Summary: Lisa dreams a dream of disturbia.
Disclaimer: Red Eye does not belong to me.
A/N: Can't say this is my best work – or my worst. Lmao. Hopefully, I'm the only one who remembers Gone/The Sly New Slytherin.
He tightens his hold on her, so hard that she can barely breathe. The knife flashes with the streaks of blood, glinting in the sunlight.
She doesn't scream.
---
Each morning she awakens, shaken from her dream. She knows she should see a psychiatrist about it because they constantly plague her, but she's too embarrassed and too wary and too tired of seeing the pity make the shrink's hands tremble, despite a clinical voice. It's sick and its taboo, but he's destroyed everything about her, everything she's ever known. She had thought the rape was humiliating and degrading but this was so much worse, because Jackson had infiltrated her emotions and dreams, had even combined her old tormenter with her new, to make a mockery of her life at night when she couldn't fight off the weight of her eyelids.
It's funny; before she met Jackson she could hardly sleep. Insomnia plaguing her every hour of the night. She couldn't bear to close her eyes, to be vulnerable ever again. But ever since she had defeated Jackson, she could easily sleep throughout the whole night. Perhaps it was because she subconsciously realized she could kick his fucking ass so why couldn't she kick his ass out of her dreams. Or perhaps it is for entirely different reasons (reasons that cannot be spoken in daylight).
All she knows that when she goes home tonight she is too exhausted to fight it off. The midnight wraith is allowed to crawl into bed with her, and Lisa can help but deny that she almost curls into it.
---
It's always the same. It's daylight, the middle of the day. Lisa is walking to her car, when he comes. He presses a knife to her throat to keep her from crying out, and Lisa can't help but cry. He tears through her skirt, pausing to cut away her blouse, causing a laceration to color her pale skin a horrible red. She can feel the bile rise up in her throat and she tries to struggle but it's futile. She isn't strong enough. She will never be strong enough.
"Hey, buddy," a familiar voice pierces the dream, and suddenly it all shifts. "Need a hand?" There is something irrevocably cold about that voice, and she shivers.
Her attacker snarls at Jackson. Something along the lines of 'Get your own!' spilling from his lips (her manager easily classifies his accent as downtown New York with a little bit of Brooklyn, but it isn't enough for the report she files later).
"I don't think so," Jackson said, a cruel smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "She's mine." A large, familiar knife is instantly in his hand. And he guts the other man so easily.
Lisa should not be relishing in the carnage of it all, but the blood cools her skin and she feels the fever of fright wash away. The blood thirst in her eyes nearly matches his own.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Jackson's eyes are concerned and slightly crazed with possessiveness. He traces the cut on her chest in worry before wrapping his arms around her. He tightens his hold on her, so hard that she can barely breathe. The knife flashes with the streaks of blood, glinting in the sunlight.
She doesn't scream. She's too busy trying to remind herself that it isn't real. That he doesn't love her.
"Whatever female-based, emotion-driven dilemma you may be dealing with right now, you have my sympathy."
Fin.