Jackson thinks about her constantly, obsessively, aggressively. The thoughts are always violent, always alternate, but always somehow lead back to the same thing. When he lays awake at night, the only thing that pacifies him and lures him to sleep is either the thought of killing Lisa or fucking her. Maybe fucking and then killing. Never against her will, though, not in his mind, she always cried, always wanted more.
He remembers the cramped quarters of the in-flight lavatory, remembers being near her, practically on her, remembers pulling at her skin, tracing an old scar that would always be raw. It's this thought that leaves him hard for hours.
He remembers her jamming a pen in his throat, a stiletto in his thigh, and worst of all, "You're pathetic." He remembers her calling him pathetic, remembers being 18 and having his girlfriend tell him the same thing. It stings, everytime, worse than the scar on his throat, on his thigh. This words are like mixing lemon and salt into a gash.
Jack wants to hurt her, so badly, wants to ruin her, destroy her, wants to control her in every way, break her will and prove that he wasn't a failure. He wasn't pathetic. He wants Lisa to love him, adore him, so he can spit in her face and call her weak. Call her a failure. Call her pathetic.
And then fuck her.
And then kill her.
He closes his eyes and he falls asleep.
He dreams of Lisa.
He always does.