Lisa (3/?) [Series: No Regrets]
TITLE: Lisa
AUTHOR: naddypants
RATING: 15
CHARACTERS: Jack/Ianto, team.
SUMMARY: What Ianto does next after Lisa. (still 1st person, set post-Countrycide)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: 1. My NaNo died. 2. I forgot the finale to Fading Yourself and 3. I decided to finally get this fic on the road. Inspired by the band Steer Clear, and I will be finishing Fading Yourself, when I remember what the hell is supposed to happen!
DISCLAIMER: This is a piece of fan fiction, I own nothing, no money is being made from this and no harm is intended. Fanfictions can be removed and/or deleted if needed. Torchwood belongs to the BBC and Russell T Davies. Thank you.
Part 1: http://naddypants.livejournal.com/7328.html
Part 2: http://naddypants.livejournal.com/7498.html
Dedicated to melthorne and just_being_me08 for being an endless source of awesome. Love you girls!
Well that was a fucking disaster. I think I was right in saying my life is spent.
I should have died in there. It would have made things so much simpler. But then Jack obviously had to swan in and save the day. Smug bastard.
Maybe I should just finish the job off now, I’m half dead as it is. At least I have the physical pain, and fear of being eaten alive to count on taking my mind off Lisa.
Well, I did have the throbbing in my face and limbs and the fear of that man’s greasy face and stinking breath to keep my mind from stumbling blindly back onto her. But not anymore. Now everything is intensified. Just fucking marvellous. I thought after a month or two maybe things would subside. But they didn’t, and now I fear they never will.
Which I guess is why I’m back in the same position as I was ten years ago - when I was slightly overweight and being bullied mercilessly - weighing up the merits of the array of knives lying before me on the kitchen table.
You know it’s not the only answer Ianto.
“LISA?!”
What a fool I am. Calling out to a dead woman. But I can hear her and see her as clearly as that day in the park. Maybe that’s the key. The nearer I am to death, the nearer I am to her. If only that could ever be the truth. Even I can see how stupid that is. How ludicrous! How deluded and high must I be to be imagining her putting me off suicide?
Even in death I know we couldn’t be together. I can tell in Jack’s eyes that there is nothing but blackless, loneliness, nothingness in death, and in the reports from the Risen Mitten the victims always said there was nothing, endless, all-encapsulating emptiness stretching further and further into forever.
Romeo and Juliet never got their wish. Instead they both have forever in a maddeningly barren void.
I guess that’s what our pitiful race deserves anyway.
And just as I lift the knife, there she is again, scowling at me like that time when I dropped the hot oil on my hand. She’d thought it was because my mam died and that I was depressed - which I was - but it wasn’t, I’d just dropped the frying pan. She’d thought that I was adding to my wonderful array of self-inflicted scars…
But still, there she stands in my mind’s eye, ready to scold me, eyebrows furrowed together in worry, one eye closed just that little bit more than the other, nostrils flared as she gets ready to talk, and one hand placed firmly on her hip, as if to refrain it from waving about like the other one. Those being the stupid details I know about her, that no one else will ever be privileged enough to see. Which is sad, as when I die, her memory dies with me.
She’s still there if I concentrate, or lift the knife slightly higher. God I’m stretching this out in a vain attempt to keep her with me just that little bit longer. If I move it closer, there she goes, opening her mouth to speak, but never getting close enough to let me hear that beautiful voice.
Maybe as I’m dying on the kitchen floor she’ll talk me through it. Or tell me off until I’m practically begging for it to end.
I need her here with me. I want to be able to tell her one last time that I love her, that I miss her. I wish she’d just come back, and everything would be okay. This hollow cavity where my heart once was would be filled, my mind, instead of a frozen wasteland would be warm, happy once more.
When I see Jack…a feeling similar to that threatens to push through and thaw me. Like he’s the secret, the key to the lock that is my dead heart.
And now they’re both there in my mind’s eye. Both livid, furious at me for even considering something so stupid, so selfish. Telling me off for keeping everything buried deep inside me, for not sharing, for hiding the fact I felt my life could not go on.
But still, I edge the knife closer…
Why did this have to be black or white?
Somewhere in between we coulda made it right,
There was something that set you apart;
My first love, my first broken heart.
That’ll never heal…
A happy writer writes more.
Comments make a happy writer.
AUTHOR: naddypants
RATING: 15
CHARACTERS: Jack/Ianto, team.
SUMMARY: What Ianto does next after Lisa. (still 1st person, set post-Countrycide)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: 1. My NaNo died. 2. I forgot the finale to Fading Yourself and 3. I decided to finally get this fic on the road. Inspired by the band Steer Clear, and I will be finishing Fading Yourself, when I remember what the hell is supposed to happen!
DISCLAIMER: This is a piece of fan fiction, I own nothing, no money is being made from this and no harm is intended. Fanfictions can be removed and/or deleted if needed. Torchwood belongs to the BBC and Russell T Davies. Thank you.
Part 1: http://naddypants.livejournal.com/7328.html
Part 2: http://naddypants.livejournal.com/7498.html
Dedicated to melthorne and just_being_me08 for being an endless source of awesome. Love you girls!
Well that was a fucking disaster. I think I was right in saying my life is spent.
I should have died in there. It would have made things so much simpler. But then Jack obviously had to swan in and save the day. Smug bastard.
Maybe I should just finish the job off now, I’m half dead as it is. At least I have the physical pain, and fear of being eaten alive to count on taking my mind off Lisa.
Well, I did have the throbbing in my face and limbs and the fear of that man’s greasy face and stinking breath to keep my mind from stumbling blindly back onto her. But not anymore. Now everything is intensified. Just fucking marvellous. I thought after a month or two maybe things would subside. But they didn’t, and now I fear they never will.
Which I guess is why I’m back in the same position as I was ten years ago - when I was slightly overweight and being bullied mercilessly - weighing up the merits of the array of knives lying before me on the kitchen table.
You know it’s not the only answer Ianto.
“LISA?!”
What a fool I am. Calling out to a dead woman. But I can hear her and see her as clearly as that day in the park. Maybe that’s the key. The nearer I am to death, the nearer I am to her. If only that could ever be the truth. Even I can see how stupid that is. How ludicrous! How deluded and high must I be to be imagining her putting me off suicide?
Even in death I know we couldn’t be together. I can tell in Jack’s eyes that there is nothing but blackless, loneliness, nothingness in death, and in the reports from the Risen Mitten the victims always said there was nothing, endless, all-encapsulating emptiness stretching further and further into forever.
Romeo and Juliet never got their wish. Instead they both have forever in a maddeningly barren void.
I guess that’s what our pitiful race deserves anyway.
And just as I lift the knife, there she is again, scowling at me like that time when I dropped the hot oil on my hand. She’d thought it was because my mam died and that I was depressed - which I was - but it wasn’t, I’d just dropped the frying pan. She’d thought that I was adding to my wonderful array of self-inflicted scars…
But still, there she stands in my mind’s eye, ready to scold me, eyebrows furrowed together in worry, one eye closed just that little bit more than the other, nostrils flared as she gets ready to talk, and one hand placed firmly on her hip, as if to refrain it from waving about like the other one. Those being the stupid details I know about her, that no one else will ever be privileged enough to see. Which is sad, as when I die, her memory dies with me.
She’s still there if I concentrate, or lift the knife slightly higher. God I’m stretching this out in a vain attempt to keep her with me just that little bit longer. If I move it closer, there she goes, opening her mouth to speak, but never getting close enough to let me hear that beautiful voice.
Maybe as I’m dying on the kitchen floor she’ll talk me through it. Or tell me off until I’m practically begging for it to end.
I need her here with me. I want to be able to tell her one last time that I love her, that I miss her. I wish she’d just come back, and everything would be okay. This hollow cavity where my heart once was would be filled, my mind, instead of a frozen wasteland would be warm, happy once more.
When I see Jack…a feeling similar to that threatens to push through and thaw me. Like he’s the secret, the key to the lock that is my dead heart.
And now they’re both there in my mind’s eye. Both livid, furious at me for even considering something so stupid, so selfish. Telling me off for keeping everything buried deep inside me, for not sharing, for hiding the fact I felt my life could not go on.
But still, I edge the knife closer…
Why did this have to be black or white?
Somewhere in between we coulda made it right,
There was something that set you apart;
My first love, my first broken heart.
That’ll never heal…
A happy writer writes more.
Comments make a happy writer.