(no subject)
"The time for playing is over."
Jack looks up from his jigsaw puzzles to his mother standing above him. She's taller than she has ever been in his memory; Jack barely reaches her knee as he stands. "But, mom, I haven't finished the juggsaw puzzle yet." He sounds, and feels, like an adult.
"The puzzle can wait," she says sternly, pulling him by the ear into a dark room and shoving him in front of a typewriter. "Write."
A light on the ceiling slowly glows to full brightness. At the center of the room sits a sofa. Satine is sprawled across it, naked.
"I-I don't know what to write," says Jack, glancing nervously from the typewriter to Ann, standing next to him with her arms crossed.
"You'll think of something, won't you, Mr. Driscoll?" she asks.
"It's not about the words, is it, Mr. Driscoll?" asks Satine.
Jack breathes, shakily, and extends his fingers to the typewriter. The letters "G, R, A, P" are pressed. A cockroach scuttles out of the machine. He frowns.
"The typewriter's busted. It won't work. I'll need a new one."
"Picky, aren't we, Driscoll?" says Carl, leaning over his shoulder. "That's a damn fine typewriter. The best I've ever seen, and I'm not an expert."
"It's not about the words," Ann repeats.
"The words aren't what matters. It's the money." Satine shifts to another position on the couch. Jack stares at her, then at Ann, then presses the letters "E, F, R." A few more cockroaches scuttle out of the machine, one scampering across Jack's hand before he flicks it away. A brief hesitation, and he positions his fingers above the keyboard again, giving glances to Ann and Carl before looking to Satine, who is wearing the bracelet.
"It's about the money. The money, Mr. Driscoll."
"U"
Spiders, in varying sizes, along with the cockroaches. There are enough to cover his left hand. "Ann..."
"Keep writing, Mr. Driscoll. Why are you writing a stage comedy?"
"The bugs..."
"That's never stopped you before, has it? From getting what you want? Or do you not know what you want?"
Carl's hand pats Jack's shoulder. "You can chose to defy fate, Jack. Write your own history."
"You can't defy fate." Ann by his side. "You write plays, not history. Fate is just a story you can put on the stage. It's your life, Jack."
"I"
"The bugs..."
"You play a role. There's no way out."
"T"
"The money, Mr. Driscoll."
He presses the period. The typewriter transforms into a mass of bugs, scuttling everywhere, on everything and everyone, engulfing the room, engulfing the people, engulfing Jack, crawling all over his skin and his clothes and his hair and filling his mouth until Jack shoots up in the bed and gasps for breath.
His hand clutching his chest, he knows, feels he is older now, in his original body, and sighs a sigh of relief.
It was just a dream.
But he can't seem to fall asleep after that.
Jack looks up from his jigsaw puzzles to his mother standing above him. She's taller than she has ever been in his memory; Jack barely reaches her knee as he stands. "But, mom, I haven't finished the juggsaw puzzle yet." He sounds, and feels, like an adult.
"The puzzle can wait," she says sternly, pulling him by the ear into a dark room and shoving him in front of a typewriter. "Write."
A light on the ceiling slowly glows to full brightness. At the center of the room sits a sofa. Satine is sprawled across it, naked.
"I-I don't know what to write," says Jack, glancing nervously from the typewriter to Ann, standing next to him with her arms crossed.
"You'll think of something, won't you, Mr. Driscoll?" she asks.
"It's not about the words, is it, Mr. Driscoll?" asks Satine.
Jack breathes, shakily, and extends his fingers to the typewriter. The letters "G, R, A, P" are pressed. A cockroach scuttles out of the machine. He frowns.
"The typewriter's busted. It won't work. I'll need a new one."
"Picky, aren't we, Driscoll?" says Carl, leaning over his shoulder. "That's a damn fine typewriter. The best I've ever seen, and I'm not an expert."
"It's not about the words," Ann repeats.
"The words aren't what matters. It's the money." Satine shifts to another position on the couch. Jack stares at her, then at Ann, then presses the letters "E, F, R." A few more cockroaches scuttle out of the machine, one scampering across Jack's hand before he flicks it away. A brief hesitation, and he positions his fingers above the keyboard again, giving glances to Ann and Carl before looking to Satine, who is wearing the bracelet.
"It's about the money. The money, Mr. Driscoll."
"U"
Spiders, in varying sizes, along with the cockroaches. There are enough to cover his left hand. "Ann..."
"Keep writing, Mr. Driscoll. Why are you writing a stage comedy?"
"The bugs..."
"That's never stopped you before, has it? From getting what you want? Or do you not know what you want?"
Carl's hand pats Jack's shoulder. "You can chose to defy fate, Jack. Write your own history."
"You can't defy fate." Ann by his side. "You write plays, not history. Fate is just a story you can put on the stage. It's your life, Jack."
"I"
"The bugs..."
"You play a role. There's no way out."
"T"
"The money, Mr. Driscoll."
He presses the period. The typewriter transforms into a mass of bugs, scuttling everywhere, on everything and everyone, engulfing the room, engulfing the people, engulfing Jack, crawling all over his skin and his clothes and his hair and filling his mouth until Jack shoots up in the bed and gasps for breath.
His hand clutching his chest, he knows, feels he is older now, in his original body, and sighs a sigh of relief.
It was just a dream.
But he can't seem to fall asleep after that.