Twisted Pretzel Chapter 11: Happy Halloween
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 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26
~*~
You don’t have to have a girlfriend or boyfriend to have sex. You don’t even need a friend. You could have sex with a random stranger, like I prefer, because then it goes with no strings attached, because you’ve never met them before in your pathetically short life. It’s like when you see someone in the parking lot, chances are you’re never going to see them ever again. That’s how sex can be. If you have sex in the parking lot with a random person, you’re probably not going to stalk the person. Unless you’re weirder and more fucked up than I am. So neither of you will ever have to face the other if the sex was bad. It’s good that way.
Joe avoided me for three weeks; whenever I ever tried to talk to him, he was always off doing something. He didn’t come in at night to ask me anything, to steal a kiss for honesty, and there was no Garbo either. No Garbo to kiss or hit or yell at. I needed to kiss someone or kill something, soon. Now. Or I was going to go insane.
I wanted so badly to figure out where the hell a club was and walk the fuck over to it. Joe wasn’t sufficient enough to fuck at the moment and raping him probably wouldn’t go over well in the grand scheme of things, even if I promised to make it good. But I couldn’t go to a club, no, of course not. I couldn’t go outside without protection because of the stupid photo boy’s death; and I couldn’t very well ask a religious family with purity rings to go out to a club so I could screw someone instead of killing someone. And shit, and I needed something. There were only so many times it would make me feel better to cut up little stolen action figures. Frankie, sorry if they were supposed to be some sort of collector’s item.
I growled in frustration, staring at my sketch book. I drew a heart. I drew a sword through it. I drew the heart bleeding. I tore out the heart, ripped it apart, and threw it away.
If only they had fish. I could kill a fish and blame it on the dog. I could say the dog ate the damn fish, but really it would’ve been me who had torn it from the water and cut out its eyes and ripped off its scales one by one. I drew the fish and I drew someone pulling off the scales and I laughed because I was so pathetic.
I ripped the page out and force-fed it to the evil dog when no one was looking.
I sat and thought about how I could do what I needed to do without hurting someone. I could probably get Nick, like I had threatened when I had first come here. I might even be able to grab Kevin. I could-
“Flash?” My heart jumped at the nickname, and I turned, hoping to find Joe, but all I found was Frankie. I slumped. I didn’t want to talk to Frankie today. “What’s wrong with Joe?”
I snapped my head back to Frankie who had closed the door and was standing and staring at me.
“What’s wrong with Joe?” I asked back.
Frankie frowned back at me. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“You’re family, you should know.”
“Well so are you.” I scowled when I couldn’t think of anything to respond to that. “See. So tell me what’s wrong with him.”
“I don’t know. He’s not talking to me.”
“Why not?”
I refused to say anything. Telling an eight or so year old it was because I made-out with another guy and his brother got all weird about it, had to be awkward, considering Frankie didn’t even know that Joe and I had been making-out. Not like he would believe me one way or another. Joe didn’t do making out with guys. Hell, he probably didn’t even do making-out, being a “pure” Jonas and all. Well not anymore. Won’t be when I’m done with him.
Frankie huffed. “I think he’s sick. He’s in the stupid studio all the time, and he doesn’t do that. Nick’s the one who does that.” I sighed, flopping back down on the bed, not even able to follow Frankie's train of thought. I didn’t care what Nick did, ever. Frankie though, apparently needed someone to talk to, and I was the only one who would let him talk, so he kept talking. “It wasn’t even this bad after Taylor, he barely said anything, but he didn’t just lock himself in there. It’s bad. I know that.
“He’s not getting enough sun down in the studio. It doesn’t have any windows because it’s in the basement, and you need sun to live. It messes with your mind if you don’t get sun. There was this one guy who did a study with sun, he locked people in a rooms, with no windows and no sun, but, like, with lights, and told them a tree was a dog all day long, and that a dog was a tree. Then after weeks of absolutely no sunlight, he let the people out, full grown adults, and he pointed to a tree and asked what it was. The people said the tree was a dog. Joe’s not going to think a tree’s a dog, will he?”
I rolled over. He’s pathetic. “I have no idea.”
“He’s not eating either. He got kind of thinner. I know how everyone was saying he was getting kind of fat. But-”
“Who said he was fat?” I asked, sitting up. Joe was not fat; he was a sculpted muscle mass of hotness.
Frankie waved it off quickly. “Someone’s always saying we’re all fat. But that’s not the point. The point is he’s finally listening to it or something. Mom doesn’t seem to think too much of it right now. He’s coming up to eat food sometimes, and Dad just isn’t home like he used to be. He’s going all out for the tour. You know, we’re family, but right now it doesn’t seem like it, ya know?”
I shrugged, lying back down. I really didn’t know what a family felt like. This felt like a family, I guess. But how would I know? Well, I guess I did know what family felt like, but only my kind of family. Most people didn’t have the kind of family I had.
“I don’t want to go out on tour with us not being together.” He sighed and plopped down next to me. “You know, I wish you were a girl.”
I almost choked. I bolted up, staring at the kid. “What?”
“Yeah,” Frankie replied, not even the least bit phased, “because then you could be with Joe, and he wouldn’t worry about girlfriends.”
I sighed, flopping back into the abundance of pillows. The family really liked pillows. “You’re weird.”
Frankie shrugged. “It makes sense. I like you. You’d be nice to have as a sister-in-law.”
“What about brother-in-law?”
“Or that, but then Joe would have to be a girl, and that would just be weird. You already look like a girl, so it wouldn’t be that bad.”
“Why can’t I be a guy and Joe be a guy?”
Frankie shook his head at me. “You just don’t do that.”
My mouth formed a small “O” as what Frankie said sunk into me. I don’t know if I was mad at Mr. and Mrs. Jonas or not. All around them gays were coming out, we were getting married and taking our own place in society, but here little Frankie Jonas was saying it was wrong. Actually, it did nothing but hurt. It meant they didn’t really accept me, because I liked guys, males, things with a penis, and there was no way they didn’t know that.
“Where’s Joe?” I finally asked.
“Are you going to ask him to become a girl?”
I snorted at Frankie. I forgot he was so young sometimes. “No, I’m going to talk to him. See if he’ll eat more.”
“He’s in the studio, but you can’t go down there. No one is allowed down when someone else is recording.”
“He’s probably just down there pitying himself.”
“Why?”
I shook my head. I really had no answer to that. “I’m going to sit in front of the studio door.”
Frankie grinned at me. “This is why you would be good for Joe. You care.”
I'm good for Joe, because I was going to kill him, but to kill him I needed a picture of us on the wall and make him a sobbing mess beforehand.
I pushed that thought away, grabbing my sketch book and moving to my new station in front of the studio door. The evil dog followed me, and Frankie went off to do whatever. The dog sat down in front of me, and I drew it.
I drew the dog lying on the floor, surrounded by an imaginary fireplace and comfy room. There were windows on either side of the fireplace. With curtains. The curtains caught fire and started to spread around the room. They consumed everything, while the little dog slept. I turned to the next page and drew the dog.
The dog was dead. Charred.
I turned the page and drew the kitchen. And on the kitchen was the set of carving knives. An arm appeared on the kitchen table, connecting to the arm was a body, which extended into legs and another arm. Then on the top was a head. A head with no eyes or lips or nose. A rounded circle with hair. I didn’t fill in the head, because I could already tell who it was going to be. It didn’t take a genius to figure out. I was told to kill him.
There was no heart in the body, you could see the hole where it would’ve been, and I laughed at it.
I didn’t bother taking the picture out. I flipped to the next page. I found the heart on the next page. It wasn’t up on the wall like I was told to do it; it was squished in a hand. My hand. I could tell with the nails, even though it was all shaded in blood. Mrs. Johnson’s hand was out beneath it, and there was blood spilling out of her own hand.
I tumbled as the door behind me opened. I flipped the book closed, and turned around to find Joe. Without even looking at me, he started to hurry off.
“Stop,” I growled at him. He hesitated, and I took that moment to grab his arm, yanking him to a standstill. The sketch book lay on the ground forgotten.
“What do you want?”
I chuckled at how cliché the line sounded. When the main character of the story asks that and they pretend they have no idea what the other wants they really have every single clue. Joe frowned, trying to jerk away. I knew Joe had every single clue what I wanted.
“No, wait,” I said. I could hit myself at how pathetic I sounded. “Can we talk?”
“We’re talking now,” he said back automatically.
“You know what I mean. In private.” I tugged him to my room, but he refused to go that way. “Fine,” I snarled. “We’ll talk here, is that what you want?”
Joe didn’t look at me. I growled, fucking bitch.
“Okay, so let me guess. Here it goes. You’re acting like an ass, because I kis-”
“Shut up,” Joe hissed at me, and I smiled, pleased at some reaction. He snatched his arm away from me, and my victory disappeared. I slammed Joe around into the wall, but I think he let me do it, because the next minute our positions switched, his body hot against mine. “Don’t touch me,” he seethed. I pressed forward, trying to get my lips to any part of him, but he was gone before that could happen.
I spun around, glaring at him as he moved off in the other direction. “Go fuck your brother!” I howled after him. He disappeared through the door and I spun to smash my fist against the wall. Again and again and again.
I was calm as my hand started to throb. I shook it gently, before deeming it, and me, fine. I took a deep breath. I was chill. I was calm.
I kicked the wall, screaming.
“Per” - kick - “fect” - kick - “ly” - kick - “fi” - kick - “ne!”
I ignored Nick when he came down to see what all the noise was. Actually, I think he took one look at me, and decided it would be best to ignore me.
I moved into the kitchen, one single thought present in my mind. I saw the set of knives gleaming as they always did in the corner under the cabinets, and there was the one I had killed the photographer with.
I palmed the knife as I passed it, sliding it into my waist band, before going up to Joe’s room. My steps were silent as I moved up the wooden steps. I pushed into his room without knocking, not caring if he was there or not.
His room was messier than that first night I had been in it. There were clothes spewed around the room and drawers partly open. His bed was the only thing that was made. Actually, it looked like it was the only thing unused. Off the top of his dresser, I snatched his favorite hoodie.
I pulled it on top of my tight fitting shirt. It was big and baggy, covering my whole butt. I wanted to be sexy, I wanted to feel wanted, even if it was just for my body, but more than that, I wanted Joe’s smell. That was why I didn’t mind that the hoodie made me look rumbled and pathetic, because it smelled like him, and that was all that matter. It made him seem close. It made him seem a part of me, and I could imagine he was with me, even though he wasn't. This would be his punishment. He was doing what I was doing now. Poor him, didn't want to have any part of me. I would take a part of him. All in due time. I would take his heart, in all ways possible.
I moved back out the door to my room. Frankie wasn’t in it anymore. I closed the door behind me, locking it, and then pushed the dresser, mirror and all, up against it for good measure. I opened up all the drawers, pulling out the globs and globs of makeup I had, that Joe had bought for me. The ones we had bought together, laughing and joking with Joe’s teasing touches. I needed to get dolled up. I needed to go out.
I needed to be me and all that entitled.
I needed to be bitchy and slutty and whorey and a ho. I didn’t care if people knew me because of Jonas. I didn’t care that it could ruin their image. I didn’t fucking care, I just needed to get out. Or I would hurt someone. I would kill someone. It wasn’t the right time for that, I wasn’t ready for that.
I put on the bases, covering everything up on my face.
Expensive stick after expensive stick of eyeliner went onto the table, liquid tubes and roll ons, and every single one I picked up, and every color, I couldn’t put it on. Until I got to black. Simple, scary black.
Pencil.
It was brand new, never been used before, some thirty dollar stick. Who the fuck paid thirty dollars for eyeliner?
Hooker. Ho. Whore. Slut.
I ripped the plastic off, fingers scrabbling to find a sharpener. The other sticks skirted across the counter, and I couldn’t find the sharpener. “Fuck,” I breathed out. I needed this so badly. Like someone needs a smoke or drink, I needed eyeliner, this eyeliner. Right now. It was stupid, laugh at me.
I pulled out the knife, and, with practice that only comes from using blades so much, I cut away layer after layer to get to the makeup. I hated how easy it was for me to maneuver the knife. It was scary. I shouldn’t be able to do it. I shouldn’t even be touching a knife. I was seventeen for fuck’s sake. I had killed Mommy.
I rimmed my eyes, darker and darker and darker.
When I finally put the pencil down, I didn’t like how I looked. Like a porcelain doll, like whore perfection.
Smokey, slutty, fuckable, even in a sweatshirt too big, and with the dark skinny jeans I had on. It made me look all legs.
I looked hot. Fucking cunt.
I stabbed the mirror. It shattered. I stabbed it again. I stabbed the little pieces as they skipped to the dresser, and my knife made dents in the wood. I yanked my knife out and hit the little glass pieces until they were too small to show any reflection.
When I looked up, I just saw a brown back board where the mirror had been. Empty.
I pulled on a pair of boots. They made my legs longer.
I pushed the dresser away slowly, so I could get the door open. Glass crunched under it and my boots. I liked the shattering sound.
I closed my door carefully behind me, afraid to make any noise now. I didn’t know how late it was, but it was dark out, after dinner. I didn’t think I would be allowed out, but I wanted out. So badly. I fingered the knife in the hoodie, sliding my finger along it enough to feel the pressure, but not to cut. I barely glanced at the photo wall on my way past it. There was a dent on the floor where I had made the picture fall. No one had said anything to me about the picture. Its place on the wall remained empty.
I left the house. I don’t know if anyone paid attention to the little alarm that went off when the door was opened. Frankly, I didn’t care. I was out. I was happy. I was free. I pulled the hood as low as it would go. There were no stupid photographers. Too late. They were too scared they’d face the same fate as the last one. They would die like he did. Painful, so so painful.
I took a deep breath.
Winter air at night and Joe.
I loved the click my boots made on the asphalt. I loved how there were only a few lampposts to light my way. I moved quicker and quicker following the single main road. I barely recognized anything, not really carrying. I don’t know how long I was walking, but I hit an empty gate house. I turned away from it, going farther down the gate that surrounded the neighborhood, disappearing into the woods. I found it hilarious that they had a fence, like a prison. Did they know there were creepy people like me in here?
I laughed, pushing my hand through the gap between rails. My whole hand felt free, and it was pathetic. I withdrew my hand, and ran it along the cool bars starting off slow, and then going quicker as I started running.
I slid the knife out, ringing it along the metal.
I froze as something moved in the bushes behind me. I turned around slowly, tucking the knife up my sleeve for safe keeping, curled fingers keeping it still.
“Hello,” I purred, moving towards the moving branches. Maybe it was Joe, maybe it was a neighbor, or maybe it was a little animal I could kill. Kill. How sweet that thought sung to me. “Come out, come out,” I whispered. I knew something was back there. It wasn’t what I thought it would be as the thing stepped out. It was Bodyguard Cookie. Oh from way back when I’d gone to the set, he’d been in the car with me.
Apparently, he had been following me out here.
He looked as fuckable as before. He looked as yummy as before. I hardened just thinking about cutting him, sticking my knife into him and twisting everything I could touch on him. Oh, oh, oh, horrible time to see me at night. Was he trying to be a knight in shining armor? Save me from the evil witch?
“You’re not supposed to be out here. The person who got the journalist isn’t caught yet.”
How did I know that was why he was out here? How did I know that before he said so? Thank Daddy. Thank him so very much for the person I am. Moving towards him, I gave a sharp laugh at his words and concern. I don’t know how I did it, but my boots didn’t make a sound as I came towards him. “It's been what, two, almost three, months? Maybe it was just an early Halloween joke. You know the Devil’s holiday has already come and gone, don’t you? I don’t even remember being asked to go trick-or-treating.”
“Tristan, come on, you need to get back.”
“Three months,” I whispered, I couldn’t believe the time for myself. I had accomplished nothing in three months. I should’ve been done two months ago. It never took me longer than a month. Never before. “Do you really think the killer’s hung around for three months? If they were smart, they would’ve moved on.” I stared at Bodyguard Cookie, waiting for him to make the next move.
“It could still be unsafe. You don’t know for sure.” I knew for sure he hadn’t. I knew for sure you were staring at him. I knew for sure. You knew the same amount of what I accomplished, nothing.
“But I have you with me,” I purred, stepping forward. “You’ll keep me safe.” I shook my hood down, smiling as I stopped only a breath away from him. My blonde head of hair hung in tangles and clumps. Did I look like a ghost? Was he afraid of me? I knew he was. Even as he tried to hide it.
He was so unsure of himself.
I was sure he thought he was doing a good job hiding it, but he wasn’t. I couldn’t pick up on happy thoughts or proud ones, but I’d been brought up to pick out the insecure ones. The ones that made you feel angry and lost. I could pick up patterns by looking at someone. I could read a person in just a few moments. That’s what made it so easy for me to kill, because people sucked at hiding themselves. They stunk at protecting what was most vulnerable, valuable. Reading kept me alive all those years with Daddy.
“Come on,” he said.
I shook my head at him like he was a small child. He had just gotten an answer wrong. “No, we can’t do it back at the house.” I was a breath away from him. My hand brushed up against his leg. “Someone would hear. Someone would know.”
I pulled out the knife, and carefully bent down to stick it into the ground between us. Coming up, I pressed my cheek into his groin, and I was pleased to see he really did want me. My luck he was at least more than forty percent bi. I nudged him, and at his sharp intake of breath, I took the nudge to be well received.
I could almost hear his protests. I knew the thoughts running through him mind. I knew them all. It was just like when I had to get a loyal husband to fuck me. I let the same words roll off of my tongue. The same well used ones of mine. “I won’t tell. Just you and me will know, and if you don’t tell…” I trailed off. I pulled his hands to the edge of my hoodie, Joe’s hoodie. Joe will have a hand in all this. Bodyguard Cookie roughly pulled the fabric over my head, and I didn’t even worry about it smudging my makeup. He was game for this. He didn’t care about my look. I pulled my own shirt off, shivering at the cold air. The clothes fell in a pile away. A nice pile from a safe distance.
Texas gets cold at night, did you know that?
I swiftly bent to grab the knife back up, and held it up for Cookie to see. I slowly slid my tongue around it. I moaned just for him, the audience I had wanted for so long. I gently ran the slick metal over my stomach, right up my freshly healed scar.
“Beautiful,” I muttered, watching the knife, while imagining what would happen next.
I flicked my wrist around. I thrusted the metal into my bodyguard’s stomach. He gasped. I beamed. I wished him a “Happy late Halloween.” I wrenched the blade out. The red glimmered for a moment in the moon’s rays. I stabbed him again. He grunted.
Blood pooled into the heavy fabric. I tugged the knife out, shivering at how beautiful it sounded. At the soft squish of blood and flesh. He collapsed to the ground and all it took was a simple push to have him on his back. His eyes were screaming. I kneeled over him.
I sliced upwards through the three layers he was wearing, pushing them all back, so I could see the beautiful hole I had made. My stomach squirmed in pleasure at the sight, at his sounds. He wasn’t a screamer, and I didn’t want one of those right now, yet. You would think he’d be screaming with all the pain, but he wasn’t, just panting. I moaned at the sound. I stabbed the knife into the ground, leaving my hands free. I put my hand to the wound and softly pressed down. There was a gasp, and I savored it. Maybe he thought I was saving him, stopping the blood. Silly, silly.
I closed my eyes to moan in pleasure as blood pumped out onto my hands, seeping through my fingers, beautiful and gorgeous. I opened my eyes to look at the red. I watched as I gently pried at the flesh around the edge. Gasps, grunts, and then a piercing scream of pain.
I shivered and attacked with my nails, digging into the surrounding flesh, prying the hole larger. Pussy and mushy. Halloween coming late this year for him. Time for tricks that came from no treats. No treats. The bad boy. Where were my treats? No treats, so he received tricks. My tricks. I pulled my one hand back, and looked at it. The whole hand caked in absolute blood. I opened and closed my hand to keep the blood from hardening my fingers into place as Cookie started screaming.
I glanced up at his face, streaked with sweat, eyes clenched close. “Open your eyes,” I commanded. I wanted him to see this. I needed to have my audience, feel the thrill. I forced pressure on the wound. He let out a whimper. “Open them!” I shouted. He did.
I let the pressure go on his wound, and a screech followed my movement. Screamer now. How did he know that was exactly what I wanted? How did I know he would react this way? I knew everything about him. One look. I had been taught to know how to break someone with one look. I smirked as he forced himself to keep his eyes on my face, because I’d made him. “Don’t I look pretty?”
“Yes,” he panted out.
“Slutty?” I questioned.
“No.” I slammed my fist down to his chest, above his heart - his pounding, beating heart - and he corrected himself, “Y - uh...” He sobbed, and I moaned along in delight.
He whimpered and kept his eyes on me. I moved my head down to his stomach, licking the blood, feeling the abs underneath the liquid: each little rise and crevice of his toned body. It was pumping up and down so quickly, his breathing labored, his skin flushing and paling at the same time.
I rested my cheek in the pooling blood, on his stomach. I moved my hand down to the wound area, feeling around it again, sighing at each sharp cry as I moved closer to the center, the stab. I tickled around the area for just a second, feeling the width, before plunging my whole hand in.
He screamed and withered. I laughed and, with the hand in his stomach, pushed up to sitting position. With my motion came the most beautiful sound, the so pure and un-checked screaming I adored. I love the sound. Love. Love. Was it the only thing I could love? I clenched and unclenched my fingers in his stomach, power darting through me. I loved power too. I could feel each little part of him in there, all his little organs. I tugged at one then another, watching my wrist move, half submerged in blood. He stopped screaming after a while, just laid there panting, crying, warm blood flowing over my arm.
I twisted my hand around, and then yanked it out, more blood coming with me and something clunky and tattered. He didn’t scream at that, he was so far gone. He was muttering. I leaned in close to listen, loving this part when it happened.
He was saying how he was sorry. He was talking to God, and whispering things to his little sister. He thought that was me. He said he was sorry he had ever said anything mean. He was sorry he couldn’t get her an autograph. He was sorry he couldn’t be there on her wedding. He talked and talked and talked. I asked who his sister was.
“Miranda,” he choked out. He was crying, and with the edge of my knife I scraped away his tears. He lifted his hand up to cup my cheek. “God, Miranda, I’m sorry.”
I plunged to the side of his heart, and his hand fell away. I carved along the outside, chipping through bones. I made a complete heart around his beating heart. I peeled away the skin with my fingers as quickly as I could go, and I ripped his heart out. I tore it away from the body and held it in my hand. I squeezed it, and blood pumped out of it.
I imagined a hand below it. I let the heart fall, imagining the hand catching it. But nothing caught the heart. It fell onto Cookie’s body, and rolled off onto the leaves. It sat in a pile of blood.
I stared at it.
“Happy Halloween,” I muttered.
Halloween was almost a whole month past.
I sat there, cold in just my shirt.
Did you know it got cold at night in Texas?
I wiped my hands on the ground.
I wiped my eyes that were wet. I smudged my makeup with blood. I don’t know if it was by accident. I kicked off my boots. They had blood in them. I stripped off my pants, they were covered in blood.
I carefully pulled out a lighter from inside Cookie’s vest. Did they know he smoked?
I lit the place on fire. I watched it burn. I made it burn. My boots burned and my jeans burned. Miranda’s brother burned, and the heart burned.
I scooped up the hoodie and shirt, they were free from blood. I put them on, and I watched the forest start to burn, before going home.
Funny that I thought of the Jonas house as home. Funny that I thought of the Jonas family as my family. I was going to kill Joe. I was going to hurt them all.
I slipped inside, and no seemed to notice me, the house was so quiet. But that just might be because they had to go somewhere. The family always had to take off to go somewhere for their job.
Joe had once said his job wasn’t really a job, it’s his way of life.
That’s me too.
I stripped and got into the shower.
It’s funny how Joe and I can relate.
I washed the blood off, and I washed off my makeup, and I felt a little sad at the loss of my favorite pair of jeans.
Oh well.
~*~