He Talks Too Much ~ Septiplier

9

Jack eventually managed to pry the girl's fingers away from his arm, the release so sudden he fell backwards onto the street, his palms grazed on the rough pavement as he quickly scrambled out of the girl's reach, breathing heavily.

Her dark eyes glared hotly back at him, her hand grasping at thin air for a split second before she drew it into her chest, hugging herself against the chilly air. She looked so small like that, practically curled into a ball on the pavement, shivering slightly against the cold, her cheeks still streaked with tears. She looked like a child, small and angry.

Jack found he couldn't care less as he pulled himself onto his unsteady feet, bringing a hand up to rub at his arm, the skin already turning pink. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He spat, his back still aching from where the bitch had shoved him into the wall hard enough to bruise.

"What's wrong with me? You took my fucking brother you bastard." The girl yelled and Jack could see tears still swimming in her furious glare. She pushed herself to her feet, her entire body trembling like a leaf but with anger or cold Jack couldn't tell. "There was nothing wrong with him until after you left. The police fucking laughed at me. They said there was no point even looking. They said-" She closed her eyes for a second, stopping herself. "It doesn't matter, I don't know what the fuck you did to him but I want my brother back. Right. Now." Her voice cracked pathetically on the last word.

So that was the connection, Ryan was her brother. Jack supposed the resemblance was there, if faint. They did kind of have the same hair, he thought blandly, eyes glancing over the girl's bedraggled blonde locks. Maybe they had the same eyes, he continued, trying to conjure up an image of Ryan in his head. What colour were Ryan's eyes again?

He couldn't remember.

Slowly, Jack began to back away. "Look, I didn't touch him. I don't know where he is, I don't know what happened to him. All I know is that he's an asshole who set me up." He held his hands out, almost in surrender. "I don't- I don't know what you want me to say."

The Irishman's bewildered, slightly terrified expression didn't seem to be the reaction she was looking for, her face crumbling before his eyes and a hand coming up to cover her mouth, a tiny, broken sob escaping through her fingers all the same. She shook her head, an awful glint of realisation entering her face before it was smothered once more in a tidal wave of denial.

"You- you don't know? B-but how can y- No, you have to know. It was you. It has to be you." She stuttered as Jack moved further and further away, occasionally shooting pleading glances up at the people gazing curiously down at them both but no one moved to help him. "Why do you not know?!" She shrieked.

Jack stumbled a few more steps, the pavement icy under his feet. "I'm sorry but I can't help you." He murmured weakly as he turned his back on her; purposely ignoring the thud of a body falling on the ground behind him and praying to whatever deity was listening that some kind bastard would get to her before the city nightlife came out to play. He picked up his pace when his ears picked up on the terrible sobbing echoing down the street towards him.

And if he was full out sprinting by the time he got through his apartment door that's nobody's business but his.

***

The next day Jack couldn't concentrate on anything. Not fully.

He went through his usual day off routine; getting up, taking a shower, doing some work on his laptop, going out for a jog when the silence of his apartment became too much to handle. It didn't seem to matter what he tried to do, his mind wasn't in it, drifting away without his permission into things he'd rather forget.