Note: May change chapter title with something less impressive to save impressive title for later. -shrugs- Also, first draft. Remember--chapters past one are in first draft mode with a mite of proof-reading and spell-check but that 'tis all.
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CHAPTER FOUR
Night Terrors
NOW
Jacksin tossed and turned fitfully, but it was no use. The bed was just the right amount of lumpy tonight to make sleep impossible, plus every inch of him a live wire. Every time he closed his eyes dark shadows bolted or crept across his vision; black against grainy gray. Of course, having his eyes open wasn’t much better. The grainy gray was still there, painting the light-colored walls of his bedroom TV static. Long shadows were cast across the floor and across the walls, painting grotesque shapes on the walls; one looked like the bent-backed dude from Frankenstein, another an injured cat, and one a Gothic, foreboding imprint of a man.
Jacksin would have a night light if it wouldn’t hurt his pride too much. The constant concern of what might pop out, not from the closet but from the door leading to the rest of the house, was nearly too much.
His eyes slipped shut again and a sudden flurry--The Monster’s face, a drug-addled blur; someone pained--swept across his mind’s eye and his eyes were back open. He breathed shortly, like a smoker, and just curled more into himself. He wondered whether or not to have his back to the wall, whether that was safer than having his front open for attack.
Then he realized that was all useless and closed his eyes again, giving up the uphill battle of never falling asleep, never reliving.
He was just glad he didn’t cry out in the night. Sampson had enough to worry about and Gianna didn’t need another reason to want him gone.
His dreams weren’t much worse than reality in some ways; the same images flickered through his mind in daylight as they did in the dreams. Only, the dreams were like a sucker punch to the gut. They opened old wounds and left his heart hurting, his mouth dry, and his eyes wide and watering. The images that went through his mind in wakefulness made him wince, choke, but they weren’t as real, if that made any sense. He wasn’t back.
Tonight he had one of the reoccurring ones; her in a pool of blood, so much missing--then back to another time, Bull leering at him, some sort of timestamp to remind him of where this all began.
Then he woke to the nasty barking of dogs. Only this morning when he woke up dogs were still barking; their barking just more tinny, small dogs’ barks.
Jacksin opened his eyes, feeling warmth on his face, and saw lines of light, crept in through the slats, over his body, making his gray shirt, black sweatpants, and twisted up sheets look tiger-striped. He tipped his head, slightly intrigued by it, maybe just so he could ignore the faint smell of blood that seemed to hover in the room and the pounding of his own heart which seemed to bang against his breastbone. He ran a hand through his mussed, sweat-slicked hair and then sat up. There was a scratch of claws against the cedar door and he let out a hoarse no. The dogs stopped automatically and there was a click of claws leading away.
Half the time, Marisol was pissed because he could get the dogs to do what he wanted and she couldn’t.
Jacksin stretched his arms, cramped legs, and then scratched the stubble that had started up in the time he was away, and then clambered out of bed. He knew if he didn’t move soon, Derby and Sara would have at him--whine and yank at his nearest article of clothing and try to get him to do something stupid, like play Candyland, with them and Marisol would throw a minor fit.
He had things pretty mapped out.
***
Jacksin’s gaze went from one side of the room to the other, noting the familiar three windows, battered wooden table and tablecloth-with-one-rip, and the three exits. One of the rarely used dinner plates was put on the table, covered with bacon, sliced meat, and biscuits, and he let out a huffy sigh at the realization that, yes, Laura was here. Laura had a thing about making sure they, specifically him, were all well fed. The muscles in his back tensed slightly as he straightened his shoulders, steeling himself for the fact three more dogs had been added to Jacksin’s territory. He didn’t particularly like that. He figured the two mutts were out in the back, perhaps scrapping with Sage in the backyard.
His mouth twitched a little; the image of Blaze, Booker, and him out in the stick-pines flashing through his mind. It was so unfortunate things couldn’t have stayed like that.
He knew it was hateful to wish that they’d listened to Booker. The dude they’d found, name slipping Jacksin’s mind like a lot of things now, probably would have been worse off, maybe dead, by the time anyone found him, but wouldn’t that be worth it?
Jacksin picked up one of the biscuits and started to pick it in half.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been worth it. Sure, he could have continued his life, maybe not ever known what lurked always, just out of reach, and--well, Booker, Blaze, and him would still be friends. They were. Sort of. Blaze had pulled away, just slowly enough not to kill Jacksin, and Booker was skittish, walking on eggshells--not knowing that doing so was hurting him more. Booker was good at understanding some things, like not to go towards screams, but Blaze was definitely the more insightful of the two.
Jacksin stuffed the top half of the biscuit into his mouth and chewed mechanically, before turning to the swinging door that led to the hallway and pushing through it. He passed by the wrecked bathroom and then walked into the living room.
Everything was the same. He had to wonder if that was even down to the dust motes on the leaves of the corner plants but he wasn’t crazy enough to try and see yet. Only, the light was different, which was new, he guessed, as it was morning, and Laura was sprawled out on the couch.
Laura was a pretty woman. Even in her contorted position, one arm under her head, one leg bent at the knee, and other leg falling off the couch, back curled, showing signs of a stomach, that much was clear. Even her pale chocolate-coffee hair, tangled and wild on the pillows, shone and looked like it might smell good; her slanted, closed eyes and beginnings of smile lines merely seemed exotic; and her baggy 80s-style sweatshirt could be forgiven, not that he knew much about any of that other than what Sara was always informing him with her magazines bought at preteen clothing stores spread out on the floor.
Jacksin blinked, still eating his breakfast, and, more used to the light, glanced sideways at the television. Gladiator was on. He tried not to wince.
He really hated violence.
He then looked to Mikey, who was steadily watching the game and hadn’t even noticed Jacksin. Of course, Jacksin was sort of lurking in the dark hallway, but you’d think he’d be more watchful.
Mikey was a pretty normal guy. Mikey had dark brown spiked hair and dark eyes that gave away near nothing. He wore today a light-colored plaid cowboy shirt and ripped jeans. He liked sports and old testosterone-pumped movies from what he could tell, he really liked women--his eyes trailed after plenty of women, even though Laura was beautiful and near waited on him, and he was, in general, a boring slump who Jacksin didn’t care much about. Maybe they could be mildly bonded by their shared love of nature and a certain river near here, but that was about as good as it got. Talking about birds and shrubbery and how water looked in certain months did not lend friendship in their case. Jacksin avoided him when possible also because Mikey was constantly trying to convince him dogs were awesome and, also, Mikey was bigger than him and sort of intimidated him a bit.
“Jacksin? That you?” Laura asked, now squinting in his direction.
Jacksin stepped out into the sunlit living room then and gave both of them a wan smile. “Hi.”
Laura smiled brightly at him in response and hopped to her feet. In a mad rush, she was at his side and pulling him into a hug. Jacksin’s smile died slightly from the contact, but he tried to ignore it--even if he couldn’t convince his arms to rise to hug her back.
“What’s with the stiff-as-aboard routine?” Laura asked, pulling back. Jacksin tried not to notice the sudden hesitance to the movement, her smile. He felt bad, but he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Sorry” was all he could get out.
She sighed and just patted him lazily on the arm. He avoided jumping. “Don’t be. I know you--” She trailed off. He figured he knew what she was about to say next. He merely shrugged his shoulders and pulled at the sleeves of the black sweatshirt he’d put on. Laura’s eyes followed the movement, but she didn’t say anything.
“It’s good you know me, I guess,” Jacksin said, a poor excuse for a joke.
Mikey then seemed to finally notice Jacksin.
“Hey, man!” Mikey called, looking up from his movie.
Jacksin looked away from Laura’s concerned face and nodded curtly to Mikey. “‘Sup,” he said, going for sounding like Blaze. Mikey preferred Blaze to him.
Sort of.
He had, anyway.
“Just watching Gladiator, bud,” Mikey said, smiling. He didn’t show pity like the others did, Mikey. That was one bonus, Jacksin thought. One good thing about Mikey’s character. He didn’t make you feel like less when you were hurt. He maybe didn’t care as much as, say, Sampson or Laura, but he showed that he wasn’t angry, like Marisol or Gianna, with what he did. Jacksin was thankful for that. “You ever watched it?”
“More of a Jason and the Argonauts sort,” Jacksin said, purposefully in a monotone. Mikey looked vaguely confused. Jacksin didn’t like doing that to Mikey, especially when Jacksin was finally getting Mikey wasn’t a complete scumbag--Jacksin had seen worse now--but that didn’t mean he suddenly wanted the dude calling him bud.
It was too awkward, like he was trying to be a father figure, but Jacksin already had one. He had Sampson.
***
“I suppose you’re going back to school on Monday, huh?” Laura asked.
“Yeah,” he said. Where else would he be?
Jacksin watched her as she stuck a knife into a jar of peanut butter, yanked it out, and then slathered on the palm oil, salt, and ground to paste peanuts onto a cracker.
Okay, so that was a terrible description, but he felt so nauseous.
Laura picked up the cracker and held it aloft, gesturing for seemingly no reason as she asked her next question, “You going to your therapist later today?”
His back went rigid and he was unable to damp down the ruffled feeling. Sometimes Laura’s questions felt like an ill-timed blast of storm wind, him a crazy kid walking along the edge of a bridge. He wondered when he was going to finally fall, if she kept picking. First, she’d asked him little questions, like the first--then she went on and on, going deeper and deeper the more times she visited and it scared him. “I assume,” he said, mumbling. “Not like it does any good.”
Laura tried out a big smile. “Of course it does some good. You haven’t been having any nightmares anymore, right?”
Jacksin recalled the nights when he awoke, jack-knifing then clambering from bed, body still sore, and bolting to Sampson and Gianna’s bedroom door like a terrified five year old. “No.”
“See? That’s improvement.”
Laura’s face faded, her brown hair replaced with hair the color of the reddish-gold throw blanket his mother had always put over the couch in fall, one soft gesture she made, and Laura’s eye color flickered; one face superimposed over the other.
“Yeah, improvement.”
