I don't own Red Eye. Or Jackson Rippner. I own my computer.
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Stamina.
Silence. That's all there is. Silence and darkness. It's like being blind and deaf for a moment in time.
Only, it's a beautiful afternoon. The sun is blazing outside. If it weren't for the gunshot wounds peppering his body, blood spilling out over his second best Armani suit, he would look like he was fucking sunbathing.
God dammit. How could he have lost it so completely?
He tries to sit up. Moans. Slumps back down. What was it about Lisa that made him snap?
The fact that she was a first class bitch, maybe.
If bitchiness was an Olympic a sport, she'd take the gold.
His eyelids close over his snapping blue eyes. He fills like every part of his body is broken, bruised and bleeding. Maybe his eyes aren't even blue anymore. Maybe they have filled up with blood and are now some kind of demonic red.
He makes a face. What the hell is he doing?
"Dying," he thinks, answering his own question before he can stop himself.
No. He's going to get out of this. Somehow.
His vanity allows him a moment for reflection. Not many people have his stamina. Not many could take a heel in the leg, several gunshots and a good beating with a field hockey stick. Not to mention that god damn pen. He won't be able to look at another Frankenstein-monster-looking thing again.
He can barely remember his name. It's like it's been smacked out of him.
Oh yeah. Fuck. He is still Jackson Rippner. For a moment he had hoped…
It doesn't matter. He is going to be cursed with that for the rest of his life.
He suddenly lets out a cry of frustration. He's better than this.
Isn't he?
The next five minutes are more like five years. But he gets to his feet.
With slightly trembling hands he smoothes the collar of his shirt. Walks out the door.
He's on the front porch, blood drips red onto the white stone.
He stops, steps back in. Looks in the mirror hanging on the wall just inside the foyer.
Still blue. Check.
He is Jackson Rippner again.
But this time, it's personal.