Disclaimer: Ownage - no. Affiliation – I wish.
A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I am sorry beyond belief this took so long! This part, again, features Darcy/Jay but the events occurring are from Darcy's point of view this time. Crazies, penknives, and flashbacks all make an appearance.
Part Two – Blindly
"Jay!" She opens the door, blonde hair swaying and grin wide, holding a stack of environmental pamphlets. He hugs her as though nothing is wrong as you stand behind him, your stomach swirling madly and hands shaking from jealousy.
One hour – that's all it takes for you to be completely his. One hour before you break your best friend's heart, but it'll be worth it and everything.
Everything will be alright.
Those were the three sentences that have been plaguing your mind for a week. You've been a nervous wreck, hovering somewhere between fantasies of you and him with a family and quaking images of her – sobbing. Or even worse, him scooping her into his arms, blatantly sending you into a vortex of black.
"Darcy! How have you been? I haven't seen you in forever. Wow – what a surprise! Did you come here with Jay?"
"No – no, I, uh, no. I was just visiting - I bumped into him along the way, you know? What a – a coincidence, huh?" You smile weakly; sure that the wavering curve of your lips is betraying you.
But she doesn't notice a thing. She clasps her skinny fingers onto his arm, beaming. "Guys – come in! And, oh, my God – chocolates! And they're...natural? Wow. I had absolutely no idea they even existed. That is completely cool. You are so thoughtful, Jay!" Her hand roves over his face, stopping at his cheek.
"I love you so much." And you don't know with whose voice the words are coated – hers, his, or yours.
- - - - - -
You're lying, awake, trying to ignore the insufferable chirping of the crickets outside and the dank, moldy smell of the motel room you're currently occupying. One cramped sink. One dirty bathtub. Walls through which roaches dart, terrorizing you to pieces. Two chairs with the stuffing bubbling over like scar tissue. One set of drawers next the bed, on which a busted radio sits. One cramped bed that creaks whenever he rolls over.
You stare at his sleeping figure through the darkness and you can't make out his features. He looks so much less dangerous –more alive, morehuman– when he's asleep; when you can't see the blue glare of his eyes or the smirk embellished across his face like a watermark.
He's breathing gently, the sounds emitting like soft clouds and you wonder why he's only like this when he's unaware – unconscious. Or why he isn't this way anymore.
Killing does that to people, you suppose.
Shadows flit across the cracked ceiling like ghosts and, suddenly, you're a basket case again. Everything closes around you, and you're trapped in black doom, ghastly voices squeezing you out and hanging you to dry. Your throat tightens madly and a loud sob materializes over the hurt, cracking the silence like a gunshot.
That's all it takes. His eyes are open, the piercing lightness dramatized by the silver moonlight. And he's crazy Jay, again.
"What now? God, I was sleeping."
You sit up, body shaking. Out of habit, your freckled hand roves over your stomach – your womb; the only thing you have left of him.
"I...I don't know. Sorry. I just – I just wanted – I don't know. Go back to sleep." You slump down next to him, defeated and clueless.
He rolls his eyes, giving you the finger. "I can't." He sits up, now, looking pissed off beyond belief. Under the covers, your hand finds the penknife stashed at the inside of your bra.
You take a deep breath as the look slides off his face and he's normal again, kind of. He glances at the watch looped loosely on your wrist. "2:34," he says flippantly.
You can hear muffled sounds coming from the room above.
"Get a fucking room," he mutters, slinking down onto the beds, his hands over his face.
"They did," you say, and you realize you just said something witty. A guffaw erupts, bursting out of your mouth. Another. And then, you're hysterical, the shrill sound of your laughter weaving in and out with the panting above you, swelling and making your shoulders shake and eyes squint shut and legs kick under the covers. You feel your hand leave from the hem of your bra and you're suddenly giddy for the first time in awhile, fireworks under your eyelids just like the first time he kissed you.
And then it breaks sharply when you realize you're the only one laughing. It just dies off your throat, crippling you into the point of heartache, because you realize that you'll always be the only one laughing; the only one speaking – that everything with him will always be one-sided. A little part of you dies, right there, on the stink of the bed.
"I have to..." You clench your eyes shut for a moment, steeling yourself. "I have – uh, yeah. Nature calls, you know?"
- - - - - -
She's grinning, the sparkle in her eyes prominent and lighting her whole face up.
"That's just how it is; it's the way of life," he says, a smile stretching across his lips but evaporating somewhere before it reaches his eyes.
"Right, because that makes so much sense, right?" You try to play along as you clutch your stomach, wondering how he could appear so composed – so poised.
"You realize that you just said 'right' twice, right?" His mouth widens into a bigger smile as he mocks you and that's all she sees; the smile – not the warnings layered beneath the amiable façade.
You both know you're slipping – that you're so close to snapping.
She throws back her head as she laughs, her thatched hair swimming down her spine.
"You guys are so amusing. Crackers, anyone?" She stands, holding a plate of cracked wheat cookies or whatever they're called – you don't know.
He takes one, still smiling at her complacently. She smiles back as he takes her hand and rubs his thumb across hers.
And you can't stand it.
You rise out of your chair, insides on fire and you want to die – no, you want to hurt her, to make her feel second-best for once, for her to wake up and start realizing that not everything is about the recycling centre.
"Things have changed." Your voice breaks and the sky begins to fall.
- - - - - -
The penknife is clutched in your shaking hand. You look in the lipstick-smeared mirror and there you are, in your underwear, with a bulge in your stomach and bags under your eyes. Your stringy hair is falling in your eyes, coating them from yourself so you can only see glimpses. You brush them away hastily and stretch out your arm. You want to see yourself do this.
The knife is poised above your wrist, quivering, waiting, and hungry. You can hear him muttering to himself in the other room. You quickly flush the toilet with your foot to drown out a wail.
You can't do it. You just can't. You want to die but you're afraid to, because – because something good may happen at any moment and you'll miss it.
You're crumbling as the door bangs open. There he is, hair mussed and eyes flying.
"What are you –no – what the fuck." And it's oddly satisfying for you, because finally he's the one who's fumbling for words.
"This is so surreal, you know?" You say to no one.
And no one responds. "What the fuck are you doing, Darcy? Put it down!"
You're crying, the bile rising up your esophagus like slime, like a butchered fish making its way up your throat. "Why? Afraid – afraid of knives now, Jay? But it doesn't matter. Because I can't do it, you know? I can't put that thing into my arm. I'm spineless, you know? I'm just...I went along with your stupid runaway game, I stayed with you, we...it doesn't matter anymore. It just doesn't."
He's staring at you and you're burning a hole in the floor. And it's a bizarre situation; you spilling everything with the penknife still hovering above your skin and him, finally stumped, finally human and confused.
And finally, you don't care anymore. Not for him, not for yourself, not for the mound on your belly keeping you together. So you do it. Both arms. You're blinded by the pain shooting all over you, stinging and smarting. But for whatever reason unknown to the both of you, you can't stop talking – your voice cracking and static like radio buzz and bullets.
"It is what it is, you know? I'm just – I'm so tired – you can't even imagine how tired. I think you're dying more than I am, although I'm the one with the blood dripping off my arms. Weird, huh? I sound completely crazy. Here I am, with my wrists slit and all bloody and shit and I'm still rambling on the way I always do. Only I guess I really know, you know?"
His eyes glint. "What do you know?" His voice comes out in a whisper.
"That I'm nothing. That you're nothing – to me, anyway, you know? That there's nothing for me to even look forward to. So why not end it, Jay? Why not?"
He smirks, the shine in his eyes brighter as he takes a step closer. "Because I'm not going down alone."
- - - - - -
It's late out – the snow on the ground is yellow-stained and dirty. The neon lights of the stores you walk by glow. You look at him – there he is, shuffling along beside you looking as deep in thought and mysterious as ever.
You can't help it – you've tried to squash it down for so long, but you just want to kiss him, opening up your souls and merging. You can't –
"You're shaking. What is it?"
You're startled out of your fantasy.
"It's nothing. I, uh, I don't know – I just– yeah, I know, I'm a complete dork."
He rolls his eyes. "No kidding. Spirit Squad, yearbook committee, graduating with a Maths honour – then, Ryerson University and a job on the Danforth selling books."
Your heartbeat quickens; your stomach stirs. "You seem to know my life story."
His mouth widens, turning into that trademark smirk that you've always loved; even from afar at high school. He stops suddenly as a flurry of snow swirls around you. You've always loved the winter.
He kisses you in front of Mel's Beauty Shoppe, hands circling your back as your ears numb from the cold.
You explode, the lights blinding and jolting. And you're so complete.
- - - - - -
You ran. You had kneed him in the crotch, grabbed the clothes you were wearing the day before and his car keys and bolted without signing out.
So here you are, now, sitting on bloodstained grass, still on motel property but hidden nicely.
You don't see the point driving off – no point, if the police are searching for his car. You don't know how long you've been here, either. Apparently, you hadn't cut yourself all that deeply, because now you're just left with crimson arms like spider webs and two crusty lines of darkness.
You can suddenly see blue and red flashes of light. Your designer watch is lying beside you, dirty, but if you can clean it up, you can probably sell it somewhere. If you ever get out of this, that is.
You slowly get up, snatching up the watch. There's a commotion up at the front. The manager, a dumpy, middle-aged woman, cries hysterically, disturbed that she let a killer sleep in her motel. "I neverwould have guessed– such a nice young – what happened to the woman? Did he – did he kill...oh, no, no, no. Such a nice..."
He had given up. He's there, standing stiffly with his hands on the police cruiser as various uniformed people mill around. He turns behind him and sees you, completely visible if anyone other than him were to look your way. Your heart begins pummeling in your chest as your hand begins to bleed from clutching the watch too tightly.
His eyes are red, then blue, then red – one of the cruisers' lights are still going off. They still glint maniacally but he merely nods imperceptibly with an air of the utmost resignation and turns back to staring at the shiny exterior of the police car.
You head towards the back of the motel towards the parking lot, briskly walking towards his beloved red – his car.
The wheel is still caked with brown from the day before but you don't mind. Driving hurts your wrists a bit but you just need to go. You don't know where. You don't know how long before you run out of gas – out of money. And you don't know what you're going to do, then, because you have nothing to do at all.
You stop suddenly – you hadn't gone far. The motel is close behind you, rundown and decrepit. He was once the love of your life. Now he's gone. And now you're free – but freedom has nothing in store for you. The car rumbles quietly. And you decide.
- - - - - -
She's sobbing, hands over her face and the tear drops leaking through the slits between her fingers. You feel disgusting – the insides of your stomach are bunching up again and lurching fiercely. You idly wonder if your inner turmoil will affect the baby in any way and a laugh escapes your lips.
"Why the hell would you even laugh, Darcy? I can't even look at you – both of you. I'm just...I can't even – I don't get it. What did I do wrong here, Jay? Darcy? Why did – why would you go and – you know how I think about wedlock and - is this some sort of sick plot against me? Is this a joke? I can't believe this is happening to me."
The words are rumbling catalysts – a shift between before and after.
"You're making everything about you, again. Do you not realize how self-obsessed you are? There's the environment. There's health-food and exercise. There's Emma Nelson, wrapped up within her own life, you know? Why -"
She cuts you off with a muffled whimper, her hands now stretched in front of her with her palms out and tears still flooding her ruddy face. "What are you doing, Jay? What – what are you – what are you going to do? Oh, my God."
You spin around, slightly confused and your heart jumps into your throat, choking and gagging you.
"Oh, my God – what is that? Jay – we told her already! Let's just go – don't – this wasn't supposed to – what -" You put your hands on his face and stare at him imploringly, fooling yourself and telling yourself that he would actually listen.
He shoves you aside. She screams. You wail, clutching your stomach and throwing up onto the floor.
The room smells like acid and your breakfast is sitting there, splattered and oddly forlorn. He's still clutching the knife as he opens the door, shouting cheerfully, "Come on, we're going to be late for the movie!"
You stare at the figure slumped on the floor although you're in so much distress that you can't even see straight. The room is spinning and you catch a glimpse of white lying on her now abandoned chair. You grab the chocolates and go.
- - - - - -
You've been driving for a few hours before you feel like you're going to fall asleep from fatigue. You're jaded beyond belief – it's hard to believe that you were worrying over tell your best friend about your love affair with her fiancé merely a day ago.
And now – they're probably searching for your body. He won't say anything – you know it. He probably already erased you from his memory; his mind.
You're not quite sure why he decided to let you go the way he did. And you're not quite sure if you even want him to go down alone or if you want to with him.
So you decide. Again.
The car skids to a stop at the side of the highway and you get out, the penknife discarded on the ground and the bloody watch in your hand again, crazy and dead save for the walking, breathing soul stumbling blindly along the side of the empty road.
You drift for a few minutes, collecting yourself for your lonely walk with no one; for no one. Your hand hovers over the bulge at your front, patting your belly emptily.
You're done collecting. Now, there's just a stretch of empty road ahead of you and the chill of Manitoban mornings to carry you on before you surrender completely, the way he had done when he called the police on himself. Only a matter of time now.
The End
