[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People

[Liz Oleksyn]

(joint post - Jennie and Liz)
 
Sinclair Party
Jack & Christine

(Christine)
Christine grins. She stands up, takes both Jack's
hands, hauls him up. She's banking on a little
cooperation from her partner in booze - unless he
wants her pitchforked unceremoniously into his lap.
Giggling at this train of thought and at the pair of
them being so ridiculously drunk, she finds herself
more or less upright, still holding hands with the
handsome, if unsteady, Mr Emerson. Under the silvery
moon, no less. Risking their precarious balance, she
stands on tiptoe, leans in close. Near enough to feel
the warmth of his body and to catch the subtle scent
of his skin. Very human. Masculine. It is a little
unfamiliar. She has fallen out of the habit of being
physically close to mortals. And men.

(Jack)
By this time, Jack is also giggling.  It’s not a very
manly thing to do, but an activity that seemed wholly
appropriate to the present situation.  Christine’s
assistance in enabling him to stand is sadly necessary
and Jack grips her hands in his until equilibrium
returns.  He’s not thinking about how close her body
is, or the fragrance of her or how smooth and cool her
palms feel against his own.
 
(Christine)
"Christine," says Christine. "Keep calling me
'darling', you may end up with more than you bargained
for." She moves back and out of danger, releases his
hands. She flashes him an especially wicked grin. "And
my plans for tonight involve us both being way too
trashed to get into *that* kind of trouble!"

(Jack)
Jack widens his eyes in mock indignation and his
giggling only intensifies, now teetering on a fit of
hysterical laughter.  He squeezes his eyes shut,
trying to spit out words of apology.  “Oh,
no...sorry...wouldn’t...dream... of...”  It’s no good,
as laughter prevents any semblance of coherent speech.
 In the midst of this drunken frivolity, a memory
begins to creep into the forefront of his addled
brain.  Jack suddenly gasps for breath and his eyes
grow even wider, focused not on Christine, not on a
moonlit garden.

A dimly-lit room, the stench of sweat and blood, the
muffled sobs of... his own sobs and those of a woman
on the stained floorboards next to him.  She’s
pleading for her life.  Her face is bloodied, her nose
broken, her eyes swollen shut.  She’s naked, begging
in Mandarin, a mixture of prayers and promises of
obedience and submission if only they would spare her
life... and Jack’s.

[Christine]
Jack's memories blast through Christine and she
staggers, reaching out blindly for the verandah rail.
She clings and fights to cope with the terrible
intimacy of it. She is not supposed to be seeing this,
feeling it. But for a second, she is Jack. She feels
his terror and his utter powerlessness to stop this;
to save either himself or his companion. The horror is
more than she can deal with and the scream inside her
head, she realises, is her own. The flood of memory is
cut dead. The fingers of her left hand are sticky with
blood, she has left a smear of it on the white stone
rail. Jack's. The wound on his hand has opened and red
stains the white bandage he wears, winds down his
fingers in dark coils. 

[Jack]
In the garden, in the present moment, Jack staggers
away from Christine.  “No... no...no...”  He is
mumbling, not seeing her, and retreats until his leg
bumps into the bench.  It’s enough to throw off what
little balance he still possesses and he falls to the
ground.  The alcohol numbs whatever pain he might have
felt and his arms flails out as if to keep someone at
bay.

TBC


 
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