Author's note: poem incorporated in the story is by Dylan Thomas

The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction

by Akane-Rei

Chapter Three: Coping With the Memories


"Do not go gentle into that good night . . ."

Stay, he thought. Don't step back.

"She's my daughter!" he screamed at them.

Don't take another step, he thought. Please.

He could feel his heart beating furiously as he watched him take another step back, another step closer to the edge.

Stop! his mind screamed. He's so close to the edge. So close.

"Put her down," he whispered. "For the love of God, put her down."

"You're evil shall not permeate me or my daughter," he shouted.

NO!

"NO!" he finally shouted, running towards the cliff, his heart in his throat, fear lacing his voice. "No! No! No!" he screamed again and again as he watched the two figure disappear from the edge.

He ran as fast as his legs would take him until he felt his arms being jerked back. He stumbled near the edge of the cliff and felt someone try to restrain him as he tried to get up, to follow her, to get to her.

He fought his restrainer, his hands and legs flying everywhere. He felt his fists connect against a mouth, a chin, an eye. He felt his feet kick a leg, a shin, a shoulder. All the while, he screamed her name over and over.

He felt a new set of arms and legs help his restrainer as he tried to crawl towards the edge while his own arms were being held tightly by someone behind him. He tried to look at the bottom of the cliff, searching for a flash of color, an insignificant movement, anything at all as he screamed her name until his throat hurt. He found nothing. All he could see were the waves as they crashed against the jagged rocks.

"NO!" he screamed. "Please, please, please, NO!"

He felt a burning in his chest.

"Jessie!" he screamed.

"Old age should burn and rave at close of day . . ."

Jon gasped for breath as he woke from his nightmare.

"Every night," he said. "Every damn night!"

He can feel his accelerated heart beat pounding against his chest, his shallow breathing coming in and out. He sat up, running his hands through his hair, feeling his sweat almost soak it. A pounding headache began to make its way to his temple.

"Damn!" he said again under his breath. Tossing the sheets across him, he got up on his feet and headed downstairs.

Stealthily, he padded towards the kitchen and opened the fridge. Ignoring the cold air that hit his face and his bare chest, he grabbed a carton of milk and walked towards the living room. He didn't bother to turn on any of the lights, knowing that he would hate its intrusion to his solitary darkness.

He caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors and sighed wearily. Even he had to admit to himself that he looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes did not help improve the gaunt look on his face.

He shrugged his shoulders and headed for the couch. Plopping himself down on its cushions, he sat back and stared at the carton of milk in front of him, wishing it was something stronger, but knowing better. After taking a gulp, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He tried to think of something, anything besides that night, but the memories came crashing down -- as it always does after a nightmare -- and he drowned himself in them.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . ."

- - FLASHBACK - -

"Jonny! Jonny!"

She was there, somewhere. She had to be.

"Jonny, listen to me!"

I have to get to her.

He felt himself being dragged away from where she was and he struggled.

Got to get to her, he thought. Got to be with her.

"Jonny! Jonny!"

She's alive. She has to be.

"Jonny!"

If only I could get to her, then everything will be fine.

"Jonny, you cannot follow her!"

I'll tell her I'm sorry and everything will be alright.

"You. Cannot. Follow. Her."

NO! Everything will back to normal if I can just get to her.

"My friend," said a calm voice, "I am sorry."

He could hear someone sobbing behind him.

I'll wake up from this nightmare when I reach her.

He renewed his efforts to reach her when he felt a blow knock him down. He fell, hitting his head against a rock in the ground, his lasts thoughts were of her when everything went black.

END FLASHBACK

"Though wise men at their end know dark is right . . ."

Hadji stared at the ceiling from his bed. He watched as the moonlight shadows of the leaves of the trees rustled when the breeze disturbed their rest. With his window open, he could feel the said breeze as it blew into the cold night air. He could hear the sounds of the nocturnal animals as they go about their way, their only thoughts are focused on their hunt for food in order to survive. For a moment, he envied their simple lifestyle, their single-mindedness.

He sighed and tossed in his bed. He could not sleep. Normally, meditation can put him in a somewhat relaxed state which would allow sleep to take over. However, tonight, meditation does not seem to be having its usual effect.

Not this night, at least.

Not in this house.

Not in this room.

Because he was awake, he had heard Jon walking outside the hallway.

Another nightmare, he thought. More than likely the same one as before.

He had debated the merits of joining his friend. Throughout the years, he and Jon hardly ever talked about what happened to her that night. It was as if, by some unspoken agreement, they had decided to leave each other to their own thoughts. That, as it turned out, was not one of the healthiest things they could have done in regards to their mental stability.

He sighed again and sat up on his bed. He leaned against the head board and stared at his outstretched arms which were carelessly resting above his raised knees. He looked at his hands, strong hands really. Hands that were callused and rough in most places. Hands that helped with the building of more than one structure in Bangalore. Hands that were now clenched into tight fists.

He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the images those clenched fists brought with them, but the scent of the sea breeze coming from his window coupled with the remembered smell of smoke in days long past brought it all back to him.

- - FLASHBACK - -

"Because their words had worked no lightning . . ."

"Jonny! Jonny!" he shouted, hoping that by increasing the volume of his words, he can break through the haze that seemed to hold his friend in thrall.

"Jonny, listen to me!" he shouted more, shaking his friend, trying to make him aware of his surroundings, of the precariousness of his situation. He tightened his hold, ignoring the pain he felt resulting from Jonny's response to his restraining hand.

"Jonny! Jonny!" he shouted again while he restrained Jonny from his obvious intention of jumping off the cliff to follow her.

"Jonny!" he screamed. With the help of his adopted father, they both tried to get Jonny to look at them instead of the bottom of the cliff. He gasped once he saw the sheer determination in his friend's eyes as he struggled against their hold. There was something in Jonny's eyes . . . something driving him. He did not know how long he and Dr. Quest can hold him off.

Valiantly trying to hold his friend down, he searched for Race to help them with this predicament, but he had other matters in his hands, namely Estella.

He looked back at his friend's efforts to break free of him and Dr. Quest. He had to make him see reason.

"Jonny!" he began, "You cannot follow her!"

He felt his heart tug at his own words. The picture of a smiling red- head appeared in his head and he was momentarily distracted. A tightening began to form in his chest, but he quickly crushed it and focused more at the matter at hand: namely Jonny.

"You. Cannot. Follow. Her," he told his as steadfastly as he could.

He saw Jonny's eyes glaze over.

Jonny would not listen to reason. In fact, he renewed his struggles and began to lash out against them. Hadji knew that he would not be able to hold Jonny for long, especially after the beating he took from him.

"My friend," he said as emotionlessly as he could, "I am sorry."

" . . . they
Do not go gentle into that good night . . ."

He punched him . . . hard. He, who abhorred violence, had hit his best friend and watched with satisfaction as Jonny hit his head into the ground. He had told himself that the blow was for Jonny's own good, that had he not punched him, Jonny would have continued headlong to his death in a vain attempt to follow her. But a small part of him, deep inside, had known that that violent act was not done entirely for altruistic purposes.

It had felt good to hit Jonny. To hit someone. To hit something. Anything. Ever since he saw her form disappear with his at the edge of that cliff, he had felt a frustration, a ten-fold increase in the anxiety he felt upon seeing her limp body carried by that masked abomination. Years of friendship had flashed before his eyes. Years of helping each other, years of adventure, years of living . . .

His frustration only increased when Jonny refused to listen to him, to hear him. The threat of losing more than he already has was foremost in his mind. So he lashed out in the most primitive way possible.

Watching his friend lying there in the ground, and realizing he was responsible for his being there, had brought a wave of shame and self- disgust to his being. That, coupled with the thought of her at the bottom of the cliff began to take hold of his mind. He stood up and looked at the scene before him. He saw the weariness in Dr. Quest's eyes, the huddled figure of Estella, the still figure of Race, and the prone body of Jonny.

Stay calm.

The night wind blew, mingling the acrid stench of the fire with the sea air.

They need for you to stay calm.

He watched in the horizon as the night sky turned into an angry red color as a result of the spreading flames.

You cannot afford to give in

The crackling sound from the forest as the fire consumed the trees and the pounding of the waves against the rocks served as the background for this horrific scene.

Hear no evil.

He covered his ears in an attempt to shut the sound of the night from his ears.

See no evil.

He closed his eyes in an effort to reduced the flooding of painful sensory input.

Speak no evil.

He bit his lip to keep from screaming . . . everything.

In the midst of this, a physical pain -- different from the others, less in intensity -- began to register in his fogged brain. He took his hands, the source of the pain, from his ears and looked at them. They were clenched tightly, if somewhat slippery. He opened them and the smell of blood assaulted his nostrils. His short nails had dug deeply into his palms, breaking the skin and making the crescent moon mark of blood. He kneeled down and stared at his hands, ineffective hands. Hands that were unable to even be there to snatch her from that monster. Hands that struck his best friend. Hands which could not save his world. Hands which can do nothing even now but bleed. He looked up.

He watched his world as he knew it crumble before him.

No! he thought repeatedly.

It was not until much later that he realized he was screaming it.

- - END FLASHBACK - -

Hadji felt for the faint scar lines in his palms. He knew they were there and he did not need any light to discover where to touch for them. They were barely visible now. In fact, he was the only one who knew they were there. Every now and then, he would touch them unconsciously, as if to remind himself—not that he needed reminding—of . . . everything.

He sighed and laid back down in his bed.

Joining Jonny downstairs right now would be a very . . . bad idea. For both of them.

He turned to his side and resolved to fight his demons as he always has: alone.

Revised October 10, 2004