Time Sensitive Target

Part 48 - No Illusions

"It's not illness!" Paige cried, her voice strangled with hoarseness. She sat up boldly from her cradled position, lip trembling as much as her hands. "It's not... it's you. Just... leave me alone," tears spilled down her cheeks in slow motion. Jase knew she must have hated his helping her, but there was little he could do about that. 

"Paige, you're sick-" he began, a slow dawn of realisation creeping across him as he watched her shake. 

"Please!" She shrieked in desperation, her stormy blue eyes wild with panic. "Get away from me!" She buried her face in her arm, gripping the back of her head as she curled herself into a quivering ball. 

"It's you." 

This was his doing. All this time living with and around one another, and he knew she hated him. He knew she didn't trust him. He knew she was afraid of him, and that he walked through her nightmares each night provoking the slumbered pleads of 'no'. But this... he knew this. He'd seen it. Hell, he'd even felt it before. PTSD flashbacks were so torturously vivid, so sickeningly real the same scents filled your nostrils, the same sounds filled your ears. And the horrifying part, the bit that jabbed him in the chest and took the wind out of him as he took several steps back away from the couch, was that her trigger wasn't the pain. It wasn't the concern of a needle, or the fear of restraint. It was his care, his gentleness. It was the feel of his hand against her skin, his tenderly spoken words and careful treatment. When he treated her like a brute he hated himself, watching the frustration and futile anger glitter behind her eyes. But this was her true nightmare, the paradox of himself that spiralled her into the waking terror of memories. 

He felt the urge to do something... anything... he needed to throw something, launch it across the room and watch it shatter into hundreds of fragments. Or beat someone, pound his fists into their skull until their jaw shattered and the bones caved in, blood gurgling. If the opportunity presented itself in this moment he doubted he would be able to restrain himself. If he started driving his fists, he wouldn't be able to stop. He rested against the kitchen island, feeling a strange tremor in his fingers as he glared at Paige's huddled body on the couch, heaving with shaky breaths she was trying to control. 

You've fucked this girl up for life. This is what you've reduced her to. 

It had been the gross violation of trust that had made him the perfect person to torture her, he'd known that. After all, hadn't he been aware what mental anguish it would inflict? The humiliation, the confusion, the fear... he had known all of that. It was in part why he'd volunteered himself for the job. He knew the sick betrayal of her confidence; turning from protector to captor, was torment enough to satisfy the agency. You knew it all, you knew exactly what it would do to her... He'd seen it instantly on her face the minute he had first approached her with the question of whether she'd seen anything useful. He had placed himself on the opposing side to her care and recovery, and she could sense it. The terror in her eyes as he treated her with unexpected care whilst he tortured her haunted him every day. He saw himself reflected in them, a monstrous figure, unyielding and tormenting. 

He had chosen all those little extra touches, hadn't he? He was under no illusions what they would do to her, what panic they would inflict. They were part of the game, part of the camera sport. And he'd been well aware of their effects, it was why he'd chosen and performed them so well. He'd played with her mind expertly, toying with her as he caressed her gently after the agony of the torture he'd inflicted began to subside. He knew what he was doing when he spoke to her softly. He knew what he was doing when he humiliated her, wiping her vomit across her cheek. He knew what he was doing when he filled his eyes with compassion and connected them with hers, offering her hope only to drag it away mercilessly. He flipped between pain and gentle care continuously until the two became synonymous, which was exactly what he'd wanted, wasn't it? It wasn't part of his plan back then that he would be here now, realising the after effects of the games he'd played. He wasn't meant to be here with her, continuing the cycle of mental anguish for her every single day.