Rant. Rant rant rant. Stupid ideas.
Melanie – Hmmm… good idea, but I already have a nice hunter (whom you'll meet in this chapter (dun-dun-dun-duuuuh!)). Just wait a few chapters and I'll reveal the nature of Talley (you'll smack your forehead and call me an idiot, but I won't see it, so go ahead).
This takes place about the same time that Tom is attacked. Roughly. And it might not be good at all, it went out of hand.
I won't be the only one to take the blame for this chapter. My dad and I figured it all out together. Bringing this guy into this fic was his idea! Blame him too. Thanks.
The thing in the end is a bit cheesy, but I'm no good at newspaper articles.
And thanks for reading.
- - -
He looked in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. He was pale. Even more than usual, and the light was reflected from the sweat on his face. He concentrated on his bloodshot eyes and frowned when he tried to remember.
What colour are my eyes?
He considered touching them, but that he had already tried. He had tried to tear them out of their sockets when those pictures wouldn't leave them. When they played over and over again. He didn't want to remember. Could he remember?
What colour are my eyes?
His hair too. It always had been fair. Blond as the most beautiful love god's hair. It had been his pride and joy. Why was it so dark? It wasn't supposed to be dark. And his face. It was weathered and torn.
What colour are my eyes?
He whimpered when another picture flashed through his mind. But this one, he recognized.
- - -
He tore the lid from the crate, swearing when he got blisters in his fingers. He was drunk as usual, spitting and cursing because he'd just been fired. This was a way to get back to that swine of a boss, a way as good as any. He stared with disbelief on the containments.
Feathers!
Stinking ostrich feathers!
He removed handful after handful, growling and hissing, spreading them over the floor. He was just about to turn the crate over and smash it to pieces when he saw the little surprise. Among the various African tribe trinkets, was a small crystal. He picked it up, holding it gently in his slightly bleeding hands. It shimmered oddly, illuminating tiny parts of his skin. He was enchanted by its simple beauty.
He stood there for a long time, admiring the small stone. He touched it gently with his bloody fingers, slowly colouring it red. It felt like it purred in his hands, showing its appreciation of the touch. Soon it brightened his skin in a red hue and almost vibrated in his hands. Something inside him, instinct maybe, told him to throw it away, go home and forget that he had ever been there. He held it closer, obsessed with it by now.
There was something pulsating within it, as if it was living. He stared at it. The sun rose and a ray of light fell on it, making the crystal shine viciously. There really was something living within it. It was! This scared him more than he thought possible, but once again, his body acted without his mind appreciating it. The part he would call himself watched in horror as his body slowly, almost mechanically, opened his mouth and put the crystal within it. He felt the metallic taste of his blood on it, before he swallowed it.
Everything went dark around him. It felt like something burning spread out from his stomach to the rest of his body. It concentrated on his heart and head, burning until he was sure he was dying.
It slowly wore off. When it was no more than a strange tingling, he got up and tried to get home. He felt strange.
Uncompleted.
- - -
His eyes were brown.
They were supposed to be blue. Or green. He wasn't sure. He couldn't remember.
"What is my name?" he whispered. He couldn't even recognize his voice. The crystal was still within him, he knew that, like a heavy weight in his stomach.
"What is my name?" he repeated.
It's Jack.
He frowned. Jack…? It didn't sound familiar.
It's Jack! Jack! JACK!
How could it be? He was pretty sure it was something else.
Not Jack. Not Jack Green. There is no Jack Green.
"No Jack Green…" he repeated with his unfamiliar voice.
Charles…
"Charles…"
Charles Remington. You'll know it soon. Charles.
It was better. It was a good name. It was his name. He knew that. Jack Green? Who is Jack Green?
He looked at the rifle in the other side of the room.
It was his.
He was going to hunt this night.
Hunt… yes. But something else must happen first.
"What…?"
Jack Green must die first.
He frowned again. How could someone that doesn't exist die? The crystal in his body stirred, making him nauseous. It punished him.
Jack Green must die now.
His head snapped hardly to the left. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, his eyes staring out into nothing. The veins on his neck stood out, slowly turning black. He fell backwards and felt his head hit the floor. Thousands of stars were spread out in the room and watched him as his body began to die. He wanted to scream, to let everything out, but he couldn't. He couldn't scream. He could only lie there, feeling his body twist and convulse. His head banged against the floor, his teeth grinded his lower lip. The pain was excruciating, turning his body to nothing but a great, painful burden. But during this whole ordeal, he remained conscious. He tried, but he couldn't drift away. He couldn't flee.
Die.
Something snapped within him and he felt how his life finally left his body. He continued the painful convulsions for minutes, but they finally began to fade.
You're dying, Jack Green.
He stared. His eyes began to get glassy, like dead eyes do, but he still saw out of them. How could that be?
You will not be allowed to go until I say so. Your soul may leave this body, but not until you surrender your mind to me. Surrender it.
He forgot all and finally slept.
- - -
The body got up from the floor. Its lip was no more than a bloody mush, his throat and face was still covered in blood. The man looked at his hands in amazement.
"I'm… alive…" he said. He knew his voice. He looked in the mirror. That was his face! His face! He knew it was!
"I'm alive."
He said it as if he just had to confirm it. He ran his fingers through his hair and checked the bristles on his face that'd been there for days. He nodded with a smile, pleased.
"Alive."
His face got a worried expression and he pressed his hands against his stomach. He would've felt if the crystal was still there. It wasn't. He was indeed alive and free. He had much to thank his friends in the Dark Continent for.
He glanced at the rifle in the corner. He picked it up and felt its weight. He couldn't believe how much he had missed this. He looked at the crescent moon and grinned.
Hunt.
Charles Remington was alive.
- - -
A few days later, everyone in London was afraid to leave their homes at night. When the sun set, worried mothers called in their children and glared suspicially at everyone that went by. It had only been a couple of days, still gunshots had often been heard at nights and twisted bodies had been found at morning. All newspapers wrote about it.
"SILVER MURDERER" LOOSE IN LONDON
Several victims have been found in London, all killed by a silver weapon or by critical damage on their spine, neck or head. All victims were found on open streets, all varying in age, sex and race. The police have no tracks.
- - -
So, now that you know him… this guy belongs to whoever owns The Ghost and The Darkness. Well, not me anyway.
