Hey all, ok so I'm not even sure if this is good or not but meh I've written it.
And I would like to dedicate it (only if it is actually any good, lol) to Dollyrocker85 for convincing me to write it up and I strongly suggest you all go and read her fantastic Molly/Jim fanfiction Unlovable.
Anyway I hope you like it.
JJ X x
I don't really tell people about my past, my life before I learned how to play properly, play with the ordinary people. Then again I guess no one ever asked…until one day they did.
Little Molly Hooper was stood there so near tears it was almost laughable because she was breaking up with me and I could have laughed or strangled her, I hadn't really decided and I guess the little mouse noticed.
I'd never really been baffled before, speechless but as she back's away with a tear rolling down one cheek with those big sad eyes of hers that made me wish for a small red dot between them and the silent click of the trigger she asked "how did you get like this?"
Hate.
Big word hate, I used to think I knew what hate was, but I didn't really. After all I was just a child, just a whimpering, annoying, brilliant child. A child who liked to pull the wings off fly's, catch butterfly's and pin them into my little case I made at school, solve puzzles and jig-saw's and play in the park; the swing was my favorite, being able to see the top of the world.
But after all that I'd go home, if you could call that place a home. It looked as dismal as it was inside, grey pebble dashed walls, overgrown weeds and a red paint chipped front door. I hated that house, thought about burning it down most days, not sure if I'd even bother taking my toys; just let the lot burn to ash.
Inside was worse; it smelled of damp, cigarettes and cheap beer. That was him mostly, sat in his worn leather recliner parked right in front of the telly in a terribly buttoned shirt with a smoke in one hand and a chilled can in the other.
Terrence Matthew Moriarty. My father; I hated him to.
Bloody parasite!
"Your home early sweetheart." bright creamy-chocolate eyes call to me from across the room, the left not as bright the right due to the huge fading purple bruise, but her smile is still a hundred watts despite it.
Last year's school pants on her knee with a needle in hand because we didn't have enough to pay for new ones as well as fund dad's chain-smoking and drinking. I almost run to her, bouncing on her knee as she hugs me tight, her long almost black hair tickling the back of my neck, her sweet kind lips kissing my brow with all the love a mother could give.
"Where's dinner? And get me another Fosters!" Terry doesn't bother even looking over at us and at his word she jumps up and races to the kitchen with a ruffle of my hair.
She's good at that, doing what she's told. Like a good little bitch… I hate her for that.
When I go to my moth-eaten bed she tucks me in, reading one of her fairy tales she loved so much. She always had this faith, this ridiculous believe in everything…even him.
When the story ends she kisses my head and looks down at me with those big brown eyes "Sweet dreams Jiminy."
Oh god how I hated when she called me that!
"Night, mummy." I yawn and nuzzle into my dog-eared pillow.
It wasn't even the screaming that woke me up, I was used to that, it was the load bag through the wall, the neighbors way of telling them to shut it. I needed a drink and not to mention a wee, but that's not what made me get out of bed, no, it was the quiet.
Everything went so quiet my body shivered in unease. So like the curious little bastard I was I tiptoed down the rickety old stairs and there she was, her brown her dipped into a growing pool of stick red, her eyes were looking at me, those big sad misery filled eyes and it was so quiet I heard the rapid rush of her dying breaths as for the last time she sobbed with her last tear-stained gasp "Jiminy…"
It's only then that he came into view, Terry; he looked wide-eyed as he gripped the ashtray in his hand, bloody and broken "the fuck do you think you're doing boy? Get your ass up stairs!"
I couldn't though, couldn't bloody move, she wasn't smiling anymore… she'd never smile again.
He grabbed me by the collar of my nightshirt and with stinking ale breath spat at me "When I tell you to do something boy, you fucking do it!"
I didn't even feel the smack, didn't even care if it bruised. All I knew in that moment, the moment the light finally left her eyes was that I was going to kill Terry Moriarty.
He got off with it, some bullshit about her falling down and hitting her head. Yeah, she was very 'clumsy' after all.
I remember standing there at her funeral, watching them put the cheapest coffin you've ever seen in the ground, but I wasn't watching that, because that was nothing, just a body in a box. No, I was watching the headstone, surprised the bastard even got her one.
'Lucy Jane Moriarty
Loving Mother
Loyal Wife'
She wasn't loyal, she was stupid! She honestly believed she could change him… help him… fix him. No matter if he broke her arm, jaw or how many times he called her a worthless whore she always went back to him, back for another round.
It was her own fault.
She was a stupid, ridiculous, pathetic… warm, loving, amazing woman and I hate her most of all.
I hate her; I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her so bloody much… she left me. I miss her.
I love her.
The years past and I waited, the scars and beer cans mounted up, but I still waited. This game had to be played out perfectly; he had to suffer… like I suffered, like she suffered.
I was seventeen when my plan finally came to an end. For years I took the burn of the belt, the punches and abuse and it was worth it because with every sip of his can I knew something he didn't, that he was willingly killing himself. It took me years to figure it all out right, research and plan.
In the end I chose Strychnine, just a little in his beer every day, he gulped them down so quick he never even tasted it being the ogre he was.
By the time I was fifteen he was already house bound with a ridiculously skinny nurse, painful muscle spasms, organ's slowly shutting down, hell he could barely breathe and jumped if a mouse farted.
It was hilarious!
I was there the day he finally died, finally. Sat on his bed, yellowed with liver failure and gasping for every breath, like she had gasped "James…James… Boy!" he called over to me and I almost giddily sit beside him on the hospital bed.
"Dad?" I smile down and him and he gives me this look, this look that is filled with fear and I like it, he should be afraid.
His shaky hand reach's for me, clutching my shirt weakly "I need you to sort everything, the funeral and all that, I want to go in with your mum, maybe you could…"
I couldn't help but break out laughing in his face "yeah, I don't think so Terry."
"What did you say to me Boy?" he barked, like I was still that scared weak little boy.
Leaning in with a smile on my face I shrug "the only funeral you're having is whatever the hospital decides for a pitiful disgusting worthless bastard like you. Tell me Terry, how does it feel… dying? Because it looks extremely painful from where I'm sitting."
"Little fucker…" he gasped and reached for my throat, too weak to do anything as I pull away with a giggle.
With a bite of my lip I stood and smiled the smile my mother gave me "do want to know why you're here, why you've spent the last six years in utter agony? It's because of me; I did this to you Terry. Me! And poisoning you, bit by bit, every day was sssooo much fun; watching you wither away into nothing. Because that is what you are, nothing and killing you is the best and easiest thing I've ever done. Do you know why? Not because of the beatings or even the fact you're a fucking monster…"
I laughed for but a moment before looking him in the eye, shooting forward so our noses nearly touch and the venom is all but dripping from my mouth "YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME, YOU STOLE THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD LOVE ME, THE ONLY PERSON I ACTUALLY LOVED… hum…and well, I simply couldn't let you go on. I just couldn't. I mean what kind of ending is that?"
I push away from him fixing the collar of my shirt before turning from the old decrepit man "your, huh, the Devil!"
With that gasp of fear filled breath I turn to take one last look at him and shrug "well then I guess I am your son after all. Cheerio, father dear."
The hospital had handed me his ashes and looked on in amazement when I merrily chucked the little box into the nearest bin, whistling as I went.
He was where he belonged, the game was over and I was moving on to the next game, a bigger game… and I had bought myself a Westwood suit with some of the life insurance.
I needed a suit… Jiminy Cricket always wears a suit.