Ford
JASMINE LOOKS LIKE A GHOST.
That's just how she looks through the security footage, even with the quality being almost HD. The fact that she's standing and that she's alive is a victory for us, but the knowledge that someone else knows our security code is painstakingly infuriating. We've changed it since Iesha's murder. Multiple fucking times.
Jasmine's eyes look haunted, though they're wide open and focused on our camera as if willing someone to notice her. Why Clark was examining our footage is beyond me, but I don't focus on that right now. I focus on how her body trembles and how hauntingly thin she is since I last saw her at Mirage as she danced provocatively with Angus.
My body spins on my chair and rushes out of the room first, my feet propelling me forwards. My desk chair continues to swivel in my wake.
The other three are hot on my heels as I reach the front door, yanking it open to reveal Jasmine. She's wearing some random summery and strappy dress that's bright yellow for whatever fucking reason. Every inch of it is either stained or torn. One strap has completely broken, and it cascades down her chest, revealing too much of her breast but that's the least of her problems.
The footage doesn't do her distress and abuse justice.
Tears coat her pale and hollow cheeks, but I focus on the plethora of scratches that mar her face. Her hair is choppy, and she has bald patches. Each fingertip is concealed by crimson red bandages and I know whoever her captor is that they removed every single fucking fingernail. Large purple bruises have blossomed along one arm and the other features small circles that I identify as cigarette burns.
Jeremiah steps aside me and ushers Jasmine closer. Her face contorts as he drapes his arm around her shoulder, whispering to that we won't hurt her, and we want to help. She hiccups, splutters and sobs, but she allows him to guide her into the warmth of the house, sinking her into the sofa. He kneels in front of her as us three hover behind him, observing every second of the scene.
Jasmine is distinctly intimidated by the sight of us four guys. She avoids our eye contact except for the occasional flickering to Jeremiah as he persists in soothing her. Snot leaks from her nose as she timidly wipes it away, ignoring the tears that drench her cheeks.
In another life, I might want to condemn the person that's inflicted this barbaric torture upon an innocent soul. And maybe I experience a sliver of that murderous desire for revenge, but it's nothing compared to how I know Jeremiah might be feeling, considering he's one of the most empathetic and sympathetic of our group. Sometimes he can react more from his heart than his head—a perilous trait in the wrong situations.
"Jasmine, we are not your enemies. We only want to help you," Jeremiah coaxes before glancing over his shoulder. "Clark, get a glass of water and some food. Jax, get a towel or blanket or some shit." His eyes rake over me but decides against chucking an order at me.
Once the two guys return, it's a slow battle but Jasmine calms down enough so she's not hyperventilating with every sob that trembles through her fragile body. She doesn't trust the food or water Clark returns with until Jeremiah's tried both of them, and then she gives in. Almost all the water disappears within seconds, but when she reaches out to grab the cheese sandwich Clark prepared, she halts.
Her bandages are so bloody that it twists at my stomach. That kind of pain I know would have to be horrific.
As Jasmine's gaze tethers to the indescribable damage to her hands, her face starts to crumple again.
Jeremiah's quick to act as he scoops up the sandwich. We watch as he feeds it to her so she doesn't have to be reminded of the horrendous state her body's in. It's only when she finishes and is gently dabbing at her face with her knuckles—her expression contorts every single time and I know her tears are mingling with fresh wounds from the pressure—when she feels confident enough to speak.
