Lost Fic: judas money
judas money
3:15 am. His watch stops. He stares at it. The bottle. Door. And steps forward. He frowns. The bottle’s loose against his fingertips, the pads of his thumbs warm against the bag. He steps inside. It’s happened before. He never thinks about it.
lost. jack-centric. (jack/sawyer. sawyer/kate. jack/kate. jack/juliet.)
future; 1533 words, r.
written for the lostsquee halloween challenge. i didn’t incorporate the movie too much. but i did choose the amityville horror for my film. uh, enjoy?
Three weeks of the local paper stay glued to the corner of the stoop. But not his stoop. Jack trips, a shoelace cracks, and his teeth continue to soften the skin on his lips. He smiles a little with the sharp pull of skin; he peels a burn, hisses, and nearly trips over the sidewalk.
Click thump goes his boots. Squeak. He misses a cab. Here’s to a drink. No more little plane bottles. They were easy.
He’s lived here for as long as he remembers living here. There’s no justification to his choice. Small town, away from the city; a point and purpose, it’s been left behind, to the island and a sacrifice for a return.
It’s 3:15. Last call, two hours ago. Jack walks to the corner, to that part of the neighborhood. Boys and their toys, candy coated cigarettes and hookers. It’s easy. Oh, yeah. It’s easy. He doesn’t pay attention. There are streetlights. A neighborhood patrol. Somebody peaks out of the window, Jack ducks. He hasn’t shaved. Stained nails. If only the bar was still open.
The corner is empty when he turns, saves for a man and the man ducking under the dumpster. Framed face. Loose hair. There’s a sneer. And baby, baby, baby under his breath. Jack winces, slipping inside. There are bottles of wine. A couple. The girl opens her mouth against her boyfriend’s throat. A hickey. Two. Somebody giggles.
Jack is lost and lonely. Jack buys Jack. For good measure. And the taste to burn his throat. A paper bag. Green for the holidays. Then off backwards, to return the space that he occupies. Tries.
The neighborhood has been his two years and some days, the ever-growing scope of dirt underneath his nails tells a story. It’s not romantic. But he stops at a light, watching the swarm of cars pass. He’ll be up the hill. Ten minutes. He walks faster when there’s something to drink.
“Spare change?”
He sighs. “Fuck off.”
Half-hearted, it’s up the hill winding. He doesn’t remember their names. He should remember their names. There’s a path. He walks. The bushes need trimming. They keep growing. Weatherman said snow tonight.
And the doors open.
3:15 am. His watch stops. He stares at it. The bottle. Door. And steps forward. He frowns. The bottle’s loose against his fingertips, the pads of his thumbs warm against the bag. He steps inside. It’s happened before. He never thinks about it.
The perfume’s not here today. There was a party too.
-
When the perfume was here - and it’s here an hour later. Minutes and sparing. He blinks. He’s thinking the island. Thinking Kate. Kate. Juliet. Kate. The island. What should’ve been left as it is. The instance. And, of course, dead marriages to count.
“We should leave,” Kate murmurs. That last day.
There’s someone else. Not a ship.
A soft memory of something. You’re stepping off, doc. There’s a curl of uneasiness arising from Jack. His shoulders are tense. He breathes. Footsteps upstairs. Quiet. Not even a full bottle. There’s a half of something in the fridge.
“We should leave,” he mutters.
We should leave. Break that into context. We. Group. Should. Choice. Leave. Leave. Leave - the ends justify the means.
-
The crucifix was a mother’s.
Not his. On the streets. He could’ve found it. He found whiskey. The house is moving again. There’s singing. Music. Laughter. Happy to be ALIVE! His throat burns. Heavy steps. Heavy steps. He counts the boots. They are boots. Heavy sole.
“Hey doc.”
Voices are always there. He’s got a bottle. Done. Another one. Half. “You’re a pretty drinker, doc,” there again. And again. There’s a sense of soundlessness. There’s a story to the house. The neighbors won’t stray near the yard. There was a family here. Two families. Annuals. He got the house almost for free.
But he’s not there. “You’re not here,” he’s shaking. Jack always shakes too much. Too many shakes. Slow hands and weakness. Fuck.
Of course, if he turns around. He’ll see. He never forgets to see. There’s a room upstairs. Locked. He still has the pliers down here. On the coffee table. He was curious. It was curious. And so he stands and trips, hitting his knee against the table.
His knee cracks. “You’re not there.”
But he is. Blonde hair. The mouth of blood streaking of in the corner. There’s a hole in his chest. In his head. Bang. Bang. Bang. Jack doesn’t remember the last time it’s been everyday because he’s thought about it. Thought about it. Blessed the house - he missed that appointment. These are his?
There’s a laugh. A click. And Jack’s hearing something else. James. Judas. Sawyer. There’s not stopping now, he had said.
We’re going to leave. We have to leave.
There are fingers down his back. His shoulders. Cold. He jumps. There’s a crash. Bottles? He whirls around to a laugh.
“Can’t keep looking the other way,” drawls a gaze away.
-
It’s still 3:15.
Time, Jack, am. 3:15 am. He doesn’t remember if his watch stopped. Or ran. He’s up the stairs, dragging his fingers against the wall. Nails. There’s a crack.
There are newspaper clippings. Kids daring a night’s stay. Midnight. Which is stupid. So stupid, Jack. He’s going insane. He can feel it. It splits open his throat as he tries not to remember his bedroom.
His bedroom. There is a bedroom, at the end of the hall. They ripped people to shreds goes the local legend. Skin peelers. Juliet calls once every so often. And he feels his phone vibrate against his leg. Thigh.
He forgets it’s there. Battery dead.
-
There is nothing here in this house.
-
Outside, it’s 3:12.
“There was an entire family here,” the woman sighs, “brutally murdered. The father took them one by one. Over and over again. And then -”
There’s another woman. Pregnant. Her palm slights over her dress. She’s itching. A runner. Shifting from foot to foot, her nails are peeling. It’s that time again. Seconds soon. Another happy anniversary.
“Three minutes.”
She was a brunette once.
-
His hands are peeling.
There’s a little laugh. A child? It sings and singes. The weight of the bed slides slowly. His knees are old. Dad had a problem and he, Jack thinks, is staying downstairs with the bottles. All three.
“We all knew you’re a fucking crazy jackass.”
Sawyer’s laughing at his own joke. Husky. Like he’s the bottle. To his lips. They did that once too. Turned an eye. Down. When they were running - running from something, on the island it was easier to lie.
There’s a scream. He waits with a pause. And a limp cock.
“Where is it?”
James. Sawyer. The hole in his head glows now. Clumps of skin sinking into view. The bullet was slow. Jack remembers a faulty trigger. It took him twice for the first shot. Not going back. There had been blood in his mouth too. His tongue edges over his teeth. He’s missing three.
James!
“You know where it is,” there’s a deep breath. Take a deep breath. Jack had those words. Over and over again. “You know where it is.”
The frame of the door is empty.
But he knows the story. He’s moving. Back behind the bed. To the wall. There’s a painting. Like a secret. A combination. And a tear. Hiding evidence - he used to do it with his own father. Remember?
The gun is still the gun. Cold. Skirting in one motion. Jack remembers the trigger. He still has the scar over his finger. He didn’t let it heal. Bang. Bang. And there was a party. Juliet clawing at her dress with “we shouldn’t be here” like it mattered.
“There was a party,” he says. He closes his eyes. “A party for the return. You said something. I said something. And then you were dead.”
Too late. Too late. The rationality seeks nothing in the end; of course, in the end it never mattered to begin with. Jack stops his voice. Listens to the others. He’d like to think that at least, somewhat; he’s brought things back with him.
To keep him company.
“There was a party.”
-
There is a loud bang. A swarm of flies float from the snow, from footprints and skirt around the ankles of the truck outside.
The women outside are silent. The taller one is imagining the hole with some satisfaction. She told him. She hopes the hole stretches in the back of his mouth, blood highlighting the hole. Like his mouth. Lips. The firm one, the other woman - she raises a hand and presses it against the shoulder of the other.
“It had to happen this way, Kate.”
There is no resolve or voice from Kate. From her. But Juliet, as you know her, is still close. And wise. And crueler then you’ll ever understand. She steps forward, turns and grabs the book that she bought. And brought. Genesis. Exodus.
She wore green that night. A cross.
“You don’t even believe,” Kate calls. There’s kick. Between them.
Juliet’s lips turn. “A means to an end.”
-
3:15 am. His watch stops. He stares at it. The bottle. Door. And steps forward. He frowns. The bottle’s loose against his fingertips, the pads of his thumbs warm against the bag. He steps inside. It’s happened before. He never thinks about it.
lost. jack-centric. (jack/sawyer. sawyer/kate. jack/kate. jack/juliet.)
future; 1533 words, r.
written for the lostsquee halloween challenge. i didn’t incorporate the movie too much. but i did choose the amityville horror for my film. uh, enjoy?
Three weeks of the local paper stay glued to the corner of the stoop. But not his stoop. Jack trips, a shoelace cracks, and his teeth continue to soften the skin on his lips. He smiles a little with the sharp pull of skin; he peels a burn, hisses, and nearly trips over the sidewalk.
Click thump goes his boots. Squeak. He misses a cab. Here’s to a drink. No more little plane bottles. They were easy.
He’s lived here for as long as he remembers living here. There’s no justification to his choice. Small town, away from the city; a point and purpose, it’s been left behind, to the island and a sacrifice for a return.
It’s 3:15. Last call, two hours ago. Jack walks to the corner, to that part of the neighborhood. Boys and their toys, candy coated cigarettes and hookers. It’s easy. Oh, yeah. It’s easy. He doesn’t pay attention. There are streetlights. A neighborhood patrol. Somebody peaks out of the window, Jack ducks. He hasn’t shaved. Stained nails. If only the bar was still open.
The corner is empty when he turns, saves for a man and the man ducking under the dumpster. Framed face. Loose hair. There’s a sneer. And baby, baby, baby under his breath. Jack winces, slipping inside. There are bottles of wine. A couple. The girl opens her mouth against her boyfriend’s throat. A hickey. Two. Somebody giggles.
Jack is lost and lonely. Jack buys Jack. For good measure. And the taste to burn his throat. A paper bag. Green for the holidays. Then off backwards, to return the space that he occupies. Tries.
The neighborhood has been his two years and some days, the ever-growing scope of dirt underneath his nails tells a story. It’s not romantic. But he stops at a light, watching the swarm of cars pass. He’ll be up the hill. Ten minutes. He walks faster when there’s something to drink.
“Spare change?”
He sighs. “Fuck off.”
Half-hearted, it’s up the hill winding. He doesn’t remember their names. He should remember their names. There’s a path. He walks. The bushes need trimming. They keep growing. Weatherman said snow tonight.
And the doors open.
3:15 am. His watch stops. He stares at it. The bottle. Door. And steps forward. He frowns. The bottle’s loose against his fingertips, the pads of his thumbs warm against the bag. He steps inside. It’s happened before. He never thinks about it.
The perfume’s not here today. There was a party too.
-
When the perfume was here - and it’s here an hour later. Minutes and sparing. He blinks. He’s thinking the island. Thinking Kate. Kate. Juliet. Kate. The island. What should’ve been left as it is. The instance. And, of course, dead marriages to count.
“We should leave,” Kate murmurs. That last day.
There’s someone else. Not a ship.
A soft memory of something. You’re stepping off, doc. There’s a curl of uneasiness arising from Jack. His shoulders are tense. He breathes. Footsteps upstairs. Quiet. Not even a full bottle. There’s a half of something in the fridge.
“We should leave,” he mutters.
We should leave. Break that into context. We. Group. Should. Choice. Leave. Leave. Leave - the ends justify the means.
-
The crucifix was a mother’s.
Not his. On the streets. He could’ve found it. He found whiskey. The house is moving again. There’s singing. Music. Laughter. Happy to be ALIVE! His throat burns. Heavy steps. Heavy steps. He counts the boots. They are boots. Heavy sole.
“Hey doc.”
Voices are always there. He’s got a bottle. Done. Another one. Half. “You’re a pretty drinker, doc,” there again. And again. There’s a sense of soundlessness. There’s a story to the house. The neighbors won’t stray near the yard. There was a family here. Two families. Annuals. He got the house almost for free.
But he’s not there. “You’re not here,” he’s shaking. Jack always shakes too much. Too many shakes. Slow hands and weakness. Fuck.
Of course, if he turns around. He’ll see. He never forgets to see. There’s a room upstairs. Locked. He still has the pliers down here. On the coffee table. He was curious. It was curious. And so he stands and trips, hitting his knee against the table.
His knee cracks. “You’re not there.”
But he is. Blonde hair. The mouth of blood streaking of in the corner. There’s a hole in his chest. In his head. Bang. Bang. Bang. Jack doesn’t remember the last time it’s been everyday because he’s thought about it. Thought about it. Blessed the house - he missed that appointment. These are his?
There’s a laugh. A click. And Jack’s hearing something else. James. Judas. Sawyer. There’s not stopping now, he had said.
We’re going to leave. We have to leave.
There are fingers down his back. His shoulders. Cold. He jumps. There’s a crash. Bottles? He whirls around to a laugh.
“Can’t keep looking the other way,” drawls a gaze away.
-
It’s still 3:15.
Time, Jack, am. 3:15 am. He doesn’t remember if his watch stopped. Or ran. He’s up the stairs, dragging his fingers against the wall. Nails. There’s a crack.
There are newspaper clippings. Kids daring a night’s stay. Midnight. Which is stupid. So stupid, Jack. He’s going insane. He can feel it. It splits open his throat as he tries not to remember his bedroom.
His bedroom. There is a bedroom, at the end of the hall. They ripped people to shreds goes the local legend. Skin peelers. Juliet calls once every so often. And he feels his phone vibrate against his leg. Thigh.
He forgets it’s there. Battery dead.
-
There is nothing here in this house.
-
Outside, it’s 3:12.
“There was an entire family here,” the woman sighs, “brutally murdered. The father took them one by one. Over and over again. And then -”
There’s another woman. Pregnant. Her palm slights over her dress. She’s itching. A runner. Shifting from foot to foot, her nails are peeling. It’s that time again. Seconds soon. Another happy anniversary.
“Three minutes.”
She was a brunette once.
-
His hands are peeling.
There’s a little laugh. A child? It sings and singes. The weight of the bed slides slowly. His knees are old. Dad had a problem and he, Jack thinks, is staying downstairs with the bottles. All three.
“We all knew you’re a fucking crazy jackass.”
Sawyer’s laughing at his own joke. Husky. Like he’s the bottle. To his lips. They did that once too. Turned an eye. Down. When they were running - running from something, on the island it was easier to lie.
There’s a scream. He waits with a pause. And a limp cock.
“Where is it?”
James. Sawyer. The hole in his head glows now. Clumps of skin sinking into view. The bullet was slow. Jack remembers a faulty trigger. It took him twice for the first shot. Not going back. There had been blood in his mouth too. His tongue edges over his teeth. He’s missing three.
James!
“You know where it is,” there’s a deep breath. Take a deep breath. Jack had those words. Over and over again. “You know where it is.”
The frame of the door is empty.
But he knows the story. He’s moving. Back behind the bed. To the wall. There’s a painting. Like a secret. A combination. And a tear. Hiding evidence - he used to do it with his own father. Remember?
The gun is still the gun. Cold. Skirting in one motion. Jack remembers the trigger. He still has the scar over his finger. He didn’t let it heal. Bang. Bang. And there was a party. Juliet clawing at her dress with “we shouldn’t be here” like it mattered.
“There was a party,” he says. He closes his eyes. “A party for the return. You said something. I said something. And then you were dead.”
Too late. Too late. The rationality seeks nothing in the end; of course, in the end it never mattered to begin with. Jack stops his voice. Listens to the others. He’d like to think that at least, somewhat; he’s brought things back with him.
To keep him company.
“There was a party.”
-
There is a loud bang. A swarm of flies float from the snow, from footprints and skirt around the ankles of the truck outside.
The women outside are silent. The taller one is imagining the hole with some satisfaction. She told him. She hopes the hole stretches in the back of his mouth, blood highlighting the hole. Like his mouth. Lips. The firm one, the other woman - she raises a hand and presses it against the shoulder of the other.
“It had to happen this way, Kate.”
There is no resolve or voice from Kate. From her. But Juliet, as you know her, is still close. And wise. And crueler then you’ll ever understand. She steps forward, turns and grabs the book that she bought. And brought. Genesis. Exodus.
She wore green that night. A cross.
“You don’t even believe,” Kate calls. There’s kick. Between them.
Juliet’s lips turn. “A means to an end.”
-