Twisted Pretzel Chapter 23
Title: Twisted Pretzel
Author: 2he_re (Heather and Reena)
Fandom: Jonas Brothers
Pairing(s): Joe/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, the real people in it are used without their permission and we do not own them or have any copyright to any part of any of them. We do not believe any of this happened, is likely to happen, or will happen. It is simply a story created around known facts about those involved.
Summary: Mrs. Johnson dislikes the Jonas Brothers. She hates Joe. Why? Doesn’t really matter does it? What matters is that she was playing a game to get rid of him. Death. Horrible death.
“Tristan Darthe” was her pawn. Arrested a year after the incident and tried. His mental state was proven to be unstable, and instead of a jail sentence he was sentenced to an asylum for the rest of his poor, pathetic, lonesome life, where I'm not even allowed to go suicidal.
Call me unstable, call me insane, but oh deary me, I’d loved that game. I mean, money is good and all, but you know, killing is better.
But damn, I’d lost.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 pt. 1 Chapter 21 pt. 2 Chapter 22
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Run. Run. Run. Run. Over and over. It’s putting your feet in front of each other; one after another. One after another. One after another. You fall, you stop. It seems easy, it seems a no brainer. But it’s not. Not my running. I change clothes. I change looks. I change styles. I change houses, towns, states. I never stop changing. I never stop running, because if I fall, if I stumble, someone will catch me, and then I can’t always start running again. I need to push through the pain, the hurt, the ache. Run. Run. Run. One foot in front of the other.
I couldn’t breathe; an ache in my side. My stomach hurt; sliced open. My hand pressed to it.
I stumbled with each step, blood pulsed out with each step, but I kept moving. I didn’t know what to think.
What had happened? I couldn’t be sure. It just seemed a blur. One big blur; a dream that barely met reality. Did it meet anything? I faltered mid step. I crashed to my knees. My hands splayed out in front of me. The skin tore on my palms, my fingers. My nails shined dirty red, an almost black. Was this a dream? All of this? Could it just be another dream I had, about…
I lifted my hand up to twist it around in the light. It glinted with blood; it dripped, leaking red. I didn’t think that the blood was fake.
Parked cars lined the street. The sidewalk rose in random places, where tree roots had grown under the slabs of concrete. Streetlamps stood about half the height of the apartment buildings, some flickering, some casting a steady glow. Under me the road dug into my knees.
It seemed real.
Everything seemed real. Dreaming of dead bodies, running them over, had seemed real too. I wondered about going back, to see if Joe would get help, if I had really done something or if this was all another dream. If Joe even remembered me. I flared, hot breath running out of my nose. Like fuck if he forgot me. Like fuck, like fuck! I put a hole in his shoulder. I made him bleed. I pushed myself up to a crouch. Evening my heartbeat, slowing my breath, Relax, I told myself. Relax, just relax. Slow for now. Slow. Just like Dad said, breathe.
I balanced and wiped my hand on my thigh leaving dark streaks. I stood up, dragging my nails over the jeans. I wondered about going back to finish the job. I wondered about a lot of things. Like Joe. Did his moan sound better when he withered in pain? Did he look as good with sweat and blood? Did he look better just covered in sweat? Did his skin taste better? Sweat and blood. I clenched my teeth, wrapping my hands into fists.
Finish him off. Finish the kill. I didn’t wimp out. I didn’t wimp out on killing: on skinning them, snapping their neck, holding them down in a tub of water. I didn’t even have to slice Joe up. No, I didn’t. He was stuck on a bridge, toss him over. Just, just… And then it’d be done. All it would take is a little shove, and he’d plunge down.
I wrapped my arms around my waist to help me stay up, starting to run. I went faster and faster. One foot in front of the other.
My feet slid under me. My knees skitted across the ground. More skin scraped off my hands. Blood. I bled onto the sidewalk. The metal heart slammed into my chest. I gritted my teeth. I pushed up, frozen on my feet. Why should I go back? What the fuck waited for me there? Finishing off Joe?
They’d hunt me for forever. Forever and ever. I took a step back. Sooner or later they’d catch me. I can’t run forever. I’d rest for a minute, and in that minute they’d catch me and tie me up, throw me somewhere I could never get out of. No more running, no more painting on the walls the way I loved. If I go back, I won’t have long enough to run before they start to chase. They’d catch me.
Dad said they’d beat him once, right after they’d caught him. He showed me how. He beat the shit out of me, like they had done to him. He said if he had screamed, they’d beat him more. I’d screamed. I couldn’t stop. He didn’t stop.
I knew what waited for me if I went back. A cage. A trial. Jail.
I took another step back, my lip curling up. Jail. No, I wouldn’t go there. I refused. They didn’t love me. Joe didn’t love me. So I didn’t love him. No. I never loved him. I had played an almost perfect game of manipulation. I spun around, slamming my fist into a car. The alarm blared, loud, loud. So loud. Beep. Beep.
I didn’t care. Why should I care? I narrowed my eyes. I took a step, seeing glints of blood droplets in the light; they trickled down the side of the car. I brushed up against it. How long would it take for someone to come? Beep. Beep. I pressed my hand to my stomach, pushing out the blood. I pressed my hand back into my gash. I covered my fingers in blood. I pressed them to the car, the fancy, white car. I twisted my hand, splattering blood over it. I dipped my fist back into my hoodie, soaked in blood. Beep. Beep.
“T --“ I whispered, drawing the cursive letter. Would they think this was Joe’s blood when they first see it? “r -“ I drew a harsh lowercase letter. Beep. Beep. Would they know who wrote this? “U --“ I made it bigger than the rest of the letters. “S -“ Beep. Beep. I hated the alarm. Why did the stupid cars even have alarms? No one would come; it served only to wake up and irritate neighbors. “t -“ I had to spit on my finger to make the blood last. The small scrapes dried. Beep. Beep. I kneeled down. I underlined my letters. I started a new line. “m -“ I didn’t have enough blood on my hand. I couldn’t get more blood out. The blood had dried too thick on my stomach, to my hoodie. I couldn’t wring it out.
A light flickered on in one of the houses. Beep. Beep. Someone had finally woken up because of the alarm. I wiped my hands on my jeans. I looked down at them when the porch light flickered on. The blood had just stained them a little. Beep. Beep. I straightened up, running my fingers through my hair.
The door swung open; someone stepped out, squinting into the dark.
“Sorry!” I shouted out, stepping from around the back of the car. “It just went off, and yeah. Sorry ‘bout this.” The guy had blonde hair, just like me. Beep. Beep. I narrowed my eyes. He came further out onto the porch. He didn’t have anything on his feet. He wore only pajama bottoms. I could see the ink of a Greek word curving down his toned chest. Beep. Beep. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. His hair stopped right above his ears.
“It’s aight. That stupid car goes off all the time.” Beep. Beep.
I could barely hear him over the car. I took a step closer to him, trailing my fingers over the white paint. It looked pink. Beep. Beep. I dropped my hand to my side. “Do you know how to shut it up?” Beep. Beep.
“My neighbor should come out soon. Just give him another minute or so.”
Minute. I glanced at the door the blonde had pointed to. A minute. Beep. Beep. My eyes flickered back to him. Each blare of the car counted I put as two seconds. He looked like me. He had my blonde hair. Joe might like him. Joe couldn’t like him. No. I wouldn’t let him. A minute. One minute. Beep. Beep.
I bolted at him. His eyes widened. I clamped my hand to his mouth. I slammed my other hand right into his side. He flinched back. Beep. Beep. I yanked him off the steps. He tried to yank my hand away to shout for help. I dragged him down to the car, around to the side mirror. His feet kicked. He tried to push us over. My hand slipped from his mouth. “Hel -!“
I slammed his head back into the metal framing the mirror. Beep. Beep. I heard a crunch. I saw blood. He froze -- stunned, dead? I didn’t know. I dropped him. I needed more blood. I needed more blood quick. Beep. Beep. Only had a minute, now less than a minute. I found the crack I’d made in his head and wedged my fingers in it. My fingertips scraped against his brain. I gave a sharp tug apart and there came the blood. Dead. I dipped my finger into the blood and headed back to my letters. Thirty seconds. I probably had thirty seconds. Beep. Beep.
Enough?
“M -“I retraced the pink stain I had left. Beep. Beep. “E -“ I let the vertical line of the uppercase “E” drip all the way down the car. Beep. Beep. I had so much blood. I loved art like this. Beep. Beep. I underlined it. I drew a heart at the end, inside the initials T/J dripped down. Drip. Drip. Drip. Beep. Beep.
I walked back to the guy who had my blonde hair. Beep. Beep. I threaded my fingers through his hair. I tugged the blonde tangles out. I patted down his red streaked hair. There we go, he didn’t look like me anymore. I skimmed my hand over his chest. A waste. Beep. Beep. I bent down, tracing his lips with his own blood. I dribbled some inside his mouth. Beep. Beep.
Another door opened, and I hit the ground. “Mike?” Beep. Beep.
Mike? I looked at Mike, lying right next to me; I sketched an “M” on the side of his cheek. Beep. Bee--
The car alarm flicked off. “You better not be messing with my car.” I could hear the neighbor plodding down the steps. Heavy, he was heavy on his feet. He didn’t roll his feet, just stepped down. Heavy weight. He didn’t know how to move lightly. He couldn’t move lightly, quickly. “Mike? Why the fuck is there pink on my car?!”
Would I fit under the car and stay unseen? I could see the neighbor’s feet from under the car. What would he do when he came around? I wondered, but I guess I knew. I twisted to Mike’s body, away from the car: Mike’s face right by mine, the back of my head in his blood. I could see the neighbor as he rounded the car, as he came across Mike’s body. He didn’t see the words. I don’t know if he saw the red on his car. He looked at the dead body and my still body.
“Mike?” I laid perfectly still next to Mike, in his blood, almost on top of his body. I saw the neighbor reach down. He touched Mike’s body. I jumped up. He gave a shout of surprise. I grabbed his torso. I slammed him through the front window; my hands secured around his hips. He struggled and screamed. I gave a sharp laugh. As he moved the glass from the car cut into his neck, like a tightening choker. Cut. Cut. Cut.
Blood leaked out over the door. He gurgled, his own blood bubbling out of his throat. His screams quieted into the sound of a soft fountain. Liquid just flowing down. The neighbor’s body slumped up against the door. Such a shame I supposed. But maybe not, this way he couldn’t pass on his fat genes with his flat footedness and bad choice in transportation. Stupid neighbor. I dipped my finger into his neck, right next to the glass shards. I curved my fingers in, forcing my nails through the other side of his neck, twisting around his bone. I yanked forward, ripping out the whole front of his neck.
“Trust,” I whispered, pulling my hand back. I wrote the word on the car again, squeaking when I dragged my finger across. An arrow pointed at Mike, another one at the neighbor. Trust, trust, trust. I gave another laugh. Trust, this was everything the world was built on. Joe had touched me because of some stupid thing called trust. Trust what? Don’t trust. Only idiots trust. That’s why idiots die.
I pulled off the silver ring Joe had given me, caked in blood. I slid it onto Mike’s finger. Fucking see how much I respected Joe and his values. I respected nothing. Nothing! I took a deep breath. I put one foot away from the car. I placed my other foot in front of that one. One in front of the other, I started to run.
Dad had taught me to run away from the light, to never let it touch you. He had made a game of it. If I didn’t step into the light, he wouldn’t touch me for an hour. One sweet hour of bliss. If I touched the light, he wouldn’t let me go for a long time. He’d -- Over and over and over. I didn’t want him to touch me; I hid from the light. I skimmed the edge of the glow from the streetlights.
I didn’t feel pain. I just felt the blood slipping to the ground. Sometimes I could hear the light plop over my scuffing shoes. Sometimes not. My shoes squished with each step, the blood pooling out of them. I stopped by another car. Yanking my shoes off, I stuck them on the hood. I added my socks to the pile. I walked around and around the car. I looked back, seeing my bloody footprints. Around and around the car I walked, until my steps didn’t leave anymore blood. I started running again, back the way I had come for a while before taking a sharp left; the tips of my feet skimmed the ground, debris digging at my soft feet. I’d lost my calluses from so long ago.
Dad and I had played another game. He would chase after me. I couldn’t be caught. I had to run faster than him. I had to beat him; I had to outlast him. Shoes? No shoes? It didn’t matter. He used a car sometimes. Keep running until the car ran out of gas, and then keep running until he got tired. Left, right, left, right. I didn’t win a lot.
I shifted into an alley to sleep. Just for a little bit. The walls of the two buildings on either side of me where made with perfect bricks. I was in a good city. The kind a pure family would travel to. The kind they needn’t be afraid of this city. No serial killers normally around these parts. I dumped myself onto the ground. I pressed my back against the one wall. I curled into a ball, a smaller target to see. Hide from the light. Maybe he wouldn’t see me, and he’d run right by me.
Rise and shine, I had to crack my aching body, too long since I had slept on the ground. I pulled off my hoodie, refusing to hiss when it tore off some of the blood scab. I dumped the hoodie in a heap, before running out onto the streets. No one would’ve found Joe yet. No one would’ve called him in missing yet. Maybe I should. Maybe I should and tell them all about Joe: how good a fuck he could be, how I loved kissing him and hurting him. How I didn’t think he’d be able to use his shoulder when they found him. How he shouldn’t be able to use his arm.
My feet hurt. My stomach hurt. My back hurt.
My head hung down, and my thighs started to burn from running. The sun pounded down on me. I couldn’t get away from the light. The light. I had to hide from the light, but I couldn’t. I flinched. Dad hit me. I slid to the wall, but the sun beat even there. I flinched, feeling his blow on my skin. I ran faster and faster. If he couldn’t catch me. If he couldn’t catch me he couldn’t hurt me.
People started to pour from their apartment buildings, and I stumbled to a stop, a statue in the center of the sidewalk. Someone pushed me aside. “Halloween coming early?” they mumbled.
I tripped to the side. What would Dad say? Halloween? Hadn’t Halloween come early and late last year? I couldn’t even remember if I had done anything on Halloween. I’d had an early mood, made a late prank. Dad wouldn’t approve of me. Dad wouldn’t stand for me.
I glanced to the steps leading down from an apartment. A girl exited the apartment. She wore a long skirt, sweeping at her feet. Friendship bracelets flowed up and down her wrists. Her hair framed her round face. In her fingers I saw a key. Her nails, black, clinked against it. She ducked her head. Her hand moved into the flower pot sitting next to the door. When I saw her hand again, the key had disappeared. I turned my back on her. I stepped away. I ducked my head down, away from the sun.
I narrowed my eyes, glaring at the sidewalk. Black nails. I glanced down at my own. My whole hand was encased in deep red, but my nails looked black, like they always did. I hadn’t let them chip off when I’d been with Joe, just yesterday. Not even twenty-four hours had passed.
I turned back around. I didn’t like blood on my hands. Dad didn’t like anything on me either. Nothing should stand out on you. Only things that made you stand out enough to blend in. Blood didn’t make someone blend it. Blood made me stand out.
I made a circle around to the house. The girl had left.
I moved up the steps, smoother than the sidewalk, and turned to the flower pot. The flowers bloomed red and yellow. Red and yellow, like fire. Like the sun. Like light. I shouldn’t touch the light. I plunged my hand into the fiery light and rummaged around. I felt the cool metal, and my fingers wrapped around the key. I opened up the door and locked it behind me.
I dropped the key to the floor. I didn’t need it anymore. It landed with a soft thunk on the pale blue carpet. In front of me were the stairs. The girl must’ve owned the whole building. In front of me stairs ran up to the second level. Off to the side there was a table with pictures of her and her friends and family. A vase of fresh flowers sat in the center. All bright yellow.
I grabbed a picture frame and flipped it over. From left to right the people were labeled. I turned the picture back over, spotting the girl’s face in the center with her short ginger hair. I flipped the picture back over. Jessica Miller. I set the picture back down exactly where I’d found it.
Jessica Miller took good care of her house.
I walked along around the building. Simple, so simple. Everything was modern, but not super modern. She liked flowers, bright colored flowers. I smelled them all around the first floor.
I walked upstairs -- my bare feet staining the floor -- and, at the top, more flowers stood on tables.
Ginger headed Jess liked flowers, bright flowers that reminded me of fire. Fire reminded me of light. I shouldn’t be touched by the light. I flinched, a petal brushing against my skin. I shot out a short breath. My hands jumped to my stomach. It moved under my fingers. I clawed at my shirt. It hurt, it burned. It fucking hurt. I ripped the shirt up, giving a light scream. The dried blood flaked off. I barely watched clumps tumble to the ground. Fuck, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
I pressed my cool hand to the slice. Blood spread over my fingers. I tried to catch it. The droplets missed my extended hand. They slipped to the floor. My eyes widened.
Blood everywhere.
No. Dad wouldn’t like that. No, Dad would - I threw open door after door, my hand leaving prints of red on the cream doors. I headed into the bedroom. I yanked open the closet. I pulled down a dress. I hissed, wrapping the rough fabric around my torso. The metal heart brushed against my bare chest. I took a step back, stumbling.
Bathroom, bathroom. I fumbled with the handle of the adjourning door. It opened up into a pristine bathroom. She kept flowers carefully on the windowsill. I slipped because of the blood. My pants heavier at the cuffs. I grabbed at the sink. My head spun, my legs shook.
Breathe. I fucking hated trying to tell myself that. It didn’t work.
It used to work.
Dad had pounded it into my head. Breathe, you don’t breathe, you die. Your muscles won’t work right. Don’t try to kill when your muscles aren’t at their best. Killing is your life, you muscles better be working right. But I couldn’t. I choked on my tongue. My eyes snapped shut.
Joe. I saw Joe. Just there. I smelled him; I felt his touch. My muscles un-bunched. I snapped my eyes open. No. No. No.
I pulled off the makeshift wrapping. I cranked on the shower. Clumsily, I got out of my pants and boxers. I got in the water. I steadied myself on the walls: white to red. The water pounded down. It stung at the cut. It reddened my body. I twisted my hands to reach for a bar of soap. I touched it, and it turned red. My body burned with the scalding water and dripped with blood. A razor and conditioner stood in the corner. I looked between the two of them. I pressed a hand to my stomach, curving in. I didn’t want to leave the shower, the burning warmth. I finally had to. I needed to run. Run. Run. One foot in front of the other.
I wrapped a towel around my center, pawing through the bathroom.
She had drugs of all kinds stuck up in her medicine cabinet. I pushed back two pills, maybe three, maybe more. I didn’t bother to count, just shook some out into my hand and hit them back. I found a softer shirt in her closet, and I ripped it up, binding it around me. I pulled on a dress, subconsciously running my hands down my shaven legs. They felt weird, open, exposed. I didn’t care. I had to run.
Dad had said you do whatever you can to keep running.
I straightened up, moving into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I ran a critical look over my face, before crashing open the drawer and pulling out Jessica Miller’s makeup. All pale colors, with a foundation darker than my complexion.
Mom had showed me the power of makeup before she’d left, before I’d killed her. She had applied layer after layer to my face, showing me how to shade in the angles to look harsher or softer. I had asked her once if I had done something right. She took the eyeliner from my hand, my chin in her hand. The eyeliner had flicked into my eye. She had stabbed at my left eye. She had stabbed at my right. Fucking apply it now, bitch! I couldn’t, so Dad took me out, for punishment. Mom turned to the mirror to reapply her makeup.
On went Jessica Miller’s makeup. I carefully took my time, placing on her eyeshadow, lip gloss, mascara, eyeliner. I drew my eyes out, deepened the edges of my face. My hand shook. My eyes started to hurt. They started to water. I threw the pencil down; I turned around to the toilet. I vomited. I wiped my mouth. I smoothed down my dress. I reapplied the makeup, the shaking gone. I layered on her perfume, hiding my scent. Dogs couldn’t find me then.
I looked up at the mirror, looking down at the scissors sitting on the edge of the sink. I eyed my long hair.
I reached for the scissors.
I remembered when I almost killed someone with scissors like these. Joe knew about that time, almost the whole world knew about that time. I remembered when I had killed someone with scissors. I had cut their chords, sliced open their stomach, took out the seven month baby.
Joe didn’t know about that.
Joe didn’t know a lot about me.
I brought the scissors to my hair, blonde and wet from the shower. The blood had washed out. I loved Joe’s hair the most when he came out of the shower. Joe. Joe. Joe. I wrapped my fingers in my hair. Joe liked my hair long. Joe told me never to cut my hair.
Jessica Miller had short hair.
Whatever I can do to keep running. I ran the scissors through my hair. It fell around my feet in the blood and water I hadn’t bothered to clean up.
I walked around the house, pulling out Jessica Miller’s passport. I found some of her credit cards lying around. She had a stock of cash hidden behind some flowers. Fiery flowers. I grabbed an extra purse, shoving in the painkillers, money, some clothes, and her passport. I squeezed on a pair of heels.
I ran my fingers all over her house, feeling things, touching things. I didn’t think the police, FBI, whoever followed after me, would know it was me until too late. Did it matter if they did? So much already added up against me.
I opened up where she kept her cleaning supplies. I took them out, unscrewing the lids and pouring them out as I walked around the house. I flipped on all the lights and opened the bedroom doors.
I found a candle, and I lit it. I found another candle. I lit that one too. I found more and more, and I lit them all. I placed them around the house, pushing them right next to the curtains, the flowers, the clothes. I struck a match, dropping it carefully into a piece of paper, right near the household chemicals.
I tucked the matches into my purse, before walking to the door, scooping up the key. I paused by the flower box to place in the key right where I’d found it, in the fiery flowers. I paused a moment, before pulling out the metal heart, dangling it on the outside of the dress. If someone recognized the heart, it would be too late. Too late, too late, too late. I cooed in my mind. I walked down the steps.
If you zoom out for a second, pretend you were someone walking down the street. You just see someone calmly exit what you just have to assume was their house. They have on heels and a pretty sundress, and a purse hangs over their shoulder. They have a pretty face, and the lack of boobs doesn’t concern you. I could be the owner of the house if you didn’t know who lived there. If you were just an acquaintance, I could’ve simply dyed my hair. Consider yourself a best friend to Jessica Miller, I could be her friend. What seems so wrong about that picture? Nothing.
Nothing looked wrong with me. I straightened up my back. I refused to wince at the cutting of the heels or the pulsing of my stomach. I walked down the street, carefully ignoring the house behind me. I heard a bang -- like gunfire, like a small bomb, but worse. I heard a shout. I heard screaming. I looked like I walked, but really I ran. I pulled over a cab, minding my skirt when I slid in. “Airport,” I muttered, looking down at my folded hands.
The guy gave a grunt. He pulled away from the curb. I glanced up at the rearview mirror, just in time to see the flames. They jumped out of the windows, exploding out glass. They licked at the building next to them, eating them. Fire was raw power, its hunger never satisfied. I saw some people scramble away, and on the other side of the street they gaped. I settled back into the seat.
Just like that, I’d started running again.
Word came about Joe the moment my plane touched the ground. I ditched Jessica Miller’s passport. I pulled out the jeans and blouse I had brought, jamming a hat onto my head. I sat in the waiting area, and the news flashed on. I couldn’t hear it, but I saw all the pictures.
The police had roped off my first creation. People gawked at the scene, police cars surrounded it. It looked better in the light; you could see all the hard work. My handprints decked the car. Someone had taken the bodies off, but you could still see my handwriting. The arrows still pointed to where the two bodies had rested.
I saw pictures of the ground I had walked all over. My shoes still rested on top of the car. I wondered if the detectives tried to make a message out of my footprints, like “Trust me.”
I smiled at Jessica Miller’s house when I saw it. Burned completely down to the ground. Reduced to ashes. The houses on either side had fallen just as badly. Glass littered the sidewalk. The fire had charred the sidewalk trees. More yellow tape hung around the scene. I didn’t see any flowers.
Joe’s picture flickered on. An old one. I ditched my seat, moving closer. I moved so close I could hear the voice. I had sat in on the photoshoot that that picture of Joe had come from. “Tristan Darthe,” the reporter started, “used to be the boyfriend of popstar Joe Jonas. However, no longer is this the case. Just last night, Joe and Tristan went outside without any security. There, Tristan impaled Joe in the shoulder with a butcher’s knife he had stolen from the hotel’s kitchen. Joe was found in the early morning, around eight o’clock. The house and the two homicides are confirmed by the officials to be Tristan’s handiwork. They do not believe this is the last to come from this mere nineteen year old boy. No word on Joe’s condition.”
Nineteen? Seventeen! Why could no one ever get it right? Didn’t Joe know? Wasn’t Joe telling someone? Wait no -- I gave a sharp laugh, getting up from my seat, and heading out of the airport. People turned to stare at me. - he was probably suffering from lack of blood, from having his poor heart broken.
Broken? Was it even broken?
I flagged down another taxi. I had arrived in Texas; good old Texas where it got cold at night.
I hoped I’d broken his heart. I hoped I fucked him up so badly, the four months that it would take for the wound to barely heal would need to be about seven months more. Seven months to sort out the physiological shit I made for him. It would take stupid Janice that long to even find out everything I did to Joe, not even.
I rattled off some street name that I remembered to have passed. I still didn’t know quite what I planned to do in Texas. I had just ended up here. Probably reverse physiology to go some place so close to Joe. It really came as an impulse to end up here.
I wasn’t exactly sure where the cab dropped me off. The trees stood all around me. I walked for a while, shoving my hands into my pockets. The purse bumped against my legs. The heart weighed down my neck. I never noticed before how heavy the metal hung. Then I started running.
Two months, I’d stayed around Texas for two months, squatting in houses, sleeping in libraries. I didn’t even approach the Jonas’ house. I refused to get within five miles of it.
October 18th.
I remember the date because Joe finally did a press release.
His face had looked shallower. His arm sat in a sling, and the doctors had wrapped up his whole shoulder with a glob of white gauzes. I could tell the movements were all forced. His eyes had lost a tinkle, he looked thinner. He had said things were alright, everything was okay. The doctor said he could go back to touring, and within the week, tickets for their tour should be on sale and they’d have their first concert. I could tell he lied then about being alright and the doctors saying he was ready to go. He had said he’d get the gauze off tomorrow. Bullshit. It would just go thinner and hide under his shirt.
Prides swells inside of me whenever I think about that. I had done that to him. No one else could hold that right. No one else could break Joe like I had, and then hurt him so badly physically. No one could take his trust and rip it the way I had.
I love it. I love it so much, the way I could affect people like that. I can feel the hot pressure of Dad’s hand on my shoulder. I shake it off because I hate it.
I hate it. I hate him. I fucking hate how he made me love what he loved. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him! I love the feeling of blood on my hands. I love screams of pain. I love watching someone crumble. I love being the one to make them crumble.
I love it.
I fucking hate my dad.
I stood right on the five mile mark to their house on October 18th. I’d come right after I saw with his shallow face. He’d be easy pickings for me, for her, even though security had increased around them. A week left until Joe started touring, a crazy couldn’t put the tour off. Maybe I could, I was more than crazy. What was I? I wasn’t sure.
I crossed the five mile mark. I walked inside the area I said I wouldn’t go in. I tensed my shoulders, I stepped as lightly as I could, and I hoped no security guys took their job seriously enough to have constant perimeter searches.
The news had all but let my face fade. Only the magazines kept me alive, scraping together all the information they could pull from people, saying that someone had spotted me here or there.
I crossed the four mile mark. I started to run when I hit the three mile, two mile. I slowed at the mile mark. I looked around for cameras, for people who stood on the lookout. Closer and closer. I stopped finally. Half a mile from the house, not even inside the community. If I looked through the trees in just the right place, I could see the gated community. I walked along the perimeter of the half mile.
I stepped carefully over the branches. I looked around. I closed my eyes sometimes, thinking, seeing things. Hating things. loving things.
I snapped my eyes open at the patter of steps. I whipped my head around, and froze. I could see the road out of the gated community. I saw Joe on it. He looked around himself like a criminal. Like a criminal who didn’t know how to do things, not anything like me. In person he looked deader than he had in the press release. His shirt hid his gauze covered shoulder.
I took a step towards him. He had come all the way from the gate. He limped with each step, and his hand latched onto his shoulder. His fingers rubbed the back of his shoulder when he walked. I watched him take a step quicker and quicker, he started to run. His hand fell to his side; his limp all but disappeared.
I never saw Joe run before. Full out run. In all the times I’d had with him, he always matched my pace. He never went faster. I never saw him run like this. I sprinted after him, forcing my legs to match his strides, if not out reach his. He started to sweat, too soon for him to be healthy. He clenched his face in pain. I crashed through the woods, stumbling here and there.
I had lined up with him finally, but then he sprinted on ahead. A new burst of energy, he went faster and faster, his legs coming up and up. I stumbled to a stop. I pushed out of the woods, watching him move farther and farther away. He moved almost like he flew over the surface. Then he slowed. He started to round a bend, and there his legs kicked up again.
I wrapped my arms around my stomach; the cut still hadn’t fully healed. That’s what shitty drugs and a bad bed will do to you. I merged back into the trees, following along the road. I wondered how far Joe planned on running. Would he go back? Maybe not. I bit back a grin. Maybe he’d keep running and running. Easy pickings. Shallow faced and weak. So easy.
I picked up my walk to a light jog. I followed the drive around until it picked up into an actual road, but it couldn’t be considered a main road. Only about four cars ever passed on it everyday. Joe headed left. I followed him, staying far behind, watching.
He went onto another burst of hidden energy. I picked up my pace after him. His feet went faster and faster. His arms pumped with each step. I stumbled trying to keep the distance between us from closing. Faster and faster. His foot caught. He crashed to the ground. His hands splayed out to try and keep his head from hitting. He gave strangled scream. His shoulder popped out. His head fell against the pavement. I skitted to a stop. I took a step back, afraid he’d see me. Joe’s eyes snapped close, his legs curving in. I watched his breath puff in and out. In and out, his chest rose and fell.
I couldn’t move. I had to watch, to see. To see him. I needed him. I needed Joe, and this was how close I could get. I couldn’t get closer. I couldn’t reach out and touch him. If I did, it meant jail. It meant the beating and the cage. It meant a trial where I’d finally be caught, where I’d be an amateur. I would be nothing. If I could touch him without sentencing myself to the cage, what would my touch do? Nothing. Nothing good at least.
He might hit me. He might take his own swing at me. He could punch me, slap me, hurt me. He didn’t love me, the little fuck. I didn’t love him either. That’s why I turned around and I left him on the ground. That’s why the next day I waited by the road, and I followed him again as he ran out. I saw him hit the ground again, and then I left again. I came back day after day, and he did the same thing over and over again. Sometimes going farther, sometimes staying closer to the house. But I never waited for him to get back up. Seven times I saw him fall; hitting his face, his shoulder, his leg.
I waited on the eighth day. I didn’t think he’d come. I thought he would have left for the tour. But he appeared. He walked with a stronger limp He tried to start up into a light jog. He tried to keep it. But he couldn’t. His feet tripped into one another. They scuffed hard against the ground. I followed him slowly, watching him, stalking him.
Know thy enemy, thy prey, thy subject. Dad had beaten the phrase into my head. Know them well enough that you can predict their movements with your eyes closed. If you have to wait for two months before you know everything about them, then wait those two months. Don’t leave room for something to go wrong. Don’t leave room for them to go unpredictable on you.
I scraped my eyes over Joe. He hadn’t gone back to straightening his hair. Maybe he didn’t think anyone could see, maybe he didn’t have the strength to. Maybe I had broken his will so much. I didn’t put that much faith in myself, but how swell would that’ve been? He wore sweats and a t-shirt. They showed off the muscles in his arms. They showed off how much thinner he had gotten.
I followed him. Why did he keep running? Not to keep in shape. They had a gym at home. No one knew he was out here. No one stalked him like me; no one stalked him to protect him from me. Running, running from the thoughts I had planted in his head. The touch of my skin, the feeling of my tongue. I grinned. He wanted out I bet. He wanted out from it all, but it wouldn’t disappear. No, never. Never. Never. I twisted away right before I heard his body slam into the ground.
I came back later at night. I crept into the neighborhood. I pulled off my shoes. I pushed open a window. Not of the Jonas’ house, no. I didn’t know whose house I crept into. I slipped like a ghost over the floor. I climbed the stairs, the house built the same as the Jonas’. I pushed open the room that would be Joe’s.
I closed the door behind me, locking it. I found myself in a girl’s room. I coasted over to her. I skimmed my hand over her covers. I climbed onto bed with her. I straddled her carefully. She only moaned a little in her sleep. I trailed my hand to her neck, picking up the necklace that adorned her neck. I ran my fingers over the locket.
I put my hand over her mouth, the other one pinched her nose, and I waited.
I calmly took the thrashing and wide eyes. It took only a little bit for her to grow still, her eyes to flutter close. So peaceful she looked there. I waited a beat or two more. I picked up her wrist, waiting for a pulse. I didn’t find one.
I got off the bed and unlocked the door. I walked back down the kitchen, finding a beautiful knife. It cut smoothly across my finger. I pinched a drop of blood out into the sink. I walked back up to her room, the cold heart banging against my chest. I slid the door shut, pulling off my shirt and pushing against the crack in the door. I made sure the shade was closed on the window, simple things, routine things really from way back when. It seemed like forever ago, but then at the same time, it didn’t.
I snapped on the light by her bedside. A soft glow filled the room. I looked around her room with a glare. Posters hung all over her blue walls. Pictures of pop bands. Pictures of Disney bands. Pictures of the Jonas Brothers. I narrowed my eyes at a picture of Joe standing all along. She had drawn a heart on his chest.
I ripped the covers off of her body. I dropped them on the floor. I pushed her hair back, pulling her arms away from her side. I straightened out her legs with a harsh jerk. She was still warm to the touch.
I straddled her body again this time for the easiest access to her chest. I unclipped her necklace and put it around my neck. A pretty locket; it clicked against the dull heart. I wedged the knife into one side of her chest. I carved up a flap, right above her heart. Dead, so the blood didn’t flow as much. A cleaner way to cut up a body.
I pulled open the flap with my hand, peeling back the skin precisely. I dipped around to her side, cutting at the heart. I pulled it out, cradling it in my hand. I walked over to the side of her room. I stopped before Joe’s picture. I pressed her heart to the drawn one. I swished back the knife.
I stabbed her heart. I stabbed Joe’s chest. I heard the crack when it hit the plaster in the wall. I didn’t care. I snarled, pulling the locket off of my neck. I flung it over the handle of the knife. Blood oozed down slowly.
I turned back around to her poor dead body. I unclipped the necklace Joe had given me all that time ago. The one that made me the “Keeper of his heart” according to Dr. Quinter. I ripped it off the chain, and I jammed the heart into the girl’s chest. I pressed the skin over the gaping hole. I yanked the covers up to her chin.
I twisted around to her walls, and I found every picture of the Jonas Brothers. Ever picture I took the time to rip off Joe’s head. I let his paper, flat head flutter to the floor. All of them, no matter how small the picture.
Except the one where Joe smiled. I had joked with him at that photoshoot. He had a knife stabbed into him in that picture. The heart was his fault. It was his fault blood dribbled down his picture. Fucking his fault the girl died!
Not mine. No, no. Not mine. Fucking not mine! The ass killed people. Joe killed people. He didn’t care. What did he do to try to stop me? Nothing. What did he do to try and put a chase after me? Nothing. Nothing.
He.
Killed.
Her.
He.
Killed.
People.
It all started with him, and whatever he did to fuck up Mrs. Johnson.
The bitch. The old lady. My aunt.
I didn’t bother to grab my shoes before running again. One foot in front of the other. It’s not as easy as it sounds. It never will be, not for me. Not with Dad chuckling in my head, his hands brushing down my sides. His breath tickling at my ear, smelling of the beer and smoke.
His fault. Not mine.
~*~