He's not an artist, not by a long-shot, but somehow Jack gets by as he sketches in his journal. This time it's hands - hands that he can still feel around his neck sometimes, tight and constrictive - and a car, headlights blaring even on the thin sheet. Both sit along the margins with words sandwiched in between. Words detailing his dream(?), from beginning to end, though now he can only remember bits and pieces on his own.
Mostly of Anti, anger so fierce that it were electric, as he strangled him. (And hands, hands so cold that they felt like that of a corpse.) And then of the aftermath, of Anti's shift in demeanor as his gaze cooled and his grip slackened.
Jack shudders at the memory, at the phantom hold around his neck, and pulls his collar up with one hand as if it were the best defense in the world. It didn't matter if Anti let go. Not if he planned to torture him.
It didn't matter at all.
It's then that he feels someone's gaze on him but he doesn't have to look to know whose it was. Robin had been doing that a lot more in the past day or so; watching him out of the corner of his eye.
Jack hates it. It makes him squirm. Makes him want to disappear under the scrutiny as it opens up a chasm in his chest and messes with his ability to breathe.
So, he closes the journal firmly and slips it into his back pocket, slowly pushing himself up off the couch. "I'm going to go record," he announces. It was the only excuse he could come up with to get away. (Besides, he needed to anyways, right? It was his job, after all.)
"Now?" Robin's voice pitches slightly, incredulous. Jack's not sure if it's out of concern or something else. Was he annoyed because it was their last day? "Uhm, but your ribs?"
Jack shrugs, but smiles and says with his over-the-top accent, "Eh, I'll be fine laddie. Didn't ya know us Irishman are built to last? Jus' down a couple 'o beers and we're right as rain." He chuckles as Robin cracks a smile, though his eyebrows remain stubbornly furrowed. "I won't push myself too much," Jack says, dropping the accent for a more gentler tone. "I'm just out of pre-recorded shit so I need to do this."
At first, Robin says nothing. Jack's fingers twitch to grab his shirt collar, but he resists as he waits patiently for a reply.
"Fine," Robin finally says. "Go ahead then. I'll go and grab us some lunch while you're doing that. Taco Bell?"
"Oh hell yeah," he says. Guilt gnaws at him, but this was for the best. Maybe it really was just paranoia, but he couldn't stand Robin's watchful gaze any longer. "Don't worry, I won't be too long."
Robin raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond otherwise, hopping up off the couch as well. Jack watches as he swipes his phone off the table, along with his wallet, and leaves the room.
"So, ̀ýou're ́f͞ina͢lly se͘ei͞ng it҉.̶"̶
Jack tenses, "...Seeing what?" A weapon. He needs a weapon. Or maybe he could make it to the door? (And then what? Where would he go?)
He feels as if someone is behind him, but there's no breathing down his neck this time. No breathing at all. "T͏ha̧t ̡h̀e͢'̀s͏ ͘scúm w͞ho do͘es͜n't cąre͏ for yo͠u̢.͠ J͡u̵st like̴ ̶t͞ḩe ̶r̵est҉ ͢of̸ ̷t̕ḩe̴m.̀"͏
And you do? He thinks, but doesn't dare voice it as he looks around the room. "He's...he's not scum, and he definitely cares." Maybe too much. (Or was it not enough?)
"Lie͡ş."
"I'm not lying."
"҉Yo̧u ́a̧rę.̢ ͢B̀ut̨ i͏f ́yo̴ư wa̷n̶t̷ t̷ò l͞i͡v͟è ͡ìǹ de̴nial̴ th͟e͝n-̧-̶" His hand snakes down, around his shoulder and then up, getting closer and closer to Jack's neck- "͘I͞'ll j́us̶t̴ ͝ha͡v̶e̵ ͟to r̛e̵m̴ind̷ ͝y͟o̷u ́ǫf w͡haţ hę'̀s ̧don̕e.̧"͢
YOU ARE READING
Insomniac
FanfictionThere's something wrong with him. Sean knows it. So does Robin, Mark, his fans... Everyone. It's as if, as time passes, he's a parasite in his own body -- less like "Sean" and more like "Jack." Were the holes in his memory to blame? Or was it someth...
