Summary: Lisa feels haunted and is having problems getting back to normal after the red eye-incident. Jackson nurtures his hate and plans his revenge. When they finally meet again it's bound for disaster. JxL in a way, but not the usual. Warnings for violence, rape, and foul language.

Chapter 1

'August 11, 2005

Today marked the passing of a month...'

I hesitate; watch the tip of the pen. It trembles. I go on to study my knuckles; all the tiny bruises are almost completely healed. I stretch involuntarily, like I've done so many times, and realize that I haven't been thinking about my back for several days. Soon there'll be no more evidence of what took place.

Physical evidence, that is.

'…passing of a month… and he…'

A shudders passes through me and I can't shake the feeling that someone's watching me. Get a hold of yourself, Lisa. No one's watching you. HE is probably far, far away. And why would he come after you anyway? Even the FBI thought it was 'highly unlikely'. That's what they said. 'A trained assassin, a professional, hired for a job like this, to kill a political target, using you merely as means to an end. He'll be long gone by now. It's our conclusion that it's highly unlikely that he'll take the risk of lingering just for revenge. It wouldn't fit the profile.'

Highly. Unlikely.

I cling to those words like a drowning would cling to a life boat. I repeat them every morning as I cross the parking lot to get to my car, and I keep repeating them every night when I put the key in my lock, open the door and search my home before I even take off my shoes or put down my purse.

Highly. Unlikely.

'…he hasn't shown. That's a good thing. Now that this day has come to an end, it's like a stone has been lifted off my shoulders. What's next? Two months? A year? Surely, when a year has passed I will have put this behind me? No.' I shake my head as I keep writing. 'No question. I will. I make my own decisions. I took control.' Nausea rises within me, as always as I recollect the rape two years ago. I swallow hard. The only good thing about that was that it probably fuelled my anger at being assaulted again enough to make me fight back. 'This time I did it. This time, I beat him. I saved everybody…'

I stop abruptly.

Who saves you?

Biting my lower lip I frown and lift the pen off the page, placing it carefully on the bedside table. Then I slam the journal shut with a little more force than intended and tuck it under my mattress. I don't know who I'm hiding it from since I live alone, but I've learnt that even walls can have eyes and ears. As I stretch out a leg, a pillow falls off my bed. I bend to retrieve it, and again, I get the chilling sensation that someone sees me, as if there's someone else in the actual room with me. I dart upwards and glance around, the pillow pressed to my chest, it feels like my heart just turned into a caged animal and is now trying to hammer its way out.

I see absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Nothing.

A cozy room surrounds me, decorated during happier times; warm colors, a quite large bed with lots of pillows on it, an armchair in a romantic fabric with roses on white, a little bedside table, a heavy cupboard in dark oak, displaying pictures of family, a few books, and some of the old prizes I won in high school. It's quiet. I have looked through the apartment as usual when I got home earlier this evening, it's like a reflex, and I know there's no one in here but me.

And yet.

Suspiciously, I turn to the two windows. My eyes narrow. The curtains are already halfway covering them. I take a few quick strides through the room and snap them fully closed.

Better. That's definitely better. I feel safer.

I nod to myself and feel some of the tension leaving my body.

I would have wanted to take a bath, really. I could have used the warm water to relax my stiff muscles, but it's late and I'm tired, so I decide for a shower. I bend my neck to the right and stretch it, hearing and feeling it crack. Then I bend it as far as it goes to the left, this time without the desired snaps of the vertebrae.

A shower. Just a quickie.

I close the bathroom door behind me, undress fast and pull the shower curtain closed, my heart beating.

Lisa, you're being silly. Today is over.

He didn't show.

::

She doesn't know I'm watching her. She doesn't know of my plans and the hate that's been growing in my heart. Hate nurtured by the slowly subsiding ache in my throat, the flesh wound in my side, and the fact that SHE seems to be getting along so fucking fine.

So. Fucking. Peachy.

Peachy life in a peachy home.

Or, maybe she does know. I've seen her looking over her shoulder, seen her search her place every night after work, seen her flinch when someone's standing too close behind. One day soon, that'll be no stranger. One day soon, that'll be me.

I grin at the thought, but I feel no joy, only grim satisfaction.

In my mind, she's already dead. She just doesn't know it yet.

I stroke my knife that lies neatly in front of me. I've pictured it so many times; cutting through the pale skin of her chest, coloring her belly crimson as rivulets of warm blood gushes over it; her surprised face that just about realizes what's happened before she falls before me.

Then I'll be free.

I watch her turn on the shower. That's new. She usually soaks in a bath for a long time; like she's dirty. She cleans a lot, mornings and evenings, and after working out. If there's something on this earth Lisa Reisert is not, it's dirty.

Listening to the almost deafening sounds from the water pouring down in her bathroom, I feel a new energy enter my chest and my pulse quickens; the waiting is over. Soon is now. I snap my laptop closed and disconnect it.

Then I move.

It's time.

::

The hot water feels cleansing on my skin, my tired back and loins. I turn my face up and let it pour until I have to bend slightly to the side to breathe. I try to enjoy every single act that makes up my life, for I know that I've escaped death twice. The lather is rich and smells of vanilla and jasmine. It's a bit overly feminine for my taste, but it was a gift from my mother and I might as well use it up.

A raw chill suddenly slithers down my spine, in spite of the moist heat surrounding me, and I stiffen. I open a small gap in the curtain and glance out, but all I see is my empty, steam-filled, bathroom.

The soothing effect of the shower is gone, however, and I turn the knobs, hot and cold, and watch the last drops leave in the drain in front of my toes.

The apricot-colored towel is warm and soft. My head feels fuzzy and my eye-lids heavy. I think I can sleep tonight.

That would be bliss.

Wrapping the towel around my head, I put on the pajama I brought along. It's been a favorite for a long time: checkered, long legs, a top, and a long-sleeved shirt on top of that. I like the security it gives me with all the fabric covering my skin. I know why I feel the need for that safety, and maybe that's not entirely a good thing, but I see no reason to work on it. I need to choose my battles.

I brush my teeth, and study my reflection in the mirror. I've seen a few new fine lines between my eyebrows lately. Trouble lines. It's been a while since I had a hearty laugh. My thoughts stray to the forbidden.

To HIM.

To the latest, and maybe greatest, reason why I can't feel joy any more.

Jackson Rippner.

I always try not to think his name.

I always fail.