(no subject)
special hell
lost. juliet. richard. ethan. pg-13. 875 words
three times juliet dislocates her shoulder.
The truth is, the first time it happens she didn’t feel anything. This is six months after the six months. Julian is three months. Lost yet? Doesn’t really matter. The point is, she was on the ground looking up at Ethan.
He kneels down in front of her. His hand, the one that cut through air and met her jaw and sent her to the wall, it was on her shoulder. Comforting, consoling. His eyebrows squeezed together in that way, apologetic.
The first time it happens, the very first time, not when Ethan hits her and it truly begins, not then then, there is no cracking sound of bones. Because of shock, because of disbelief, the right side of the brain’s completely total overwhelming. Logic told her it wasn’t possible, but it was, and later, two, maybe three seconds, the sharp pain begins.
On the ground, the floor of the rec room, the “training” room, where the pool table is, where everyone plays, she opens her mouth and in a lame attempt at shrugging Ethan off her shoulder blades contract.
And she screams.
The worst thing is no one told her the second time it happens. Alert, six months after six months after six months, when she’s a bit less reserved, a little angrier, her body waits for it.
She hits Richard and he does that thing where he only moves a fraction of what the human body is supposed to. His pretty face, it remains without scars. And he returns the punches, gung-ho and enjoying it.
The second time it happens, she’s nowhere near finished kicking Richard’s ass. That’s how far she’s come, how much she’s learned.
Outside, somewhere in the jungle, sweating and desperate, she kicks him in the shins, then the ribs. Richard bends over in front of her and Juliet, she kneels his chest.
At it going on four hours, Richard finally gives, lifting his hand in submission. A deep breath later he grins.
Juliet? She was fuck tired, but showing it wasn’t going to change the fact that Richard, the island’s very own doll Frankenstein, requested to stop.
He took a good look at her, aware of her frustration, and he asked, “What are you afraid of?”
It was a funny question, it made her want to laugh, but she didn’t. Juliet squeezed her fists, taped together in that way only Boxers do. “Nothing,” she said. The truth, sad but only because it meant other things.
Ethan’s spontaneous jabs during their fifth lesson, he never meant to hurt her hurt her, not honestly physically. Richard’s palm, stretched out in front of him as he ran, the force behind it real and frightening. It pushed Juliet back by her collarbone.
Pain was all mental; this was what Miss Freud said. She can’t call her by her real name as she was fucking her husband.
This is six months after six months after six months after six months.
Lost yet?
Doesn’t matter.
Juliet really didn’t give a fuck. Morality, ethics, doctors, islands, babies, smoke monsters... all that shit. Fucking another woman’s husband was a notch below. If there was a Hell, she was sure no one on the island was going. They were all special.
Special always meant thrown stones. Savants who could draw intricate skyscrapers but not tie their own shoes, these people were still picked on. Special like on orders extra big in fast food places, lotteries. Special, stupid special.
Everyone on the island had something, was something, and when she told herself this, the third time, on the floor of her house, she almost nearly believed it.
Miss Freud, Miss Queen Bitch, Miss I Fuck Your Husband, said, “It’s all up here. What you’re feeling. This disillusionment.”
Fuck disillusionment. She was tired, tired of fighting nothing, tired of waking up and letting her patients die. And this wasn’t self-pity, she was beyond that.
On the floor of her house, her neat little fucking house, the pain now more real than ever as it’s her only company. Juliet waits and waits, knowing no one will come.
The first time its popped back, Ethan swallowed hard until he counted to three, except... he never made it to three. It was a rule thing, anticipating hurts more. On the count of two, the crackling back of bones, and Juliet screamed again.
The second time its popped back, Juliet held on to Richard’s arms and they did it together. It had started to rain and Richard had given her his belt to bite her teeth in. He didn’t count, she still screamed. Over before it began, she just looked at him. “You wear a fucking belt?”
But The Ronettes play on the CD player, and it’s some happy song. And it’s the one time she doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to do this thing again, doesn’t want to deal with this, and she can’t get up.
Sad because she doesn’t cry. Because after a few seconds, two, maybe three, she puts her hand over her other shoulder and bites down on her own teeth. In a second’s moment she lifts herself up and pushes her hand down as she falls.
It hurts like hell. She doesn't scream.
.end
lost. juliet. richard. ethan. pg-13. 875 words
three times juliet dislocates her shoulder.
The truth is, the first time it happens she didn’t feel anything. This is six months after the six months. Julian is three months. Lost yet? Doesn’t really matter. The point is, she was on the ground looking up at Ethan.
He kneels down in front of her. His hand, the one that cut through air and met her jaw and sent her to the wall, it was on her shoulder. Comforting, consoling. His eyebrows squeezed together in that way, apologetic.
The first time it happens, the very first time, not when Ethan hits her and it truly begins, not then then, there is no cracking sound of bones. Because of shock, because of disbelief, the right side of the brain’s completely total overwhelming. Logic told her it wasn’t possible, but it was, and later, two, maybe three seconds, the sharp pain begins.
On the ground, the floor of the rec room, the “training” room, where the pool table is, where everyone plays, she opens her mouth and in a lame attempt at shrugging Ethan off her shoulder blades contract.
And she screams.
The worst thing is no one told her the second time it happens. Alert, six months after six months after six months, when she’s a bit less reserved, a little angrier, her body waits for it.
She hits Richard and he does that thing where he only moves a fraction of what the human body is supposed to. His pretty face, it remains without scars. And he returns the punches, gung-ho and enjoying it.
The second time it happens, she’s nowhere near finished kicking Richard’s ass. That’s how far she’s come, how much she’s learned.
Outside, somewhere in the jungle, sweating and desperate, she kicks him in the shins, then the ribs. Richard bends over in front of her and Juliet, she kneels his chest.
At it going on four hours, Richard finally gives, lifting his hand in submission. A deep breath later he grins.
Juliet? She was fuck tired, but showing it wasn’t going to change the fact that Richard, the island’s very own doll Frankenstein, requested to stop.
He took a good look at her, aware of her frustration, and he asked, “What are you afraid of?”
It was a funny question, it made her want to laugh, but she didn’t. Juliet squeezed her fists, taped together in that way only Boxers do. “Nothing,” she said. The truth, sad but only because it meant other things.
Ethan’s spontaneous jabs during their fifth lesson, he never meant to hurt her hurt her, not honestly physically. Richard’s palm, stretched out in front of him as he ran, the force behind it real and frightening. It pushed Juliet back by her collarbone.
Pain was all mental; this was what Miss Freud said. She can’t call her by her real name as she was fucking her husband.
This is six months after six months after six months after six months.
Lost yet?
Doesn’t matter.
Juliet really didn’t give a fuck. Morality, ethics, doctors, islands, babies, smoke monsters... all that shit. Fucking another woman’s husband was a notch below. If there was a Hell, she was sure no one on the island was going. They were all special.
Special always meant thrown stones. Savants who could draw intricate skyscrapers but not tie their own shoes, these people were still picked on. Special like on orders extra big in fast food places, lotteries. Special, stupid special.
Everyone on the island had something, was something, and when she told herself this, the third time, on the floor of her house, she almost nearly believed it.
Miss Freud, Miss Queen Bitch, Miss I Fuck Your Husband, said, “It’s all up here. What you’re feeling. This disillusionment.”
Fuck disillusionment. She was tired, tired of fighting nothing, tired of waking up and letting her patients die. And this wasn’t self-pity, she was beyond that.
On the floor of her house, her neat little fucking house, the pain now more real than ever as it’s her only company. Juliet waits and waits, knowing no one will come.
The first time its popped back, Ethan swallowed hard until he counted to three, except... he never made it to three. It was a rule thing, anticipating hurts more. On the count of two, the crackling back of bones, and Juliet screamed again.
The second time its popped back, Juliet held on to Richard’s arms and they did it together. It had started to rain and Richard had given her his belt to bite her teeth in. He didn’t count, she still screamed. Over before it began, she just looked at him. “You wear a fucking belt?”
But The Ronettes play on the CD player, and it’s some happy song. And it’s the one time she doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to do this thing again, doesn’t want to deal with this, and she can’t get up.
Sad because she doesn’t cry. Because after a few seconds, two, maybe three, she puts her hand over her other shoulder and bites down on her own teeth. In a second’s moment she lifts herself up and pushes her hand down as she falls.
It hurts like hell. She doesn't scream.
.end