They took him to the hospital. They took him to the hospital and hooked him up to noisy machines that buzzed like a refrigerator in his ears and stuck tubes down his throat as he gagged. And he slept and healed in this very private hospital, and when he was recovered the doctor handed him a pair of car keys.
"Alright, here you go," Dr. Murphy said as Jackson's fingers wove around the keys. The men that Jackson worked for were very protective of their privacy, and very careful concerning their experts.
He stuck the keys in and drove away. On the seat next to him, the newspaper murmured news concerning the almost-deaths of the Keefes, and heroics of Lisa the Hotel Manager. Jackson gritted his teeth.
---
In his new apartment, he accidentally cut his thumb while slicing carrots for dinner. The comforting taste of his own blood soothed him; and he liked to think of the cycle of blood coming from the body and going back to it, round and round. The calender said that it was the full moon. This was one thing he and Lisa were sharing - he supposed she was probably bleeding then, too.
He did not come out of his apartment. Everything was taken care of.
Outside, the world went on as always, wars starting and stopping and people crying, dying, falling in love, screwing, giving birth, killing, falling, the whole kit and caboodle. Inside, Jackson ironed his shirts and learned how to fold his sheets into hospital corners. He did not read novels; instead, he read his numerous notebooks that brimmed with details of her life.
Maybe Lisa was making tea. Maybe she was taking a shower, or chatting on the telephone. Maybe she was thinking of him.
Chilling, but he smiled.
The sound of the knife hitting the wooden cutting board gave him an idea.
---
"Hello, this is Lisa speaking."
He swallowed and hung up. When he brought the payphone to his ear again, he realized how stupid he was. The consistent beep of the dial tone brought him down, and he closed his eyes, imagining the scene. It was his first time outside of his apartment in over year, and the January air stung him, giving recollections of failed childhood snowball attacks.
His hair had been inexpertly chopped shorter by himself the night before. He had stared into his plain mirror, tufts of hair sticking to his slightly bloodied fingers, and his eyes had burned out at him, the strangest thing in his stark bathroom. The walls were white: canvases, he had mused. Jackson felt like he was going crazy.
He had lost some weight, and his already-thin frame was on the verge of appearing sickly. His transformation had been simple and effective. He didn't look like himself; he didn't look like the smug assassin manager.
He looked like a failure.
In his apartment that night, he started a pile of his notes. Burning or burying them was out of the question, but he wanted them out of his sight, and so had flung a blanket over them. There was a two-day-old wound on his face, where he had cut himself shaving. It winked out, crescent-like, from the curve of his chin. It was very dark out, and his wound corresponded to the moon.
"I'll find her," he said out-loud to his bones and papers. "I'll mark her, and she'll be sorry." He knew it was a cliche, but he couldn't help himself.
The bitch had failed him.