Chapter 3: The Death of a Soul
August, 2005
Lisa stepped out of the black government-issue SUV and slowly walked through the assembly of police, Homeland Security, and various other federal agents that were surrounding her father's house. The agent who had escorted her to the Lux Atlantic to make sure everything was alright silently remained behind her in his crisp black suit and she was certain that the eagle eyes concealed by his Men in Black glasses were watching her for even the slightest hint of guilt or intentional involvement in this whole ordeal. Lisa tucked her shoulder length auburn hair behind her ears as she squeezed through the crime scene experts who were canvassing every room in her father's house. What they expected to find was beyond her comprehension since it seemed that this was a pretty clear-cut case.
She couldn't help looking down at the spot where Jackson Rippner had bled on the floor until a little over an hour ago when the ambulance had collected his wheezing, limp body like a broken toy. A dark spark of sick pleasure at the thought glimmered in her eyes before she flushed the emotion away. It was a twisted response and she was disappointed at having it. Something like that would have never entered her heart and soul before meeting Jackson Rippner. It was yet another thing in her life that he had tainted with his corrupted spirit.
"Leese, sweetie," her dad softly called from the living room. She spotted him standing at the threshold between the rooms, his arm outstretched in summoning. She obediently approached her caller and he put his arm around her to guide her into the room.
"This agent needs to take your statement for the FBI," her father, Joe, explained patiently. Lisa watched as her father and the agent eyed each other, wordlessly communicating. Her father was very protective of her and it was probably disconcerting for him to let her out of his sight now after everything that had happened in his own home.
The agent had graying dark hair that was combed back from his face and he donned a mundane brownish gray suit with dignity despite its mediocrity. "Could we talk somewhere more private?" the agent directed toward her father, completely ignoring Lisa.
Joe was thinking over places they could go, a space in the house that didn't have a ton of people bustling about, but Lisa answered before he could. "My old room upstairs should be empty right now." She looked to her father for confirmation. "They haven't made it upstairs yet, have they?" Joe shook his head and Lisa escorted the agent up the stairs, her pace unhurried and non-threatening. All of the cells in her body were supercharged on adrenaline and it took every ounce of control she had not to appear like a hysterical, rage-filled lunatic on a fighting spree. Keefe had assured her at the hotel that everything would be fine and she was not going to face charges, but there was still a doubt in the back of her mind that was strong-arming all sense of logic.
When Lisa entered her room and encountered the pink and frilly bed of an innocent girl long ago lost to the world, her face reddened. She should have been a little embarrassed, but instead she was filled with a surge of anger and hostility. The lacey and fluffy bedding mocked her with its cuteness and purity. She sat down on the pink monstrosity and the agent casually borrowed the wooden chair away from her desk to sit across from her at a non-intimidating distance.
The agent smiled politely but insincerely. He seemed to want to set her at ease, but he had no idea how to do it. Awkward small talk avoided, he cut to the chase. "Did Jackson Rippner say anything to you about his intentions?" Lisa squinted her eyes and tilted her head. "That is to say, did Rippner communicate to you why he wanted Mr. Keefe killed?"
Lisa shook her head. "No." She hesitated a moment and the agent stiffened as he read her every nuance. "Don't you want to know about what happened in the house?"
The agent looked down at his notepad in hand and shook his head. "No, that's a local thing for Miami PD. I care more about Jackson Rippner. Did Rippner say anything about who his employers were? Their motivations?"
"No."
"Did he explain how the assassination would take place?"
Lisa vividly remembered Jackson proudly explaining how the business cycle of his organization worked. They received a job. They arranged the job. The job happened. Everyone (or more or less everyone) lived happily ever after. Jackson hadn't gone into great specificity, but he had openly provided enough that Lisa could piece it together. Perhaps he was more accustomed to dealing with people who lost their minds in the face of fear and he figured she wouldn't understand what was happening, but she had understood.
"Not in detail," she honestly replied. The agent may have had a poker face, but he was clearly evaluating her below the surface. Lisa nervously turned her head. Her eyes started to water and she briskly ran a hand over her windbreaker covered arm as her body once more displayed symptoms of being in shock.
"Did he suggest that he was less than focused on his assignment?"
Lisa's head jerked around to face him bravely. "What kind of question is that?" She wasn't sure why an alarm went off in her head, but it was loud and accompanied with a blinking red light.
The agent didn't falter. "Rippner is a famous middleman. We've been tracking him for years and his patterns never vary. He's cold and clean. We never see any collateral damage at his jobs." The agent smirked and sighed. "Until now," he added accusingly. Shame washed over her and she was almost flattered in that same perverted way that kept sneaking into her worldview all day. "So, was Rippner on task or was he otherwise distracted?"
Lisa chuckled dryly. "He was definitely on the job and then some. He wouldn't stop or back off."
The agent was about to speak, but paused as he considered his words. "The job…or you?"
Lisa's eyes again narrowed at him, her lips slightly parted in offense at his brazen accusation. "Jackson Rippner was completely obsessed with being a 'Manager,' she insisted, providing finger quotation marks in the air. "I was merely an obstacle."
"He usually overcomes obstacles rather than following them home to play a round of chase."
"That's what this was?"
"Wasn't it?"
"Stop blaming me for your guy getting away all this time. You have him now, thanks to me."
"It's because of you that Mr. Keefe was almost killed."
"But he wasn't."
"Did he live because Rippner was distracted by you or because Rippner wanted him to live?"
"Neither."
"It has to be one…"
Lisa huffed. "I don't appreciate your thinly veiled attempts at—"
The agent sat up straighter. "This is not a 'thinly veiled attempt' at anything. I need to know: was Jackson Rippner more focused on you or on completing his assignment?"
"I don't see how that's relev—"
"I need to know his patterns—"
"There is no more 'pattern' because he's—"
"I need an answer Ms. Reisert…"
"I don't know how you expect me to know how his mind works—"
"Just answer the question, Lisa. Was this about the job or you?"
"Me! He wanted to kill me!" Lisa finally yelled. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she realized that she had forgotten to breathe. She quickly composed herself by taking a few deep breaths before continuing. "Jackson didn't seem to care about Keefe alone being killed. In fact, when I put him on the spot, he seemed to be struggling—a little—with killing a man and his entire family." Lisa's stomach churned at the memory of Jackson swallowing hard and saying that his customers wanted to send a message and that was their business, not his. "But he was committed to the job 110%. He was so committed that when I screwed up his precious job, he couldn't accept failure. He wouldn't let it go. He wanted me to pay for what I did to him." The agent looked puzzled to say the least.
"Did Rippner indicate that it was a personal vendetta? Did he say as much or is it your interpretation?"
Lisa gaped slack-jawed at the agent. "He followed me to my Father's house. I think it's safe to say it was personal."
"Did he say anything to you on a personal level?"
Lisa looked away before answering a clipped, "No." The agent didn't bother writing anything down this time.
"How did Rippner 'try to kill you?'"
"A knife."
"Did he inflict physical injury on you?"
Lisa thought it over. "On the plane, he head-butted me, slammed me against a wall, and I think that's it. I can't remember. Here, he shoved me down the stairs…" Lisa was thinking as hard as she could, but her mind was drawing a blank. Every single time she pictured, felt, and emotionally re-experienced something Jackson did to her, the words that described it would sound lame and childish. "He grabbed me. Chased me with a knife." Lisa shrugged. "It sounds like nothing, but these bruises aren't 'nothing,'" she said, holding out her arms even though they were still covered by the lightweight jacket she wore.
The agent didn't bother asking to see the bruises. He didn't need to see them to know the worst one was in Lisa's mind. "When he chased you with the knife, did he ever cut you?"
Lisa tried to replay everything yet again. "No, not that I recall."
"How did he hold it?" Lisa held her arm up in the air, demonstrating the downward Psycho style Jackson used to hold the knife. "Never like this?" the agent asked, holding the imaginary knife (which was actually his ink pen) sideways with the blade (the tip of the pen) protruding between his thumb and index finger. Lisa shook her head. "What about straight on?" he asked, slightly altering his hand's position to demonstrate stabbing someone forward and upward. Lisa again shook her head.
"Why does it matter how he held the knife?" she inquired.
"Just curious," the agent muttered. He jotted a few notes in his book. "Were your injuries severe?"
"No." Lisa started to feel like she was the guilty party, that her words were lies that the agent was looking to disprove. Something about the agent's interrogation of her made her want to change her story if for no other reason than to redeem the value of her testimony as truth.
"For a man who tried to kill you, he obviously didn't try too hard."
Lisa narrowed her eyes for what seemed like the billionth time and bit down on her lip. When the agent said nothing else, she spoke. "That's not a question." There was a manipulative gleam in the agent's eyes and that was when Lisa realized he had non-verbally asked a question. For a man who tried to kill you, he obviously didn't try too hard. Why is that? Lisa refused to take the bait and answer what he wasn't willing to ask aloud. They opted to instead exchange hard looks that dared the other to cross the line they had been dancing dangerously close to the entire conversation thus far.
"Fair enough," he acknowledged with a tolerant, courteous smile. "Just a few more actual questions," he promised. "Did Jackson Rippner ever tell you about his employers?"
He had already asked that question. "Nothing," she automatically replied. "No, never," she rephrased for accuracy.
"Did he tell you anything about himself, his background, his occupation? Anything personal?"
"No." Lisa didn't think it was necessary to share that Jackson had stalked her for eight weeks prior to the flight. That might have brought extra attention to her rather than him.
The agent wrote a few things down and it was longer than a simple "nothing personal" response.
"Did Rippner attempt to make an emotional connection with you?"
Lisa was startled by the question. "What do you mean?"
"I think you know what 'emotional' means, Ms. Reisert."
Lisa carefully replied, "He attempted to pick me up in line at the airport and later over drinks."
"But other than appealing to you as a potential companion—"
"There was no emotional connection."
"I see." He jotted down a few things and while writing, asked his follow-up question: "Then why are you defending him?"
Lisa was stunned. "Excuse me?"
"The most obvious connection you have with him is you think of him as 'Jackson' when most people in your situation would stick with the pronoun 'he' or some other colorful description." Lisa flushed when she realized that she had indeed referred to him as "Jackson," which was extremely odd given that she had never called him by his name before. "You referenced him as being a 'Manager,' which is a rather specific title, I think. You said he didn't want to kill Keefe and his family when you can't possibly know that without an emotional connection. You said he was obsessed with his job and customer service when a normal person would simply reply that the bastard was as crazy as a fruitcake. You've been explaining him to me this entire interview—his personality, his obsession, his mindset—after you started with the disclaimer of, and I quote, 'I don't know how you expect me to know how his mind works.' Ms. Reisert, have you heard of something called 'Stockholm—"
"I sure as hell do not have Stockholm Syndrome! If I did, he and I would have been off on a romantic road trip to kill Keefe, followed up with a Starbucks date. I'm telling you the truth as I know it. I can't help how you interpret it."
The agent scribbled yet again and Lisa cringed at her own inadvertent mentioning of the Starbucks stop that Jackson had "offered" her at the end of the flight. She had no idea where that had come from, but it was there somehow, embedded in her, and it had slipped out without her control. It was a detail so accurate that mere sarcasm and exaggeration would not be able to justify or rationalize it. Or perhaps the agent did think it was sarcasm and exaggeration, and maybe it was Lisa who was more keenly attuned to it because it was true. She couldn't stop second-guessing herself now, over-analyzing every single thing she said. She wasn't sure if thinking about Jackson was unnerving her or if the agent was the one doing it.
"Anything else you think I should know?" the agent asked as he held his notebook with both hands, ready to shut it and move on.
"Nothing. Am I done?" Lisa asked awkwardly, not sure how to phrase what she was asking.
"You're good to go. Thanks for your time," he graciously said as he replaced the chair at her desk and headed out.
"Wait, I didn't get your name…"
The agent stopped in the doorway. "Samuel West," he replied with a small smile before leaving.
For some reason, the media, especially the paparazzi, found Lisa to be a fascinating subject. They had been hot on her trail since the incident. After the Red Eye flight, Lisa had spent all morning and afternoon at her father's house dealing with the authorities, but that evening, against the wishes of her father and Keefe, she returned to her second floor corner apartment at the end of the block. It was then that she comprehended how exposed the place actually was, with not one, but two sides accessible by the streets and at least four rooms visible. That night, Lisa closed the curtains, added sheets on top of the curtains to lessen the distinguishability, and sat by herself on the floor with her back to her bed and her knees drawn under her chin. She wasn't crying or bemoaning her trauma; instead, Lisa was reflecting. The events of the entire previous 24 hours replayed in her head at random segments and with varying emotional reactions.
The next morning, she had gotten ready for work an hour earlier and opened her door to find everyone from CNN to TMZ waiting for her. And it had been that way every day since then. Keefe had offered her a personal security detail to help her both with Jackson's people and the media, but she had felt no threat from anyone connected to Jackson and the media was something she could handle by ignoring them. Keefe insisted on at least a few security guards to keep the media at bay and a 500-feet-distance restraining order at the requirement of Homeland Security was placed into effect. In addition, the FBI maintained a watch over Lisa's residence all day and night, and a separate set of agents monitored her at the hotel.
The paparazzi treated her like a Reality TV star. They wrote about her experience from every angle imaginable. Eventually it got to the point where the national news became disinterested, but the paparazzi maintained their diligent work ethic. No one really cared one way or another about Lisa and she was as sick of hearing about herself as others were, but she was powerless against it.
October, 2005
"Lisa? Did you hear me? He got thirty years!" Cynthia repeated, a dry laugh of unintentionally sadistic enthusiasm sneaking into her words. Cynthia didn't wait for a reply. She spun swiftly and scurried back to the lobby to watch the coverage of the trial.
With Jackson Rippner out of her life for the next thirty years, without having to see his face, hear his voice, or think about his ways, her life was empty. There was no one to fear. No one to hate. No one to be her enemy. No one to be her target. No one to help her world, a world violated by rape and assault, make sense, even if it was a vile type of sense. Rippner was a horrible person, a despicable excuse for a man, but he gave her a way to vent her anger and frustration. He made her feel, even if those feelings were rage and hatred. For the next thirty years, she would be alone with only the cold hollow spot in her heart to keep her company.
Lisa retrieved the phone book from under the counter. She flipped through the yellow pages for a moment before stopping on a page and letting her eyes roam it. She took out her cell and started to dial.
"Let's hope it's a long thirty years," she muttered to herself as she waited for someone to pick up her call.
Several small groups were practicing their skills and Lisa's eyes scanned through the groups looking for someone of authority, but he found her first.
"It really is you," a deep but soft-spoken voice behind her said with a hint of excitement. Lisa turned around to fully face the man. He was probably just under six feet tall and he was a solid mass of muscle, particularly his arms. His t-shirt was oversized to allow for maneuverability and Lisa found herself fascinated by his outward expression of humility. Most men with physiques as impressive as his would have been cocky enough to show it off with tight fitting clothes. His lightly tanned skin and short natural dark blond hair were just as unassuming and laidback as the rest of his appearance, and his gray eyes sparkled with childlike interest in Lisa despite being her senior by at least five years.
"I called earlier," Lisa reminded him. "I assume I spoke with you—"
He nodded hastily. "Yeah, it was me. I just thought it was, you know, a prank call or something. I didn't actually expect Lisa Reisert—the Lisa Reisert—to call me today of all days, ya know?" he explained. He was a fast speaker and his body language was as matter of fact as his words. It was no secret that Lisa's story had been plastered all over the news for the last week more so than before, but on this particular day, it was even more present due to the verdict being announced.
"You're Mr. Ryan?"
Joshua Ryan offered his hand. "Josh," he insisted.
Lisa firmly shook his hand. "Lisa Reisert," she introduced herself despite him already "knowing" her.
"You really want to learn defense?" Josh asked incredulously. "From what I've heard in the news, I could probably learn defense from you."
Lisa shrugged and glanced away, letting her eyes wonder over the groups practicing flips, hits, and kicks. She saw people young and old, slim and heavy, dark and light, rich and poor, all united in one room and she knew why. Crime knew no boundaries. Tragedy could touch anyone no matter who they were or where they were. There was no such thing as safety or entitlement. Everyone was a victim and if they hadn't been one yet, they were merely standing in line waiting for it to find them. Each person in the facility apparently had the same idea as Lisa: they weren't going down without a fight.
"I've always been an athlete," Lisa began, her arms crossed. Her eyes were downcast in avoidance. "And between that and the adrenaline, I got lucky."
Lisa had thought about it several times since August, but every single time it entered her mind, she forced it out. The notion that her athleticism and adrenaline had not been combined with luck, that they had instead been combined with Jackson not actually wanting to hurt her, made her ill. Her brain seemed to be playing tricks on her after her interview with Agent West and that supported her secret desire to merely forget everything. Repression and denial always received a bad reputation, but she had a feeling that they could become her best friends if she wanted them as such.
"And you don't want to rely on 'luck' again," Josh supplied for her, nodding in understanding. Lisa joined him with a curt nod. "Neither does anyone in this gym," he said, walking past her. She fell in line after him. Lisa remained quiet as he gave her the welcome/motivational speech, but she stopped listening when he said, "Most of the people here have been affected by crime, but they aren't going to ever let that happen to them again." Lisa slowed to a stop.
"That's what I said," she muttered under her breath.
December, 2005
Lisa was practicing the fine art of avoidance. She continued to hit and kick the hard foam mannequin with all her might. She stopped a moment, stretched her neck from side to side, and resumed. Sweat fell into her eyes and burned, but she didn't care. The threads from where she had cut off the sleeves from her dark blue t-shirt dangled against her wet arms and irritated her, but she ignored them.
"Lisa, I'm closing up," a male voice called from across the small training room. Lisa punched harder and more frequently, and the persistent thumping against the bag helped block out his voice.
She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She wheeled around in an attempt to elbow Josh in the face. He effortlessly put his right hand up, caught her elbow, and twisted her arm behind her.
"That's sloppy. You should be embarrassed."
Lisa pouted and jerked her arm out of his grip. "That's because you won't teach me how to do anything else," she justified.
Josh backed up and let Lisa have her moment. When she took spells like this, he usually exercised passiveness until she cooled off. Lisa had attended self-defense classes three times a week since October, and it was only a four-week course. He wasn't about to kick her out, but he definitely wasn't a fan of her continued presence—not because of Lisa herself, but because it wasn't healthy. Lisa had become determined that he was going to teach her harder fighting skills, more aggressive confrontational techniques, offensive moves that would be dangerous in the wrong hands. Josh was no expert at how the mind operated after a traumatic experience, but he was pretty sure Lisa was not ready for anything of that sort. He just wasn't brave enough to tell her directly.
"Lisa, it's two days till Christmas," Josh began as he came up behind the mannequin and wrapped his arms over it to prop up and face her. "You should be with your family."
Lisa shifted her weight from one foot to the other repeatedly and she pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm paying you to be here."
"This is a private business. My contract says I can deny any customer, returning or potential, on any grounds that I choose and anyone who signs it—you included—agree to those terms. No judge in the world would side against me for it, especially here, Leese," he said in his usual calm, soft voice.
"Don't call me that," she snapped. "I go by Lisa," she sternly insisted, her hands coming to rest on her hips. She still shifted her weight from side to side nervously as she awaited her next "fix" of physical violence to occupy her mind and emotions.
Josh stood up straight. "I'm sorry. Lisa," he began again with a sigh, "I'm worried about you. I don't know what you're normally like, but I'm seeing in you a lot of what I see in people who…have been through a lot and…people who need help."
Lisa laughed wryly. "You're telling me that I need therapy?" All humor, dry or genuine, was gone when she continued. "You don't even know me."
"No, I don't, but do you know you? I mean, you've been through an ordeal, a very public ordeal, and I think you need time to readjust to life again. It's a lot like what soldiers go through when they come home. They have that battlefield mindset, their emotions are out of whack, and they can't settle into the real world again."
Lisa had immaturely looked away at the start of the accusations and she continued to do so. She reached up and roughly wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She wasn't sure if it was sweat or a runny nose from unshed tears that weren't even in her eyes but may have been in her heart.
Josh didn't say anything, nor did Lisa, so he picked up the mannequin and carried it to the wall with the rest of the portable equipment so the clean-up crew could do their jobs with a little more convenience. He returned to stand in front of Lisa and she still avoided him.
"I'm only saying this because I care about you. You've been here every moment you aren't at work and you're stretching out a four-week class in the hope that I'll take it up a notch. Lisa, I'm not about to teach you how to fight when you aren't in the right mindset." That caught Lisa's attention and she stared daggers at him. "I was a screwed up kid. When I learned to fight, it was because I was looking for something to discipline me and keep me focused. I didn't want it to take out assholes from the streets or in other gangs." Lisa didn't miss the fact that Josh had said "other gangs." For the first time, she became aware of the fact that she hardly knew him. He had attempted to talk to her for three months and she still didn't know his story. "I needed fighting to protect myself, but more than that, I needed it to fill a hole in my heart. I had nothing I could give and I never got anything in return. But in my fighting, I found a version of me that I never knew existed. Fighting is a skill that is part of me, but you want it as a weapon. I can't let you handle a weapon like that." Josh uncomfortably ran a hand through his hair. "I'll teach you to fight, Lisa, but not until you're ready for it."
A few uneasy moments passed between them. The large empty training room seemed more ominous with most of the lights off and nothing but the darkness and few street lights from the outside world coming in through the large windows. "How will you know when I'm ready?" she asked, her low voice trembling and cracking.
"I'll know when you know," he vaguely assured her. "Goodnight, Lisa. Merry Christmas."
Josh stood still and Lisa received his unspoken command to leave. She wordlessly turned her back to him and left the building.
February, 2006
"What do you think he meant when he said he wouldn't let you handle a weapon like that?" her therapist inquired with the stereotypical monotone one would expect of a woman in her line of work. Laird was blank in the face, always reliably expressionless. Her black hair was cut at chin length and was smoothly tucked under enough to barely touch the dark skin of her jawline.
Lisa sat rigidly in the floral-pattern upholstered chair, her elbows planted on the arms and her hands laced together in the air in front of her. "He thinks I'm angry. Out of control. He doesn't trust me."
Lisa had finally and reluctantly taken up Keefe on his offer of free therapy. At first, she was positive that Keefe and the government wanted to use the sessions to interrogate her for information on Jackson, but after Dr. Laird repeatedly assured her everything was confidential, Lisa became a little more open to the process. Before the first few sessions, Lisa had, in a moment of paranoid insanity, searched the room for audio/video surveillance equipment just in case, but there was none.
After attending sessions twice a week for two months, she was finally being honest enough to actually make progress. Therapy was hard for someone like Lisa. She was a by the book type. When there was a problem, it was solved quickly and efficiently. She was not a believer in gray area and yet therapy seemed to involve the avoidance of black and white in favor of nothing but gray. It was difficult for her to shift into this mindset that things had to be discovered, admitted, and accepted when her habit, her instinct was to see and solve.
"You're doing it again," Laird noted, and as expected, the voice of the middle-aged doctor never wavered beyond the balanced sound one would expect of a machine. "You actually admitted it this time. 'He doesn't trust me.' This all seems to boil down to trust issues. Did Jackson Rippner earn your trust, Lisa?"
Lisa rolled her eyes. "I tell you something that Josh said to me and you make it about my trust issues with Jackson, a man I knew for just a few hours?"
"Don't avoid the question. Did you trust Jackson, if even for the smallest second?"
Lisa again rolled her eyes, putting her frustration on display with an exasperated sigh. "I trusted Jackson as much as I trust any stranger."
"Strangers can do us harm. You learned that from Jackson." Lisa wanted to cry, to throw things in a rage, to unleash a fury beyond human comprehension. She had not learned anything about strangers from Jackson that she hadn't already learned. She had been raped. She solved her issues regarding the assault in the parking lot by taking it out on Jackson. All he had done was provide her with an appropriately chauvinistic target upon which she could work out her feelings. Truth be told, she didn't feel anything regarding the rape anymore. She had genuinely come to terms with it. Jackson Rippner had inadvertently saved her in his own way. But now she had to deal with him and he was something she couldn't handle because—she wasn't sure why. There was something about him that she couldn't shake. He was stuck in her mind and she couldn't exorcise him. He had started to migrate away from her brain and take over various parts of her being: her personality, her attitude, her heart, or what was left of it. She could feel her soul, the essence of her being, rotting from the inside because she was helpless to heal herself.
Lisa knew that Laird was ready to waste another hour diagnosing and repairing a mentality that she assumed Lisa had when in fact Lisa didn't have it at all. "I know strangers can do us harm. I'm healthy enough to know that I cannot go through life fearing and hating strangers, nor can I be paranoid and distrusting on unfounded suspicions. We don't even need to go there." Laird seemed to be half offended and half amused. Lisa wondered if Laird was aware that she had searched the office for spy equipment before several sessions a few weeks prior. The irony of Lisa's paranoia was lost to her because it wasn't considered paranoia if everyone really was out to get her, and based on the evidence she had collected in her life thus far, it seemed to be a fair assumption that they were indeed out to get her. "If I have trust issues, it's with myself."
Laird's eyes lit up at the newest problem to solve. "How do you not trust yourself?"
Lisa was surprisingly grateful that Laird was confronting her about this. "I'm angry. I feel like I don't know who I am and what I'm capable of doing. I don't know why bad things happen to me and I'm resentful. I don't know why Jackson Rippner wouldn't give me up. I don't know why everyone treats me differently now."
Lisa absently reached up and touched her French braid to make sure the tail was still securely tucked under the upper part of the braid and hidden from view. She had taken to wearing her hair pulled back. At first, she had said it was because she didn't feel like taking the time to tame her curls and make herself look perfect. Then she said it was because she didn't want to be as easily recognized by the media. The truth, she finally accepted, was that she was ashamed of her hair for some reason. She had a vague memory, or perhaps nightmare, that as she lost consciousness when Jackson head-butted her on the plane, he had touched her hair, perhaps her face. She lost all urge to share her hair with the world again, so she took to wearing it in braids, buns, and twists, all concealing its length and making it more formal, severe, and unapproachable.
"What do you mean Jackson Rippner wouldn't give you up?"
Lisa shrugged in a juvenile way, now wanting to avoid something she was prepared to discuss only seconds earlier. "It was a job. He said he was a professional, unemotional, ready to do the job and move on, but he wouldn't stop following me. Even after the job was blown and he had lost, he still followed me. He had unfinished business with me on a personal level."
"He lied, Lisa, obviously. He said he wasn't emotional, but he was acting on emotion. He wanted vengeance. I asked how you didn't trust yourself and all of your reasons were about you personally…except for this one. Does that mean you don't trust yourself with regards to how you handled Jackson Rippner?"
Lisa wasn't sure if she even understood the question, so she didn't answer it. "Or does it mean you don't trust yourself to move on from him?" Laird tried again.
Lisa still refused to speak up, but this time she at least gave consideration to the question. Perhaps Laird was right. Lisa couldn't move on from Jackson because she couldn't move on from the rape until Jackson. Did that mean Lisa was a twisted enough individual that she needed a third act of violence in her life to heal her from the second, and then a fourth to heal her from the third, and so on until the end of time? Since meeting Jackson, Lisa had acquired a taste for danger. She needed the rush of adrenaline that came with fear and she had started craving violence and physical aggression. Since Josh kicked her out of his training center, she had concentrated her energy into sit-ups, push-ups, and every other kind of around the house workout she could coerce herself into doing. But there was still something left unsatisfied in her, a satisfaction she had felt only when she banged her head against Jackson's and sent him down the stairs with a high heel in his thigh. It was raw and primitive, and it was the only thing that made sense to her anymore. Kill or be killed. The socially acceptable person she was before was long gone and in her place was this…other person.
Lisa's eyes widened as she experienced a sudden moment of epiphany. "I don't trust myself to be me, who I was before, because he could read me like a book. He knew everything and he knew me better than I knew myself."
"How does that make you not trust yourself?" Laird asked once more, this time helping shape the context of the conversation.
"I'm afraid to be that person again." Lisa remembered that who she was before was a woman who had been avoiding acknowledgement of her rape. Jackson had not known about the assault yet still managed to play her perfectly with regards to every aspect of her being except that. In the end, the anger associated with that violation had surprised and ultimately defeated Jackson. Now, there was nothing left. She couldn't be that person again. Jackson had helped her extinguish that person. Jackson Rippner had both demolished her and built her, but he left her life before he could help her discover herself. She would never be rid of the bastard. Somehow between fake pleasantries in line and hurling her down the stairs, he had somehow etched himself into her DNA and become both her creator and destroyer. Their unintentionally codependent relationship was dominating and parasitic, and it threatened to end her yet again.
Lisa leaned forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees and her face buried in her hands. "I'm afraid because I can't be that person again. She's dead. And I don't know who I am now."
July, 2006
It had been a whirlwind romance, but it was allegedly the real deal. Cynthia was getting married to—of all people—one of the FBI agents who had kept an eye on Lisa at the Lux Atlantic during the five months she was under guard. Cynthia and Danny had fallen in love almost immediately, and after a little under a year together, they were getting married. It was to be a major spectacle despite being thrown together in no time flat. Cynthia had wanted Lisa to be one of her bridesmaids, but Lisa declined a little too vehemently, claiming that she wasn't good enough for Cynthia's wedding, that it should be a family and close friends event and she merely didn't qualify. After much discussion, she finally convinced Cynthia not to pick her as a bridesmaid—that way, Lisa technically didn't have to say no.
Lisa ended up sitting in the back row of the small Catholic Church. To her left was a giant white tulle bow and to her right was some hefty old man with snow white hair and a red face. She was fortunate enough to go through most of the service unseen and unnoticed in her basic black dress that covered her from knee to neck and had short sleeves. Her hair was held back in a tight French twist and she wore hardly any make-up.
Make-up had become a problem for her as of late. She had difficultly looking in the mirror, in any reflective surface actually. When she looked at herself, she saw a stranger and that stranger was a terrifying one. She would see this person she didn't know, and sounds, images, and feelings would overwhelm her. She would hear Jackson reminding her about the importance of good customer service and not lying, she would feel her head encountering the bathroom wall, and she would see the old Lisa writing a message on the plane's bathroom mirror with dry soap. It wasn't a fluke occurrence for a mirror to bother her. It was an incident growing in frequency. Getting ready in the mornings was the worst part of the day because of the bathroom mirror, so Lisa took to putting on only enough make-up to make sure she was presentable, and it was usually nothing more than basic mineral powder. She could do it with her eyes closed, just like she could do her hair every day. Some part of her also realized that her new minimalistic appearance represented her own dwindling self-worth and esteem, and it was her way of isolating herself. She had enough voices haunting her mind for a lifetime. She didn't require anyone for company, so seclusion was no sacrifice on her part. In fact, it was a blessing.
At the reception, Lisa uncomfortably sat at a group table with a bunch of unfamiliar people who were chatting easily amongst each other. Lisa tried to remember if she was ever that approachable, ever that able to enjoy life and relax in the presence of outsiders, but all she could recall was putting on her best Manager's face and making sure all her customers, regardless of special needs, were happy. It reminded her of when she had joined Jackson at the airport for a drink out of a combination of being determined to drive herself into normalcy and feeling guilt at seeing him there alone. Even when she had an after-work drink with a few co-workers, it was still part of the job—she still had people to please and an image to maintain. Having a drink in a genuinely mellow atmosphere had been something she had never experienced, but she had trouble caring about it in the big scheme of things.
"Lisa?"
Unenthusiastically, Lisa tilted her head to look over her shoulder. "Josh," she said in total surprise. "What are you doing here? You know Cynthia?"
"Yeah," Josh cheerfully answered. He claimed an empty chair from another table and dragged it behind Lisa. He sat backwards in it, his arms folded over the top of the chair in front of him. He was such a Neanderthal sometimes, but it was part of his earthy charm. "Actually, no, no I don't know Cynthia. I mean, I met her a few times at the hotel and we chatted, but I don't actually know her-know her, ya know?" Lisa's eyebrows knitted upward in confusion. "Well, I was kinda looking for you and we kinda got started talking aboutyou and she sorta invited me to the wedding in the hope that we could accidentally meet up casually and by a total fluke of fate." Josh grinned proudly at his scheme's success. "So here I am."
Lisa faked a small smile, but she was pretty sure it was nothing more than a straight line across her face. "You kicked me out," she slowly reminded Josh as she rearranged her position in her seat to face him better. She gracefully crossed her legs.
"I did," he admitted, pointing a finger at her. "But I did it because I care. And it doesn't mean that I don't like you. I do like you."
Lisa wasn't sure what to say, so she said nothing. "I was hoping you like me, too," he added, shrugging nonchalantly at his high school level confession. "Cynthia seems to think I have a chance with you and she was hoping that nothing makes one in the mood to 'like someone' more than a nice romantic wedding."
"Josh," Lisa began uncertainly. "I'm not sure if—I mean, I don't think—"
Josh held up a hand to stop Lisa. "That's the problem. You think too much. Not everything can be explained logically, Lisa." Lisa was taken aback. She had never been accused of being too logical before. "Sometimes, you just have to feel." Josh cast a quick glance at the dance floor. There weren't too many couples, nor were there too few couples. "C'mon, let's dance."
He reached out a hand to Lisa, but she wasn't going to accept it. Unfortunately, he didn't give her a choice. He took her hand from her lap and dragged her to the dance floor. She was anxious and out of her element. Tears actually gathered in her eyes and her breathing became a little more erratic. She gasped a few times and then forced herself to breathe. Josh didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't let it show. On the exterior, they seemed like a normal couple, but beneath the surface, Lisa felt like a hostage taken against her will. She was nauseated by the smell of the hot freshly-paved asphalt parking lot that sneaked in through the opening of the door and the air vents. The warm, rough hands of Jackson Rippner had somehow transcended time and space and were now around her throat. She cringed under the dominating and assuming palm on the small of her back as she obediently swayed more-or-less in sync with her current dancing partner. Overwhelmed by these sensations, there was nothing more that she wanted at that moment than freedom.
Lisa removed her hand from where it was barely touching his shoulder and she wiped at the back of her neck nervously. She started wheezing again and Josh recognized something was wrong. He stepped back from her but kept his hand on her waist supportively. "Lisa?" he asked in genuine concern. He was not oblivious. Since the first day he met Lisa, he knew that she came with more baggage than LAX on a holiday. He didn't want to push her, but he did want to be part of her life. He and Cynthia had discussed Lisa at length and they both knew she was not right anymore. She was changing and they were helpless to do anything for her. All they could come up with was to act like they normally would and hope that Lisa would snap back, but so far, she hadn't even come close to being alright again. Lisa's eyes were wide and she was looking around the room like she didn't recognize the place.
The room started to spin. The other couples were swaying dizzyingly close to them and her senses were invaded by a sudden gust of scorching air filled with obnoxious perfumes and colognes. The sounds of the room became louder and thicker, coming across more like a dense hum than individual noises. She could hear the occasional high pitched laugh and it sent chills down her spine. She saw Josh's lips moving in front of her, but she couldn't hear him. The hand she clearly recalled him placing on her waist in a respectful, safe position seemed heavy and controlling. She had to get away, she had to have fresh air and open space. She couldn't breathe—
"Lisa?"
Lisa put a hand to her forehead and she seemed to collect herself. "I'm sorry, Josh." She gazed at him pleadingly, hoping he would see the answer in her eyes and accept it sympathetically. Lisa disappeared into the crowd, no doubt darting for the door and not looking back.
August, 2006
Lisa finished taping shut the last box and set it by the door. The moving van she had rented was outside and ready to be loaded, but she preferred to finish boxing before she started loading. After making sure that all of the boxes were prepped and ready, Lisa opened the door and started carrying her apartment's possessions outside. As she slid the first box to the back of the U-Haul, she could sense that she was being watched. She stepped out and away from the van, and surveyed a full circle around herself. She saw nothing out of the ordinary and that bothered her more than anything else she could have possibly seen. She often felt like she was being watched when she was at her apartment. It seemed like she was on permanent exhibit for the world to observe.
In all honesty, Lisa liked her apartment. It was a great place, with a great landlord and in a great neighborhood. It was in a great location that was convenient to the Lux Atlantic. Everything about it was great, great, and great. Unfortunately, whenever she looked out the window, she could imagine Jackson Rippner watching her. Every time she sat up most of the night, slept for a few hours, and then woke up early for work, she could almost hear his scathing commentary as he mocked her for her bizarre habits borne out of emotional distress and the need for mental survival. The apartment was tainted. He could find her there and she didn't mean that only with regards to its physical location. The apartment was as much Lisa as Lisa was the apartment. When one's home is violated, that trust can never be regained.
Lisa briskly walked back to the apartment and got her second large box. She was almost to the street when a voice offered, "Let me help you with that." Lisa dropped the box and its contents clanged loudly.
"Agent West," Lisa breathed, exhaling the air of a skipped heartbeat as she clutched her chest. "What are you doing here?" Samuel West stood before her in khakis and a red polo shirt. He looked like he had a date with a country club's golf course. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes from her, but she was pretty sure she knew what those calculating orbs were up to behind their dark lenses.
"Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?" he asked jovially. Lisa didn't smile or laugh. There was something that was a little too truthful about his explanation. "I was in the neighborhood visiting my niece two blocks over." Samuel bent over and picked up the box for Lisa and she walked with him to the van. "She just got her first apartment off campus. She likes to pretend she's living it up like a mature woman, but her parents told me she is scared to death of being in the big scary world alone." It was like Samuel was talking more to her than about his alleged niece. "Where are you moving?" he asked coolly.
Lisa bit her lower lip. She was starting to do that more often and it was a habit she needed to remind herself to break. She didn't like having such tells reveal her thoughts. "To a new apartment," she answered vaguely as she retrieved another box and Samuel did the same. She had the uneasy feeling that Samuel wanted to know where she was moving to—as in a specific location—and that was, quite honestly, none of his business. "It's time for a change," she elaborated without actually clarifying anything. "It's time for me to move on."
Samuel snorted, as if chuckling over an inside joke that no one else knew. "Yeah, there's a lot of that feeling going around."
November, 2006
After several years of picking sides, having double holidays, and experiencing countless awkward moments, Lisa's family had finally decided to unite for Thanksgiving. That meant no more rotating holidays every year or having to jump on a plane to experience holidays with both parents. Lisa's mom and dad set aside their differences for the first time (something that made Lisa a little curious) and had Thanksgiving in Texas. Lisa's brothers and their families flew in from London and San Diego, and even Duke joined them. What made the situation a little uncomfortable was that Lisa's mom chose Thanksgiving to show off her new boyfriend, Mike.
She had always given her parents credit for being intelligent. They loved their daughter with a fierce sense of overprotection, but they seemed to be in denial regarding her well-being as of late. Joe had simply brushed off Lisa's behavior as something that she had earned the right to feel. He didn't see the darkness in her, the tense unspoken aggression, or the increasingly dominating loner tendencies. He merely saw her as someone who had given up the fake walls and false pretenses she had been living behind since the assault. He had either convinced himself or actually believed that this was what Lisa was supposed to be like, inside and out. Lisa's mother, however, saw a daughter who was being immature and lazy, and she felt Lisa needed to get over her problems and move on. After several fights with Lisa since Jackson's sentencing was announced, her mother had finally surrendered and agreed to remain silent concerning what she deemed to be Lisa's many shortcomings. This Thanksgiving was the first time they had been civil to one another in a while, and although both maintained civil appearances, it was nice to pretend things were normal, even if they weren't.
Lisa's brothers were as successful and perfect as ever. Lisa, quite bluntly, was the family failure. Her parents doted on her, but she knew she was the letdown. Her brothers were doctors, top of their classes, and so on. She was the baby of the family who went to the local university for a mere business degree. She worked as a hotel manager. She turned down two promotions at the hotel, both of which came after the Red Eye flight. She didn't want to be promoted and she wasn't sure if it was because she liked the incognito status that came with being the family loser or if she didn't want to take on added responsibility in a job that had suddenly become trivial and meaningless in a life that had transformed overnight. Seeing her perfect brothers with their perfect trophy wives and perfect children made her feel perfectly ill. Resenting her brothers, the brothers she loved dearly and the sweet children she couldn't dislike, made her feel even lower.
There was a time when she could have never seen her mother as an overbearing nag, her father as a blind man who "loved" her no matter what, and her brothers as shallow paper dolls sitting impeccable and unwrinkled on a pedestal for their vacant wives and programmed children to adore. She had never seen her family in such an unsavory light and the possibility that they were anything other than her kind, loving, close-knit family that supported and cared for her unconditionally had never occurred to her until meeting Jackson Rippner. Now she saw lies and pretenses everywhere, including in her own family. She wasn't sure if this was how Jackson viewed the world, but if it was, things were starting to make a lot more sense to her. She wanted to believe that it was all a negative viewpoint, that her eyes were clouded over by a jaded idea put into her mind against her will, but as she smiled on autopilot throughout the dinner, she noted how empty her family really was. She could no longer see or feel their love, and in hindsight, she started to doubt their love had ever been real at all. Was this the case with all human beings? Was love merely the mindset people assumed as a social protocol in order to blend in and be "normal"? Or was love something only for those of pure mind and heart, those who were good enough to have it?
She didn't have much to give thanks for anymore, but she still put on a beaming smile and gave everyone the memories they expected her to give them of a happy family gathering.
April, 2007
Lisa sat at the small desk in her office at the Lux Atlantic. She had the honor of going through the paperwork for a tour group that had booked the hotel for a week and the computers had crashed just before their check-in time. She was stuck with manually overriding the once again operational computer with the contents of the paper forms. The intercom on her desk phone rang. She absently hit the button. "Yes?"
"Lisa, there's someone here to see you," Cynthia said plainly.
"I'll be there in a minute." There had been a time when Lisa would have jumped to her feet and promptly taken command of the situation at the front desk, but she had difficulty caring about accommodating anyone so efficiently these days. The rest of the world would have no problem making her wait, so her philosophy was that they, too, could wait until she finished the page she was on at the moment. When she completed that page, she put it face down in the "done" pile and left her office.
Propped against the front desk and chatting with Cynthia was Josh. "Hey," he said almost shyly. Usually he was a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy, but today he wore a pair of jeans with an untucked white dress shirt and navy blue sport coat.
"Hey," Lisa responded.
"I was in the neighborhood," he began. "Or I was after I drove forty-seven minutes across city in noon rush hour," he elaborated with a small grin. Cynthia giggled and looked to Lisa. Upon seeing Lisa's slight, well-mannered smile, Cynthia sobered and excused herself. After Cynthia was out of hearing range, Josh continued. "It's been a while, I know, but I wanted to see you."
"You don't give up," Lisa accused him bluntly. It had the potential of sounding rude, but the bewilderment on her face changed the inflection of her words. "Why?"
Josh shrugged and took a quick glance around the hotel. "I see someone who needs a friend but keeps pushing friends away. I see you, especially when you don't want to be seen, when you try your damnedest to hide from everyone and everything."
Lisa felt the sudden urge to cry. It was like she had been singled out in a crowd and taunted for being the different one, the one that didn't belong. How could Josh see her? Why did he want to be her friend? What could he possibly gain from being near her?
"Want to take a break?" Josh inquired, his head tilted downward so he could better see her downcast face.
Life was not short on derision or irony, Lisa thought as she sat in Starbucks with Josh. She sipped on a green tea while he had plain, basic coffee. They had no right to be in Starbucks with that kind of order. Even the girls behind the counter exchanged judgmental looks as Lisa and Josh ordered what had to be the most uncultured, unsophisticated order in the history of the coffee franchise. They sat at a small table in the back of the café, away from the loud crowds and the annoying Wi-Fi users typing away at full speed.
"How have you been?" Josh finally asked. He took a sip of his coffee as Lisa absently swirled a straw around in her tea.
"Fine," she answered reservedly.
Josh was clearly on edge. He took another rushed sip of his coffee. "Lisa, look, I'm sorry about the wedding," he divulged all of a sudden.
"That was almost a year ago," she brushed off his apology.
"There's no statute of limitations on inappropriate behavior to a friend. I'm sorry. I was obnoxious and pushy."
Lisa shook her head. "No, I'm the one who's sorry," she insisted. "I was—I didn't belong there and all I did was put myself—and you—into a situation that was uncalled for. I should've controlled myself better."
It was Josh's turn to shake his head disapprovingly. "No, that was on me. I pushed you and I knew you weren't ready, but I thought that I could somehow make it okay. I gave myself far too much credit for being a Don Juan," he joked. Lisa's face lit up in a brief sincere smile, but the doom and gloom quickly returned to her eyes. "You really shouldn't force yourself to always be in control. Control is highly overrated."
"I disagree. Control is what separates humans from animals." Lisa couldn't help seeing Jackson charge at her with a knife. Control was such a Jackson trait, yet he obviously demonstrated that control was apparently impossible. Lisa liked to think that she was stronger than him, and ultimately strong enough to successfully maintain control. The wedding proved to be her undoing as a panic attack, a physiological reaction to mental interpretation of physical stimuli, caused her to lose control.
"That sounds rather cold, don't you think?" Josh countered. "The best moments in life are when we lose control." Lisa recalled the jolt of adrenaline and pleasure she felt as she pounded Jackson with her old field hockey stick. "So, control issues aside, how are you, Lisa? How are you really?"
Lisa shrugged and took a long sip of her tea. "I finally took up Keefe on the therapy offer," she admitted.
"I'm glad. I know how hard that must be for you. Any breakthroughs?" Josh had a style about him that balanced sarcasm with friendly good-natured wit and that made it hard to take offense at how he worded things.
"I've had a few breakthroughs," Lisa disclosed, again allowing a small smile. "But it's mainly pointing out the obvious and there's nothing I can do about most of it."
"Most of it?"
"Caught that, huh?" Josh radiated pride and sat up a little straighter for emphasis. "I learned that I have trust issues—"
"I could've told you that," Josh muttered.
"—Not with others as much as with myself, or so my therapist thinks."
Josh briefly pondered the implications of her words as they both took a sip of their respective beverages. "How don't you trust yourself?"
Lisa rolled her eyes at the diagnosis she was about to explain. "I don't trust myself to be myself, much less know who I really am to begin with. I don't trust myself to be a good judge of others—"
"I completely agree with you there!" Josh concurred, earning a third legitimate smile from Lisa in one day.
"In short, I don't trust myself to be a real person again." It wasn't an admission she wanted to make, but she was definitely finished hiding behind it all the time.
"None of us are real, Leese. We just play the roles others expect us to be and that we expect of ourselves."
"Of course you'd say that, Jackson," Lisa automatically replied, still fiddling with the straw in her tea cup.
Josh blanched. "Josh," he corrected her. At first, he thought it must have been sarcasm, but then he discerned the oblivious expression on Lisa's face. She hadn't even realized her Freudian slip. Her reply had been so casual and effortless. All levity and claims of friendship were erased from his face as he leaned back in his chair, as far away from the table as he could. He was filled with resentment and it felt like a physical slap in the face.
Lisa looked up from her tea and upon seeing the disgust on his face, she became aware of her slip of the tongue and regretted it instantly. It had come out so naturally despite the fact that the closest she had ever come to calling Jackson by name to his face was her contemptuous "Jack" that she threw at him in her father's house. However, here she was, speaking of and to him with unintentional ease.
"Oh my God, Josh, I'm—"
"Is that why you've never responded to me? Am I like him?"
"Josh," she began, inching forward in her chair to stretch closer to him across the table. "Josh, no, no, don't think that."
"It's a pretty big slip up."
Lisa clapped her hand over her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Josh had said something that was so Jackson-like, combined with him calling her "Leese" after she had asked him not to do so when they had first met, that it had registered in her mind as Jackson's voice coming at her from across the table.
"Josh, I'm so sorry. You are nothing like him, nothing at all like him. It's just that—" Lisa trailed off, unable to put into words the explanation needed to excuse such an error.
Josh crossed his arms defensively as he stared at Lisa with new eyes, eyes that were probing her face for a suitable justification. "He's in your head, isn't he?" Josh guessed. Lisa's lips parted open in shock and she took shallow breaths through her dry lips rather than her nose. "The asshole is in jail and you still carry him with you. What happened between you two? What the hell did he do to you?" Josh demanded. He sounded like her father, or what her father would have sounded like had she shared her deepest secret with him.
No one, not even her therapist, knew the role Jackson had played in her life. The few hours they shared contact with one another were insignificant compared to the lasting ramifications his words and actions had inflicted on her life. She didn't hallucinate him or hear his voice. No, she wasn't that insane, or at least not yet. But Jackson was part of her mind and the memories of him that haunted her were her only companions these days, and dark memories made strange bedfellows. The world no longer had a place for Lisa and people would never understand her trauma, a trauma that was more than mere harassment on an airplane and attempted murder in her father's house. Josh, no matter how seasoned his life may have been, would never comprehend Lisa's situation.
But that didn't stop him from hazarding a guess. "I think I understand your trust issues now," Josh announced with a dry laugh. There was no humor in his voice, just the sorrow that comes with a man understanding his place in the life of a woman who could never see him standing in front of her patiently waiting. "Jackson Rippner was the guy I heard about on the news, the guy you never talked about to me. But Jackson is somebody else that I don't even think the paparazzi knew about," Josh theorized. Lisa felt her face flush. Josh was shuffling closer to something that even she was unable to ponder in her darkest moments. "Jackson is a problem for you, isn't he, Lisa?"
"Jackson's not a problem," Lisa insisted, chuckling nervously. Her eyes started to tear up, so she looked out the window to her immediate left.
"What did he do to you?" Josh softly repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
"He didn't do anything to me. He's not an issue," Lisa answered as she kept a keen watch on the cars coming and going in the parking lot.
Horror shrouded Josh's square jaw and roughly chiseled features. "You…somehow fell in love with him?" he simultaneously asked and stated.
Lisa harshly laughed and that one quick sardonic chuckle was all she could muster. She didn't like hearing one of blackest possibilities she had considered in the most subterranean crevices of her mind to be announced in the light of day as if it were legitimate and worth a second thought. Hearing one of the most shameful secrets she had considered in her lowest moments turned her stomach and sent the tea back up into her throat. She swallowed hard, forcing down the acidic ball that tightly blocked her airway.
"Don't be ridiculous. I could never love a monster…" The logical implication of her words suggested she could never love a monster like Jackson Rippner, but she knew the real answer was that she could never love a monster like herself. She and Jackson were different sides to the same coin. They had their own ways of speaking, thinking, and doing things, but the ends were always the same. She never knew the phrase "customer service" was so loaded.
Josh shook his head to himself before he shared his next revelation. "There's a thin line between love and hate. Either way, it's a lifelong investment." Lisa knew he was right. It was impossible to hate without investing in the object of hatred. Hate took time and dedication, and Lisa had it. Her reasoning behind the hatred had matured with time, though. She had started by hating Jackson as a chauvinistic representation of her rapist, but that had been too easy. Then she hated Jackson for being yet another hurdle in an already soiled existence. Now, however, Lisa was to the point of hating Jackson because she knew he was no better than she was and he had, in so many words, told her he suspected as much. The only difference was that he had never lied to her—but she had lied to both of them.
Josh continued. "You beat the guy senseless and shot him. Your father shot him. What happened between the time you met him on the plane and when they hauled his ass off to the hospital?"
Lisa regained precious control of herself and her emotions. "Jackson Rippner tried to kill me. But the son of a bitch ended up saving me from something no one will ever know or understand." Josh didn't know about her assault—he couldn't know. No one would ever know, no one save her family and Jackson. "He was the only one screwed up enough to possibly understand that nothing is personal in life and that horrible things happen to people, no matter who they are or what they do—and that these things are sometimes out of our control. That we are victims or villains and the choice is ours alone. He was the only one who somehow made everything make sense and he didn't even realize he did that!" she blurted out. A few people in the coffee shop stared at her for her loud brashness, but she glared right back at them. Two girls actually took their drinks and left.
Lisa had been able to come to terms with her rape because of her experience with Jackson, but it had come at the cost of her soul, her family, her friends, and her life as it could and perchance should have been. Somehow, though, it all seemed like a small price because in the end, the disconnection she felt from humanity made logical sense to her. It was sad and lonely from her place on top of the world as she watched the sky fall, but that was the price one had to pay for enlightenment and being allowed the honor of knowing the sky was indeed falling. "He made the world make sense, as fucked up as that is," Lisa crudely noted.
"What did he do?" Josh asked yet again, his whisper even more gentle this time. He reached out and took her hand in his across the table. She sniffed back her tears and looked into his eyes with a hardness that startled him. Her hand was limp in his grasp.
"He was nothing I couldn't handle then or now."
May, 2007
"Hold your arm like this," Josh instructed, manually moving Lisa's body to stand in a particular stance while he adjusted her arm. "That way, when you swing, your body is lending your arm the strength it needs. That arm will be pretty useless if you just wave it around and hope to hit something. Now, try it again." Lisa shuffled her stance and made herself reassume proper posture on her own as she followed through on the punch like Josh had commanded her to do. The mannequin rocked back as she struck its head.
"Fantastic," Josh commended. "So, are you about ready to call it a night?"
"No," Lisa answered breathlessly as she bounced on her feet and practiced punching the dummy repeatedly.
Josh had been training her for a little over two weeks. Since their conversation at the coffee shop, he had been able to see another side of Lisa. This side was not as irrationally hostile. Instead, she was a woman who was as much lost as she was in hiding. He had refused to teach her to fight two years earlier because the last thing she needed then was to have skills that she could use to jeopardize herself or others. Now, however, Josh saw that Lisa needed something that would help her reconnect with life. She had to rebuild herself and her inner strength, and the discipline that came with fighting would hopefully do that for her. If nothing else, Josh wished that he could teach her how to balance her issues and come to terms with the demons she fought in secret.
"That's enough for tonight," Josh insisted, this time leaving no room for debate. "We can pick up tomorrow with weights and cardio." He was a perfect coach. He refused to let Lisa control him or his teaching style. He required her to follow the same strict regimen that he mandated of all his students. Tuesday and Thursdays were for weight lifting and cardio exercises, while Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were for techniques. Josh's style was a combination of various martial arts and kickboxing, culminating in a unique form of street fighting. He was a poor kid from the streets who fought for survival of both body and mind, and his skills were the same tactics that were passed down by others who had been in similar situations. His fighting was not always pretty, but it was effective.
Lisa continued battering the hard foam mannequin. "Lisa, that's enough," Josh ordered, placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her. Lisa planted her feet and spun around, her elbow aimed straight at Josh's face. Josh reacted at the last second and confidently (and almost cavalierly) put up his hand to catch the pointed joint before it could reach him. "Close, but still no cigar," he chided. This was not the first time Lisa surprised him by attempting to one-up him and it wouldn't be the last time.
July, 2007
Lisa shopped in bulk. What few groceries she bought, she purchased them in bulk. When she had to buy clothes, she got as many as she could to last as long as she could make them last. When she had to buy anything, everything, whatever it may be, she bought it in bulk. The most bizarre part of it, however, was that Lisa went shopping after dark. Daylight shopping had slowly drifted out of her subconscious habits only to be replaced by nighttime shopping or, when applicable, online shopping. Most of what she needed could be purchased online and delivered by mail to her apartment, but some things still required personal attention.
She had been raped in a parking lot in broad daylight, but it had not stopped her from going back out into the world. Granted, for a while, most of her daylight excursions were with her father, Cynthia, or some casual friend or co-worker who was in the mood for a shopping buddy, but this phase had not lasted long. Her recent aversion to daytrips had come about slowly and for the sole purpose of added danger. For some reason, Lisa felt the need to court danger in a more palpable way than merely taking a chance in the daylight. Some part of her needed the adrenaline rush of knowing that she may have to battle for her life yet again. That rush was the only thing that made her appreciate that yes, she was undeniably alive. She had a hand constantly on the Taser in her unzipped purse and she was ready to do whatever was necessary to survive.
Her father had not said anything, but he was clearly disturbed by her new "hobby" of making herself an easy target. Lisa had quit therapy in exchange for street fighting lessons, and although he was pleased to see her take pride in her safety by learning how to defend herself, he couldn't help noticing the ominously self-serving reasons why she was doing it.
October, 2007
Traditionally speaking, Halloween at the Lux Atlantic was crazy. This year, two of the small conference rooms had been rented out for two separate parties for teens, while the third and main conference room had been rented by a major celebrity who wanted to throw a charity benefit masque. On top of this, there were more guests than usual during this time of the off season because a lot of locals liked to get a room in the city so the kids could have a safe trick-or-treating experience in the sanctuary of one of the city's more tourist-oriented areas.
"Do you need more candy?" Cynthia asked as she looked over Lisa's shoulder at the basket on the check-in desk's counter. Lisa could smell M&Ms and didn't have to look up to know that Cynthia, now six months pregnant, had a mouthful of chocolate.
"Nope. But the lobby lounge basket is running low," Lisa said, nodding toward where some children had discovered the candy by the television in the lobby's sitting area. Cynthia scurried off to refill the basket and Lisa snickered as she saw the redhead shove a fun size Milky Way into her already stuffed mouth.
The phone rang and Lisa picked it up on the first ring. "Lux Atlantic, Lisa speaking. How may I help you this evening?" There was silence for a moment on the line and Lisa almost hung up, thinking it was a prank. "Hello?" she asked, giving it a second chance.
"Hey, Lisa. Remember me?" The voice was oddly choppy and uneven sounding, but there was no mistaking the familiar cadence, the cool undertones that were both soothing and chilling.
"Jackson," Lisa stated. Her blood raced for just an instant, but she knew better than to feel anxious over the phone call.
"That's right. And I'm coming for you, Lisa." Lisa was not a fool. She looked around the lobby, her eyes searching for anything suspicious.
"Oh really?" she probed, leaving the lobby and walking down the hallway toward the conference rooms.
"Really," he replied after some delay.
"Well then, if you're really coming for me, you should at least use the Wi-Fi at the internet café down the street instead of the one right in front of me." Lisa turned off the phone and looked down at the two teens sitting in the hallway. Both were in costume, one as the Joker and the other in a business suit and wire rim classes. From where they sat, they had a clear view of Lisa as they used voice cloning software to duplicate Jackson's voice from various news reels that they had come across on YouTube. They thought it would make a great Halloween prank. Lisa disagreed. She stared down at the boys and when they sensed someone close to them, they peered up at her. The Joker squealed and Lisa was fairly sure he was about to cry all over his sloppy clown make-up.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked. "Perhaps the police can help find something to keep you busy?" The boys stayed quiet. Lisa knelt down closer to them. "Would you like to know what I did to Rippner before the police took him away on a stretcher?" she inquired softly, her voice low and even. "I filled him full of bullets, but that's only after I beat him senseless with a hockey stick. Would you like to know what else I did to him?" The boys vehemently shook their heads "no." "Then I think you should call it a night before I get upset. I've been feeling a little moody all day," she lamented to herself.
The Joker with the laptop snapped it shut while the second boy reached down to retrieve his brown sack mask off the floor. They both ran for the door, almost crashing into Cynthia who dodged them at the last second.
"What happened?" she asked when Lisa met up with her in the lobby.
Lisa shrugged. "The Joker and that guy with the sack tag-teamed me with a prank call." At Cynthia's inquisitive look, Lisa elaborated, "They cloned Jackson Rippner's voice and called me at the desk."
"Oh my God," Cynthia gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. "Shouldn't we report this to…someone?" Cynthia wasn't sure who they should report it to or to what end, but she knew it was wrong for Lisa to have to put up with such maltreatment.
"Nah, it's okay," Lisa resolved. "It takes more than a fake phone call from Jackson Rippner to bother me."
March, 2008
"Stop pointing your toes, princess! You ain't figure skating!" Josh screamed at Lisa. He was losing his patience with his student. They had been at this for hours and Lisa simply could not master the kicking technique that he had assigned her for that day. Basic kicks were not a problem, but Lisa could not wrap her mind around how to high kick or roundhouse kick without pointing her toes.
"You point 'em, you break 'em!" he shouted. "Keep balance," Josh directed as he lifted Lisa's leg to the side and up, forcing her into the kick pose. It took all the strength she had to hold that posture for longer than the mere seconds the actual action required. He bent her leg at the knee and then stretched her leg out into the kick, forcing her foot to remain flat. "Got it?" he questioned. Lisa nodded for the hundredth time that day. "Again!" he barked. Lisa took a deep breath and kicked with all her concentration and might.
June, 2008
Lisa considered Saturdays to be wasted days. Josh closed the center on those days and she didn't have to work on the weekends (though she had lately started coming in for half-days anyway). Lisa finally decided to purchase a gun, in particular, a Glock. She enrolled at a nearby shooting range, but she felt ridiculous teaching herself how to use the gun. She was not a stranger to guns. After her attack in the parking lot, her father had given her a gun for protection and taught her how to use it—which was basically put in the bullets, cock it, aim it, shoot it. Lisa wanted more than that, so she recruited Cynthia's husband Danny. Danny joined her for an hour every Saturday for three weeks as he taught her to use the gun. She learned to speed load, a few tricks in holding it for aim improvement, how to shoot with either hand, and so on.
Every time she shot at the paper target, she saw Jackson Rippner's stone cold blue eyes twinkling at her.
January, 2009
It was 6 a.m. when Lisa arrived at the Lux Atlantic.
She worked all day, stopping only to take her mandatory lunch break during which she slowly sipped a bottle of cold water and stared blankly ahead.
At 6 p.m., she entered her apartment. She walked by the backpack and messenger bag that were always next to the door and entered the kitchen. She ate a brown-spotted banana, a few pieces of under-toasted toast, and guzzled down a full glass of bitter orange juice. She changed her clothes and headed out an hour later to train with Josh.
At 10:30, Lisa returned home and entered her bathroom. She stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the shower.
After her shower, she dried off and put on her nightclothes. All of this was performed without even a subtle acknowledgement of the mirror in the bathroom. Mirrors had been omitted from her life for years, first by using them more infrequently, but later by not using them at all. Mirrors looked back. The person in the mirror was a different person. Even author Lewis Carroll knew this, a disturbing fact that led him to write Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. He knew that a mirror held another person from another world. Lisa was aware of that too, but what she didn't know was if the mirror held captive her good self from the past or if the mirror revealed the dark entity inside Lisa that was clawing and biting to get out. The risk was too great for her to look.
Lisa walked through her dark apartment and crawled into bed. Her apartment was always dark. Light revealed things through windows. Darkness concealed them. She lay silently in bed, her eyes wide open, for at least fifteen minutes before sleep finally overtook her.
Throughout the night, Lisa tossed and turned. She did not dream or have nightmares. She never dreamed. She never reached a good night's sleep.
She was already awake before her alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. the next morning.
Everything happened again that day just as it happened the day before.
June, 2011
Lisa was checking-in her favorite assholes (not assholes, merely "guests with special needs") for their usual Miami summer getaway when she heard the volume increase on the lobby's television. As she handed the guests their key and check-in materials, Lisa cast a glance to her side where Cynthia had been working on the computer, but there was no Cynthia. Lisa left the front desk for the lobby's lounge area where Cynthia, several guests, and a couple of the hotel's staff were all focused on the breaking news.
Lisa didn't have to read the caption on the bottom of the screen to know what was going on. The montage of Jackson Rippner's greatest moments in front of the media spotlight told her everything.
Jackson Rippner had escaped.
July, 2011
Over a month had passed and nothing had happened. In fact, for the first time in years, Lisa felt like she was not being watched. The FBI and local police had all jumped to Lisa's defense and immediately put her under 24-hour surveillance in case Jackson Rippner came after her. For some reason, though, Lisa did not fear his retaliation. She was fairly certain that Jackson had cleared his head over the years and regained that cold composure he possessed when they had first met. She was confident he had bigger fish to fry, such as regaining his reputation in what was surely a competitive field of work.
At 5:58 p.m., Lisa unlocked her front door. She didn't turn on the lights. She never turned on the lights anymore. She fully entered the apartment, locked and bolted the door, dropped her bag in the tan upholstered chair closest to the door, and headed toward the kitchen. She felt a tension in the air so strong that it was almost like an electric current. Goosebumps formed on her arms and the apartment somehow seemed quieter than usual.
In the hallway that lead from the kitchen to the bedroom, a pair of arms wrapped around her and a hot hand clapped over her mouth. She immediately screamed in terror, the sound muffled to a shrill vocalization of her throat. This couldn't be happening, not again. After all the ways she had hunted danger, after all the hours of training, after all the times she had pictured herself being the one on the offensive rather than defensive side, this could not be happening again. "Shh, Leese. I'm not here to hurt you. We have business—"
Before he could whisper another word in her ear, Lisa slammed her head back into his, disorienting him long enough to break free from his arms and jam her elbow into his throat. Her hair fell loose now and into her face. Jackson hunched over a little in reaction to Lisa elbowing him and his lower posture gave her the perfect angle to plant a swift kick in his middle. In automatic response, he wheeled back into an upright position and reached out to intercept Lisa's incoming fist. He caught the punch a split second before it would have impacted with his face. Lisa was stunned as Jackson squeezed her balled up fist in his hand, his strength evident and this time clearly dominant. Her eyes grew wide at the realization that Jackson was at the physical advantage over her this time. The Jackson she had known had not been terribly strong or a fighter.
"You're not the only one with nifty new skills," he shared before jerking her arm behind her, forcing Lisa to turn her back to him as he reeled her against him. "I'm not here for this," he insisted, again opting to whisper almost intimately in her ear. Jackson's breath in her ear was intimate and seemed almost like what a lover would do. It sent shivers up her spine and made her feel a wave of nausea, but she also found herself oddly stirred by it. That alone caused her to be all the more disgusted at him as well as herself. She attempted to backward head-butt him again, but he dodged it. "None of that, please. I'm here to save you. Ironic, don't you think?" he couldn't help remarking with an ephemeral smile.
"Bullshit!" she yelled with a grunt. In an instant, Jackson was being flipped over her shoulder and onto the floor, a classic self-defense move that was taught in Defense 101, and he had foolishly walked right into it. Lisa's mind was shifting into gear as her fight or flight instincts from her father's house activated again. This was her third time to settle unfinished business and her hypothesis that violence was going to be a never-ending cycle of occurrence and resolution in her life was starting to seem true. Jackson had been her way of resolving her rape and now he was going to be her way of resolving her last encounter with him.
"Enough!" Jackson barked. He jumped back to his feet and when Lisa tried to kick him again, he deflected her leg with his outstretched arm. In a lightning fast motion, she spun and attempted to kick from the other direction, and he again repelled it with his other arm. She darted at him to punch him, but he ducked and instead charged at her, tackling her to the ground. They wrestled briefly as she attempted to bite, kick, and scratch him, but he grabbed her wrists, pinning them down above her head. Her legs powerfully flailed, hoping to knee him in the groin, but he made his own legs become dead weight over hers.
"There are people watching you right now—"
"To protect me from you!"
"—and they work for my Company—"
"They're cops and FBI—"
"You know something—they want you dead for it. Six years—" Lisa began to squirm again with rising anger and Jackson held her down tighter. He was about to continue speaking when he looked deeply into her eyes for the first time since seeing her again. Lisa's eyes were filled with tears of terror and panic, and as she resisted him, she struggled to control her own breathing to keep from having a panic attack. He began again. "It's been six years and they've just now decided you're important enough to kill. That says something. Now I need you to tell me: what do you know?"
Lisa was dumbfounded. Of all the things she expected to hear from Jackson Rippner, this was not one of them. She knew nothing and how Jackson could get it in his unbalanced head that she knew something was beyond comprehension. She wasn't about to tell him that she knew nothing, so she put on her best poker face. Lisa laughed coldly, and when she did, a stray tear escaped from her right eye. "Like I'll tell you. Just kill me now and get it over with. Because if I get loose, I'm going to kill you." Lisa's eyes changed from terror and panic to something savage, something scary. She could feel herself wanting to hurt him, wanting to see him recoil as she pulverized his skull or gaze at her with that look of shock, hurt, and resentment as she filled him full of bullets.
"We have a matter of minutes before the Company storms this house and kills us both." For some reason, Lisa trusted his words. She saw something in his eyes that reinforced the oath he had sworn last time: Jackson Rippner never lied. She stopped struggling. She didn't believe him completely, but he had her attention if for no other reason than curiosity. "They want me because I screwed the pooch on this one, but why they want you after all this time, only you can tell me that." Jackson hesitated before abruptly blurting out, "Tell me and I'll protect you."
Lisa didn't miss a beat. "No, no you won't!" With all her might, Lisa shoved Jackson back and knocked her fist into his face. Jackson fought back, this time striking his fist into her cheek just as she had decked him. The air left her lungs from the pressure of the impact, and when she breathed again a second later, she felt the delayed sting and burn of the hit. He ran up to her and put her into a chokehold. It was tight enough to slightly cut off her air, but it wasn't enough to make her gag and gasp just yet.
"You'd be dead already if I wanted to kill you. How many times do I have to tell you: I'm not a killer. I'm a Manager. And right now, I'm an unemployed Manager trying to figure out why my old bosses want me and my former assignment dead!" Lisa back-rammed her foot into his shin. He hissed faintly, but he didn't let go. Instead, his hold constricted as he wrapped one of his legs around hers to keep her from kicking again. He clutched her hair and yanked her head back to prevent her from biting his arm. "Now, I'll ask you again, what the hell do you know?"
Both were taken by surprise when the door burst open and there stood the two "cops" and the jogger Lisa had seen in her neighborhood several times this week. Lisa lunged forward out of Jackson's grip and when she turned to her saviors, she realized that she and Jackson both had red lasers from three guns targeting them.
If the situation had not been so dire, Lisa and Jackson's seemingly slow motion turn to face one another would have been comical. Without communication, the two came to an unspoken truce. First, they would fight the third party that interrupted their personal discussion and then they would resume beating the daylights out of each other. It was important to have priorities in life.
Jackson ran for the kitchen, bullets whizzing by his ear. As the three were distracted by Jackson, Lisa approached the trio and picked one away from the group by tugging his arm and flipping him over her shoulder and onto the floor. Her eyes sought out the other two and was pleased to find that they had pursued Jackson into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Jackson went through several drawers and after finding most of them empty, he finally discovered the one with the knives. He reached in and took a small one, a peeler knife no doubt, and threw it as he whirled around. He had aimed on instinct alone and luck was on his side as the knife embedded itself into the left shoulder of the first man to enter the kitchen. As the guy stumbled back, attempting to pull the knife out without causing additional damage, the second man pushed him aside and opened fire on Jackson. Jackson took cover behind the built-in island in the middle of the kitchen. It was small, but it worked.
Lisa, meanwhile, was tackled to the ground as she raced to capture the fallen gun from where it had landed about six feet from the guy she brought down. She fell face first and a small trickle of blood came from her lip as her tooth dug into it. He had her on the floor face down and he started to position his hands on her head to snap her neck. Lisa thrashed about and slid her arms out from under her body. She reached above her head and seized him by the ear and hair. His hair was short, but she still managed to clutch a hardy handful. He groaned and that told her he was preoccupied enough for her to swing her elbow behind her and nail him on the temple by his right eye. As he fell back to the floor in a reluctant sitting position, Lisa dove for the gun. When she clutched it, she did not hesitate to pull the trigger. A muffled pop sound was all she heard from the weapon as the bullet flew from the barrel's silencer and into the vulnerable chest of her attacker. As he collapsed back to the floor, eyes still wide and breath non-existent, Lisa permitted herself to sink to the floor and sit in shock for a moment.
Jackson threw a fillet knife blindly over the island. It landed uselessly somewhere away from the second man, but it was enough of a diversion for him to come out of hiding. He ran into the much larger man in a bent over position, shoving into his gut like an NFL player who was bucking for a pay raise next season. The man wheezed and Jackson used that opportunity to seize his arm and twist it back before removing the gun from him. Jackson tossed the gun out of range from both of them before reaching up to clench the man by his shirt collar. He wrenched his head down low enough to ram his knee into it. Jackson let him go long enough to punch him in the head with his fist. He then effortlessly moved a little to the side in order to kick the man's knees in, automatically forcing him to the floor. Jackson's eyes caught sight of a slight sparkle of light in the dim apartment: the fillet knife. He picked it up, cockily twirled it between his fingers, and then pierced it into the man's gut, ripping flesh and twisting it in deeper and repeatedly.
In the middle of all the action, Jackson had forgotten about the first man. He suddenly remembered him when he heard another gunshot. He saw the man still clutching his blood-gushing shoulder, his eyes heavy and his expression dazed. The man focused himself and shot again, but Jackson moved at the last second. He drove his fist into the man's injured shoulder, making him howl unprofessionally. He must have experienced an adrenaline high because he punched Jackson with such force that it knocked him straight to the floor a few feet back. Gunshots rang out from just outside the kitchen, but this time it was Lisa firing. He wasn't sure what was happening, but from the sound of it, Lisa had gotten too close and the man had snatched her hand holding the gun. No lights were on in the apartment and when the fight had started, there had still been some faint daylight imposing its way through the thick curtains. Now, however, the weak daylight was becoming softer and the curtains won the battle to contain the apartment's darkness.
Despite the lack of clear visibility, Jackson leapt to his feet and bolted into the dark living room. Blood dripped down his nose and his left eye felt puffy. His vision was a little blurry from the head trauma, but he was sure that would pass. What mattered at this moment was that the man had Lisa pinned on the ground, his hands around her throat and squeezing, and the gun had been knocked away. Jackson jumped on the man's back and attempted to slit his throat with the knife, but the man bucked and Jackson had a choice to surrender his hold on him or lose his grip on the knife. He relinquished the knife.
Because he was sidetracked by Jackson, the man lost his vice grip on Lisa's neck. She couldn't reach the gun or the knife, so she rammed her fist into his face. It reminded him she was there and he redirected his attention to strangling her. She was lashing out and gasping for air when she heard a distinct popping sound and saw that Jackson had snapped his neck. The body yielded to gravity and started to fall on her. She put her arms up in a defensive posture to hold it off of her, but it was too heavy and about to completely come down on her. Jackson heaved the body off of her and tossed it aside.
He stood and slowly, achingly stumbled a few feet back to retrieve the knife off the floor. Lisa didn't have to see him to know he was doing that. Likewise, she was already crawling a few feet away to commandeer the gun that had been lost in the struggle.
When she had the ever-elusive gun firmly in her grasp, she looked up to find Jackson standing over her, watching her with a knife in hand and an enigmatic expression on his face. Without taking the time or the chance to form assumptions, she reacted instinctively by supporting her weight with her arms and doing a roundhouse kick on the floor to knock his legs out from under him. He buckled straight down onto his knees and then fell forward, catching himself with one hand and still holding the knife with the other.
Just as Lisa had reacted instinctively, so did Jackson. Before she could rise up from her position on the floor, he shoved his arm out and pressed the bloody knife against the delicate pale skin of Lisa's neck while simultaneously Lisa cocked the gun and aimed it mere inches from Jackson's forehead.
A gun versus a knife. Lisa versus Jackson.
Both were bloody, bruised, and out of breath.
Both were waiting for the other to make the first move.
TBC…