For Your Love
Lockie ducked into the mattress, hands covering his head. The butcher knife cut through his plastic handcuffs. It took Lockie a moment to realize his hands were free. He tugged at the plastic rings around his wrists - former six pack yokes fashioned into handcuffs. They wouldn't come off.
With sweat streaming down his forehead, he sat up. Cameron had fallen into some sort of stupor, standing there, the butcher knife still in his hand.
Desperate times called for desperate deeds. Lockie swung his right arm back, and socked his brother Cameron in the crotch. Landing a punch as powerful as his emaciated body would allow for.
Cameron toppled over. He heaved and fell forward. Lockie swung back and hit Cameron over the head. Tears streamed down Lockie's eyes. Even though he knew this was necessary, he didn't like doing this. He didn't like hurting his own brother. And conflicting thoughts assailed his mind; how Cameron was not all bad, and maybe he (just like Lockie) deserved a second chance, because Lockie had made so many mistakes in his life, and Cameron had always been there, had always supported him, even now - Cameron hadn't killed him. Just locked him up in a shack, and regularly fed him, and the chains were only there to make sure Lockie didn't do anything rash (just like he was doing now). When you put it that way, ...
Snap out of it!
The realization came too late as Cameron had recovered and punched Lockie's nose. Warm blood streamed down Lockie's lips, and he thought he'd heard a -crack-, but it could have been a twig. That's what it was - he decided. Still the pain was overwhelming and Lockie crumpled to a ball, shielding his face.
"Please, please don't hurt me," he whined. His knees, tightly pressed to his chest, trembled. His back shivered in agony. Suddenly he remembered how cold it was in the shack, and that he wasn't wearing a jacket. The chill enveloped him and Lockie froze to the bone. His teeth, chattering.
"Please Cameron. A new year has begun. We can start off on a new slate. You don't have to do this. If you let me go, I won't breathe a word of this. To anyone. Not even to Leela."
"Leela is none of your concern, and if you say her name again I will slice your head off."
Lockie remained silent. He watched Cameron's feet move around the shack - with rigid, premeditated steps. Rain pattered over the roof in a soothing rhythm that used to lull Lockie to sleep, but he hurt too much and his nose was still bleeding. Lockie blinked back tears. He shivered on the makeshift cot, and pulled his feet up. A metal chain went all around his ankles, and was screwed into the floor. His skin was red under the chain links - they had been there so long, Lockie no longer felt the metal drain away his body warmth.
"I brought you potato and chicken salad," Cameron said in a mechanical voice as he set down a few boxes on the floor. There was no cutlery. Lockie was expected to eat with his hands or by sticking his mouth directly into the container and slurping - like a dog. Lockie glared up at Cameron.
Cameron didn't seem to notice. He had hidden his butcher knife away somewhere, and was going through the motions, like he always did. A daunting realization settled over Lockie. Cameron was going to leave him here, again. No, no, no - anything was better than that. The thought of being all alone in this stinking old den made Lockie feel sick to his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything since yesterday. His stomach grumbled and his throat felt sore for hot soup - one he could be having right now at the Tug Boat.
With a waning voice he croaked: "Cameron, you're all I have left."
The movement stopped. Cameron's feet held still for a moment, and looking up, Lockie saw Cameron was casting him a sidelong glance.
Then the feet moved rapidly away, and the door slammed in the lock. Lockie heard a key chain jangle as the door was being locked - one lock at a time.
By the time John Paul's bus rolled into Liverpool, the skies were like a festering bruise - thick clouds encroached the town up ahead, heavy with moisture. They were ready to burst at any minute, and as John Paul got out at the central bus station, he hurried under the large overhanging roof. Wearing one glove - the other had been lost somewhere along his crazy trip to Blackburn on the previous night - he felt his pockets for the cash he'd snatched from his one-night-stand's night table. The thought of that still made him blush. He reminded himself promptly that he had only stolen the money so he could pay for a safe ride home, ...but as an afterthought that sounded all the more ridiculous and John Paul began to understand why he had really done it:
He couldn't stand the thought of facing the guy he had just slept with. Of talking to him, finding out his name, getting him to drive him home, and then - God - and then the myriad of questions Mom was sure to ask when she saw him getting out of a strange car through the kitchen window. John Paul covered his face with his hand.
The wide display said the next bus to Chester would depart in over an hour. He had an hour to kill in Liverpool, and no money to spend. John Paul stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat, and sauntered from one shop to the next, not really feeling it.
Christmas lights and glittery red-and-green decorations still were everywhere. Plaques announced huge discounts, but all John Paul could do was window shop. He sighed - looking through the glass and seeing a baby blue shawl his cousin Theresa would have loved.
That made him think of Mercedes, how strongly her miscarriage had affected her, one thought led to another, and before he knew it he was the only one slogging down a narrow back alley, rain falling down on his shoulders, sinking through the neck-hole of his jacket, down his neck and under his shirt. What a marvelous way to start the new year - he thought - in some godforsaken town where no-one knew him, after sleeping with some bloke he would never meet again, and with no money to spare (he couldn't even buy himself a pint of lager! - let alone Christmas presents on discount). He felt his pockets for his phone. He should just send Mom a text to tell her that he was alright. Raindrops fell on the display, so he covered the phone with his own body and his hand.
His breath fogged white steam in the cold falling rain as he browsed through his Contacts list. John Paul frowned. His finger paused just about to scroll down further but instead he stared intently at the glowing screen.
Why was Lockie still on it?
Author's Note: Once again thank you for your support! Means a lot to me, and it's fun to meet so many Lockie/JP fans.
What do you guys make of the new storyline by the by, the one with John Paul and Sally? :-) To me it seems very one-sided from Sally's side and John Paul isn't really into her (he likes her, but only as a friend). That could lead to a rift between them though, because (as past events have shown) Sally is prone to keep grudges and easily gets offended. :-S Don't know how she is going to take John Paul's rejection. What's your take on this?
