(no subject)
Player: interlude_adieu
Subject: Jackson Rippner
Table: C
Prompt: 3. Grateful
three.
On May 7th, well past midnight, Jackson Rippner was hurrying out the door. The alarm clock by Lisa Reisert’s bed kept blinking in time to the throbbing in his head the very object had caused. He didn’t look down to his watch, didn’t know the exact time. He was always a punctual man, and only half an hour before he had timed it. Enter at 11:30, be out by 12:05.
By the time he was under proper cover, a nearby park with his car nearby, he looked at his watch. 12:19.
The bark of the tree next to him dug into his knuckles before he could blink, fist thrown into the wood. His heart thudded loudly against the throbbing at his temple and damnit. Damnit.
Lisa Reisert was alive, the knife strapped to his leg clean. Unused. He had bought it for this alone. Years ago someone had told him every man deserved a clean death. A gentleman always offered such. He had laughed. Ridiculous. (He still remembered the words verbatim).
It came down to respect. Lies, truth, life, death- he respected Lisa. He hated her, she was a distraction, her existence was an insult, dangerous. She had looked at him with wide eyes and said thank you. She was mocking him.
His fists were clenched so hard his nails dug into the skin of his palm. Thanks for saving her. The very reason he had come tonight. She was mocking him, the whole situation- he should have killed her. He didn’t, because- because he-
With a long exhale he let his hand fall to his side, relaxing. Because he couldn’t. No, not that. Because he didn’t want to.
He didn’t want to kill Lisa Reisert, not anymore. Now it was- he enjoyed it, their game. He enjoyed the conversations, learning more each turn. He enjoyed watching her squirm, seeing her give up her petty weaknesses one by one. How she never got dull, even now, even after all this time. How the sharpness in her eyes was so very much like his own.
The phone buzzed again in his pocket and he ignored it, flexing his now sore hand with idle curiosity. She had said thank you and she had meant it. That night he had told her she was nothing and he had lied. He couldn't help the laugh. How had it come to this?
Every trained part of him said to kill her. His next exhale was shaky, adrenaline filled. He had never felt so in control all his life.
At 12:39 Jackson Rippner picked up his phone when it vibrated urgently in his pocket. He let his voice seem a smile and soothed the irate man on the other end. Quirked his brow and glanced up as he held the phone to his ear. France- it had been a while.
He shut the phone at 12:45, glancing back only once (twice) in the direction he came. He was still shaking.
Subject: Jackson Rippner
Table: C
Prompt: 3. Grateful
three.
On May 7th, well past midnight, Jackson Rippner was hurrying out the door. The alarm clock by Lisa Reisert’s bed kept blinking in time to the throbbing in his head the very object had caused. He didn’t look down to his watch, didn’t know the exact time. He was always a punctual man, and only half an hour before he had timed it. Enter at 11:30, be out by 12:05.
By the time he was under proper cover, a nearby park with his car nearby, he looked at his watch. 12:19.
The bark of the tree next to him dug into his knuckles before he could blink, fist thrown into the wood. His heart thudded loudly against the throbbing at his temple and damnit. Damnit.
Lisa Reisert was alive, the knife strapped to his leg clean. Unused. He had bought it for this alone. Years ago someone had told him every man deserved a clean death. A gentleman always offered such. He had laughed. Ridiculous. (He still remembered the words verbatim).
It came down to respect. Lies, truth, life, death- he respected Lisa. He hated her, she was a distraction, her existence was an insult, dangerous. She had looked at him with wide eyes and said thank you. She was mocking him.
His fists were clenched so hard his nails dug into the skin of his palm. Thanks for saving her. The very reason he had come tonight. She was mocking him, the whole situation- he should have killed her. He didn’t, because- because he-
With a long exhale he let his hand fall to his side, relaxing. Because he couldn’t. No, not that. Because he didn’t want to.
He didn’t want to kill Lisa Reisert, not anymore. Now it was- he enjoyed it, their game. He enjoyed the conversations, learning more each turn. He enjoyed watching her squirm, seeing her give up her petty weaknesses one by one. How she never got dull, even now, even after all this time. How the sharpness in her eyes was so very much like his own.
The phone buzzed again in his pocket and he ignored it, flexing his now sore hand with idle curiosity. She had said thank you and she had meant it. That night he had told her she was nothing and he had lied. He couldn't help the laugh. How had it come to this?
Every trained part of him said to kill her. His next exhale was shaky, adrenaline filled. He had never felt so in control all his life.
At 12:39 Jackson Rippner picked up his phone when it vibrated urgently in his pocket. He let his voice seem a smile and soothed the irate man on the other end. Quirked his brow and glanced up as he held the phone to his ear. France- it had been a while.
He shut the phone at 12:45, glancing back only once (twice) in the direction he came. He was still shaking.