Paranoia

J&J

My POV

Incorrect password, try again

I stare at the message, my left eye twitches.

It is the sixty third message

The sixty third time I typed in my password and the sixty third time it has come up incorrect. IT COULDN'T. IT shouldn't. How did this happen? Ok the first time typing I was hasty and could understand the message. But the second time? I slowly clicked the keys... and the message came up. The third time... the third time I stared at each key as I tapped out my password, my forefinger poking one letter at a time, slowly.... And the message came up again. And keeps coming up. I panicked. I tried capital letters, small letters, fucking numbers, old passwords – but I know, I know what the correct password is and I know, the realisation has sunk in, SOMEONE HAS CHANGED MY PASSWORD.

OMG WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? WHO COULD HAVE DONE THIS? WHY?

Him. It must be him. He says he loves me. He cooks me breakfast. He makes me coffee. He pours me a glass of wine and buys me flowers and chocolates and kisses my neck and fucks me senseless...but he lies. He lies. He has stolen my password. He has changed my password. What can I do? What the fuck can I do? How can I fix this?

Oh god, I hear his footsteps as he starts to climb the stairs. My heart is hammering. I can feel the blood thundering in my ears and my eyes are stinging from the sweat sliding down my face. I MUSN'T SHOW I'M UPSET. I MUST BEHAVE. I MUST ACT AS IF THERE'S NOTHING WRONG. I MUST BREATH NORMALLY. I take long slow breathes, my lungs burn, my body is stiff, my shoulders feel as if they are going to snap my neck. I breath, try to relax. Footsteps coming up the stairs.

SHIT! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? HOW COULD HE CHANGE MY PASSWORD? THE MOTHERFUCKER. HOW COULD HE STEAL FROM ME?

Footsteps coming down the hallway towards my office. I stare at the butts overflowing from the stone ashtray on the corner of my desk. How long have they been there? I wonder dully. My mind feels like sodden paper, mush, and my mouth is dry. My coffee mug is half fill, the milk has formed a scum ring on the top of the cold coffee. How long has that been there? I stare at my laptop screen hopelessly. Incorrect Password. The words taunt me. They haunt me. The letters swim inside my tired brain and I stifle the harsh sob rising up through my body. Is he at the door? Can I hear him at the door? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

My legs have gone numb behind my knees and I wonder if I am going to piss myself. I can't move. Has he drugged me? Was my coffee drugged? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME?

HIS POV

Jack opens his eyes and is immediately aware she has gone again. She has left him alone again. Into her office and sat at her computer and she's fucking left him again. He sighs, rolls over on the sofa and stares at the ceiling, imagining her sitting at her desk, tapping away at her computer.

Fuckit. He's going to do something about this. Fuck this. How many times has he tried? How many times has he set up a romantic evening. Bought the flowers. Planned the menu. Prepared the meal. Poured the wine. And always, she loves it all. He can see she loves it. She tells him she adores it, adores him. Her eyes gleam and shine and she laughs, tossing her head, her curls flowing down her back, her tongue touching her top lip in that sexy movement he loves. Then his heart quietens, he knows with his whole being that she loves him as much as he loves her. They tumble onto the sofa, they are on fire, together they burn, like they were born to fuck each other, only, forever. When he falls asleep holding her, feeling her breath on his chest as she rests with her head against his heart, he knows, with his whole being, that she loves him as much as he loves her.

Then he wakes, alone, like now. She has gone, again. The sofa is empty, again. She has covered him with the throw and put a cushion under his head. And he can hear it, the tapping of her keyboard as she sits in her office on her laptop. No man! It freaks him. He so wants it to be different. He wants to talk to her. He wants them to talk about family. He sighs. He feels slightly sick. Nerves. His stomach is tight. He needs to do something about it. Finally. He rises, pauses to pull his boxers on, takes a deep breath and starts up the stairs, treading slowly, reluctantly.

He halts. He can't hear any typing. No tap tap of fingers flying across the keyboard. Silence. No not quite. He cocks his head and listens. Can he hear her voice? Is that her talking to someone? Is she on the phone? Who is she talking to? Who the hell is she talking to at this time of night? He glances at his watch – it's fucking 3am in the morning, who is she talking to at 3am in the morning? Rage flares. His breath hitches. His heart thumps.

WHO IS SHE TALKING TO? 

 He moves quietly to the top of the stairs. And pauses again. Listening. No talking, he can hear her breathing.... Breathing? What the fuck? She's crying? What the fuck – she's crying? Why is she crying? He hears a harsh sob. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? Is she crying? Or is that sighing? Is there someone with her? IS SHE HURTING? IS THAT HER CRYING NO NO NO? His eyes burn and his legs shake.

He moves, swiftly now, to the door. His hands tremble and he turns the handle. Opens the door. Pain explodes as the ashtray connects with his temple. He falls sideways. His head hits the desk corner with a crack and he lands heavily on his back.

..........

I scream. It's Jack. It's Jack and he's dead. He's lying on the floor, leaking blood that looks black in the yellow office light. I lower the ashtray with shaking hands. 

That will teach you", I snarl, "for changing my password. That'll teach you to mess with me!"

He blinks, sighs, then groans "Jill, have you forgotten to take your meds?"

I stare at him. He's not dead. He's pretending. I raise the ashtray threateningly. He holds out his hand placating... he smiles, grits his teeth, rolls over and gets up.

"Jill, take your meds sweetie, you're going OTT again". 

He notices my computer on the desk and bends stiffly to read the message on the screen. "You've forgotten your password again?" He stares at me sorrowfully.

I stare back at him, he has cigarette ash in his hair and it powders his broad shoulders like a bad case of grey dandruff. The office stinks of stale cigarettes and butts lie scattered on the floor.

"God its hot in here", he says, "it's fucking boiling, did you turn off the AC?" He flicks a switch on the wall and a cool rush of air sweeps over us.  Jack fumbles with a blister pack and pushes a pill between my dry lips.  It scratches my throat as I swallow it, a sour taste in my mouth.

I. feel myself shrinking.  I feel small. Smaller than an ant doing a tap dance on the head of a pin. 

My knees still feel weak and my mouth is dry, my overwhelming need to urinate has subsided.

I remember my password....

PARAN01A