This is the first poetic-type work I've ever put up on this site, so don't expect too much from it. Essentially, this is a majorly angsty piece that looks into Ann's thoughts about Jack's failure to help her after our poor shellshocked heroine has been led back to her quarters, poor Jack literally left on the outside looking in.
There is a stranger residing in that tanned skin and drenched silk shirt.
He is not my lover.
He is not my hero.
He is not my prince.
He is not my Jack Driscoll.
He does not love me.
If he did, he would've at least protested alongside me, helped me fight against Englehorn and the others. Who better than a writer to get the message across with his words about how terrible and disgusting and wicked this deed was? If he truly were my noble Jack, he would've let me approach this equally noble beast, calm his fury and somehow, explain to him that his savage world does not belong to me. Oh Jack, my adored hero, why didn't you help me? Why did you use those gentle, comforting arms to pinion my own and wrestle me away uncaringly over the broken rock to help make a dreadful situation even worse? Why did you side with them, why did you totally turn your back, why have you betrayed me?
My Jack would smile in happiness and relief with me as Kong reluctantly accepted what had to be and relinquished me back to the world of men, to live long and free in his native jungle. My Jack would help take care of the marks the island left on me and I would do the same to his own, grateful about how everything turned out all right in the end. He would forget everything and lay his exhausted lanky body next to mine under the sheets, the first of many, many slumbers shared together, and I would sing inside to feel him give electric caresses!
However, he is not my Jack.
I am far away in a crushing netherworld.
He is far away.
There my lover stands shocked and helpless in the hallway.
There Jack Driscoll stands…
I kneel shocked and helpless in the ruins of my cabin.
I am drowning in a whirlpool of fire-colored acid, some of it trickling out of my eyes.
Oh God, Christ, and the Holy Ghost, my Jack, my Jack, my Jack, my Jack!
He is not my lover!
He is not my hero!
He is not my prince!
My Jack Driscoll, I still love you.
But you have not professed that you love me. You told me there was nothing we could do. There were a dozen things you could've done!
Not my Jack, he was never my Jack.
Was he ever actually my Jack at all?
Turning over what happened this morning, just several hours ago as the carpet presses into the bruises mottling my pale legs, it is plain to see that he never was.
Now, once more, he's merely an impressive writer.
My Jack.
You know the drill, read and review.