Dead End Game
Disclaimer: Being as broke as I am, I don't own.
A/N: This is my first two-part story set in the future; a Jay/Darcy fic, as unheard of as it is. It was inspired and loosely follows the storyline of a song by Melissa McClelland called Picture Postcard.
Edited: 08/16 for clarification.
Part One - Toast
The sun is piercing accusingly through the tinted car windows, blinding you and pissing you off to no end. The highway is uncharacteristically bare – no cars except your own, driving madly into nonexistence. It's a perpetually beautiful and cool day in July. The only thing wrong with this concrete picture paradise is that your hands are bloody and the metallic stink is making you gag.
She's still snuffing into a box of Kleenex in the backseat, discarding the used wads onto your clean car floor and trying to stifle her sobs so she could figure out what she wants to do with herself. She's curled up as though trying to appear small and unnoticeable and innocent, one pale hand quivering over her rounded, bulging stomach.
"How long – how much longer...? It's been hours."
Her voice cracks with every syllable, the pungent words slipping and sliding over each other, because she doesn't know exactly what she's trying to say. You don't answer, partly because you don't know yourself, and partly because it hurts to speak. And because your main priority is to get away before they find you. You have been silent for hours – doing what you did makes you quiet, because even your voice will give it away; that you're filth, you're a leper, you're...running.
- - - - - -
"I don't know."
You raise your head slightly, blearily wiping the crust off the edges of your eyes. She's staring at the ridges on the ceiling, her hair mussed and framed around her face like a shroud of smooth brown.
You lean over to press your lips against her face in a quick rustle of blankets. "What don't you know?"
"Sometimes, it just...I just want to tell her, you know? Tell her before she finds out on her own, when I start showing. She's going to ask questions. She's too curious for her own good."
"Why would you want to tell her, Darcy?"
She scrunches her eyes shut, her long fingers splayed over her face. "Stop teasing, Jay. I hate it when you do that. I'm trying to be serious," she says, her voice muffled and icily dignified. Then she deflates. "You're getting married in a few months. What happens after that? Everything – everything just disappears like it never existed? Like there was never an 'us?' Like I'm not pregnant?"
She sits up suddenly, clutching the covers over her chest and eyes slitted. "I hate her sometimes, you know? Why does she get to have you, when I love you better, I love you more – I'm the one with your baby, I'm...ugh. She can be such a bitch sometimes, you know? It's like she's constantly trying to dangle you in front of me, like she knows and she thinks it's heinously funny or something. She's never really been there for me, you know? Even when Manny – you know – it had to be all about her, like, at the funeral, 'I can't believe they're killing trees just so she could have something dead to be buried in' and crap like that – excuse me, am I boring you?"
She stiffens and falls down next to you again, her expression sarcastic and sour as she prods you in the arm. It hurts, a little bit, though you don't say so in order to maintain your macho front. Your carefully dodge her question.
"You wanna get rid of her?" You ask, almost disturbed by your own crazy thoughts.
"Right now – yeah." She rolls her eyes all funny, as though she's all high-maintenance. Which she is, kind of.
You roll your eyes, too, to mimic her, your lips twisted in your trademark smirk. "Like, really get rid of her. So we could be together without having to hide all the time. I mean, she did say once that she'd die for me. Let's see if she means it."
She turns to face you, forehead furrowed. "No way – you can't mean – what do you mean? What the hell?"
You sigh, exhaling deeply before you respond. "Nothing. Never mind."
There is a slight pause – a deafening silence that seems to stretch onward to forever, roaring in your ears and mixing in with the steady ticking of the clock on her dresser – steady ticking like a bomb waiting to explode.
Her face is subdued and quiet when she finally speaks. "I would die for you, too."
- - - - - -
The sky is darkening now and you contemplate – nothing better to do now, anyway, other than drive. You've stopped at a bank and a fast food joint hours before and cleansed yourself of the only visible reminder of what you did. Now you're practically out of the province – you've been driving west the entire day, into the sun and your eyes are driving you insane.
She's asleep in the backseat, her mouth sagging sadly as she lets out shuddering breaths. She swore she'd do anything for you, that she loved you so much that she'd die for you. But you know she'd be gone in a second if she ever had the chance to get away. Especially now that you're both on the run.
You wonder how you ended up in such a psychopathic state. You wonder why Alex, whom you thought was the love of your life again after she took you back, ran off with the curly-haired loony whose name you still can't quite remember. You wonder how you even ended up with your dead fiancée – Greenpeace, you called her – years after your little fling that ended you up with no sex and a fledging disease. You wonder how you got together with her substitute best friend, the one who replaced Manuela Santos – the fragile existence slumped over the backseat, traumatized and beautiful.
And you can't remember anything.
The streetlights are glowing now – the sky has been dipped into a shade of ugly blue, melancholy and wretched all at once – like you, only you're alive and the sky is just particles. She mumbles in her sleep behind you.
"Chocolates...black...stop it, I said stop – I – no, this isn't what I – you can't...what are you...stop."
- - - - - -
"What did you do! What did you – I can't believe it! Oh, my God. I – oh, fuck, what the hell did you do?"
She's hysterical, rocking back and forth, tears flooding her ruddy face and spit flying everywhere. You're eerily calm, despite what you just did. You've spent several weeks preparing yourself for this day, hardening yourself and becoming iron – untouchable; insanely emotionless to the ordeal that is thrashing itself around in your face.
That's why you're slightly surprised to see your hand shaking as it clenches itself more tightly around a crimson stained knife, your knuckles bloody and white. Like your last Christmas.
"Shut up and get in the car, Darcy," you tell her quietly.
"No fucking way; I can't believe you just – God, why would you – oh, my God, Icantbelieveyoudidthis! IhateyourightnowIneverwantedhertodieand – don't point that stupid thing at me!"
A thing. Not a weapon, not a kitchen tool, not a killer connected to your crazy mind. You brandish it in her face and she flinches, cowering against the car, gulping and crying, holding a box of chocolates crumpled where her hand had crushed it.
"You said you'd do anything for me. That you'd die for me. Does that change just because I did what I did? Because I got her out of the way? She's toast, alright? Get over it – this is what you wanted, admit it," You insert black syrup into your voice; the words ooze out of your mouth like slime.
She whimpers. "I never wanted it to – never wanted her to you know. Jay, I thought we were just going to tell her – you never said anything about – God, you're fucked. They're going to catch you, they're going to give you hell -"
You close your eyes tightly for a second, mentally counting from one to fucking ten; put the knife down, you don't want her to die –
But frankly, you don't care if she does, anyway.
"Let's get something straight here. First, I'm not getting caught; they're not giving me anything. Second, if you come with me, we'll escape, but if you don't, you get arrested. Oh, and see this knife here? See how it's covered in blood? You even think about leaving me, you even think about running off..."
She crumples against the car, sobbing over it and surrendering before throwing herself onto you, dampening your shirt as she chokes. You run a bloody hand into her soft hair, tangling your red fingers with her stained mane. "I did this for us. This is what you wanted deep down. Tell me you love me, because I know you do," you hiss into her ear and she shivers.
A part of her seems to collapse. "I love you," she whispers, barely inaudible but still there as she tilts her face up for a kiss.
Turning away, you let her go and throw open one of the backseat doors. She clutches her stomach, sobbing again. "So get in the car and shut up."
- - - - - -
Stars are littering the black sky – it is completely dark, save for the streetlights illuminating the highway in spots. You're already somewhere in Manitoba – farmhouse after farmhouse rushes by you, or the other way around – you don't know, you're too tired and irritated to care.
She had woken up about half an hour ago, holding her pre-baby and crying again.
"Do you realize that I'm missing CSI right now? God – this is fantastic, really. First, you kill your fiancée and my best friend. Then, you blackmail me into coming with you – and now, we're in the middle of nowhere, trying not to get arrested – and, by the way, I didn't even do anything but I'll get arrested as your accomplice or accessory or -"
Your patience snaps suddenly, the car skidding to a stop at the edge of the road. "You've been complaining ever since you woke up – stop making it hard for the both of us," you want to say, but something tells you to keep quiet, let her vent herself thin.
She sulks, her bottom lip jutting out slightly and popping another chocolate into her mouth. "At least let us check into a cheap motel or something – I swear I won't complain if there are bedbugs – I just want a bed, I just want some water, and I just want this to be over for a few hours. Please." Her chocolate stained fingers reach out to touch your shoulder. You glance at it from the corner of your right eye.
You turn on the radio. The music is staticky and you can't even make out the tune at times.
"Ew, you know I hate, loathe, and despise rap. Did I mention that I hate, loathe, and despise rap? Uh, yeah. Anyway. I, for one, do not, like, want the baby to be exposed to that gangster stuff. Bad influences, you know? Come on – change the fu – change the station. Just change it."
You roll your eyes and do so.
"...Toronto, a woman has been found stabbed in her apartment near...police have not...Nelson, who lived alone...is between ages 25 and...suspects include her fiancé, who seems to be...family -"
Cutting the report off midsentence with the push of a button, you glance at her. She looks terrified but blinks as she tries to hide it, her eyes wide and darting as she pops the last chocolate into her mouth and rolls down the window. "God, this car reeks. Burgers, you know?"
She tosses the chocolate box out the window and sticks her head out into the cool Manitoban air, chestnut hair flying everywhere. And for the first time in weeks – ever since your plan began spawning in your distorted mind, you love her again, because she – complete with her windswept hair and closed eyes and freckled face – reminds you of the way things used to be when you were normal and she was your secret.
And then, the window seals shut and she's leaning against the plush of the backseat again, holding her stomach and tears in her eyes. And the images are ripped away from you – you are, again, metal and unfeeling and she's only with you, because, despite your careful detachment from her, you're too fucking scared of going down alone.
And there she is, crying again, swiping the hem of her shirt across her eyes because there are no more tissues.
"When I was – when I – when that window was open, and I was leaning out of it – you probably wouldn't understand – I just felt alive, you know? I felt like none of this – none of this had ever happened and everything was still okay and she was still – you know – and we were still secret and I wasn't just a pawn in this sick runaway game you're losing...then, I closed the window and I realized that this is completely bullshit – this is completely..." She takes a deep, shuddering breath and chokes on her words, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach again. "We're speeding towards a dead end and we can't stop – when do you plan on stopping? Are we going to run forever? What happens when we hit the Pacific? What then? How can we...we're not – we're just not going anywhere. Can't you see that?"
Her body heaves with tears and you stop the car again. You don't know what to say. You don't know yourself – you never really thought that far ahead. There's a chilling silence in the air, punctuated by the rare car passing and her wracking sobs. You realize you're squeezing the steering wheel much too tight; your hands are laced with white.
She takes your lack of response in. "Oh, my God. I knew it. You – we're just going to drive around until they forget about us – it's karma. I can feel it – you killed her and we're both paying for this. Our lives are completely toast – completely wasted."
Another one-sided silence. Then, "Say something. Please."
The last word is weighted down by layers of desperado black, spidery anguish, and a gut-wrenchingly roaring sense of jadedness – so much that you have to say something; you have to speak up for the first time in hours.
"Look," you start, your voice scratchy and hoarse. "There's a town up ahead. We'll find someplace to sleep first, okay? We'll figure everything out - it'll be okay. I promise. I have never lied to you. It will be okay."
She falls back, her head lolling slightly. "Famous last words." Then - asleep.