I don't own nothin'.

By that, of course, I mean that I don't own anything, not that I do own something.

Well, I do own something, but nothing pertaining to Red Eye.

Hi! I'm not dead!

Went to see Stormbreaker just now... (why it has inspired me to write Red Eye fanfiction I have no idea), but the problem with reading stuff is that every time the movie deviated from the book I felt like yelling "CAUGHT YOU!" at the screen.

Not a good move in a cinema.

I have a friend who I used to go to nursery with who goes to the same school as the actor who plays Alex Rider, and I have another friend whose brother's friend is his friend, and apparently... I'm writing, I'm writing!

Lisa made her way slowly downstairs, praying fervently that everything had just been a dream. A very, very vivid dream. Jackson was in prison. She had seen him there herself...

At the bottom of the stairs, she tried the door to her living room, which was adjoined to her kitchen.

It was locked.

It was OK, though. She might have locked it the evening before. It didn't mean that Jackson was really in there...

She took a few deep breaths, clutched her hockey stick, and opened the door.

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The door began to open, and Jackson closed his eyes again, feigning unconsciousness. It wasn't hard. His head hurt so much that he found himself wishing that he was. He couldn't succumb to the urge, however. He needed to focus, work out where he was, and how to get away.

He wondered if whoever was coming through the doorhad an aspirin...

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He was there. Dammit.

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Jackson lay as still as he could, listening to the other person's breathing. They didn't seem to have moved at all since they opened the door. Finally, he heard footsteps slowly coming towards him.

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To put it lightly, he looked like shit. In the morning sunlight streaming through the curtainless windows, Lisa could see every cut and scrape on his face and body. As well as the bump on his head, he had several grazes on his forehead and cheeks, and a deepish cut just underneath his left eye. His bottom lip was puffy and swollen, and there was dried blood around his nose.

Lisa was worried. He still looked unconscious. What if there were worse injuries under his clothes? What if he was dead or dying? How on earth would she ever explain this to the police?

She let her gaze quickly sweep his body. She could see a long, crimson line along his right arm where a knife or some other sharp implement had ripped through his grey prison shirt. There were some tears along the legs of his grey trousers, revealing flesh which was either bruised, bleeding, or both. A dull brownish stain covered one of his shoulders. She hoped that he hadn't been shot or something.

She needed him to wake up. Then he could tend to his own wounds, because she sure as hell wasn't going to do it for him.

The first thing that Lisa did was call into work sick. Then she went into the kitchen and filled a large bowl with cold water...

Yeah, OK. Please review. Pleeeeaaase! I'll give you invisible cookies... (and, in case you were wondering, we DO have cookies in England. We also have biscuits. They are different things.) :p.

Oh yeah, and I'd like to say hi to my friend Kris, if he ever gets 'round to reading this. Hey Kris.

Hmm... this chapter... I dunno, I just re-read it, and it feels like mostly filler to me... I swear there'll be more action soon!

Yeah, so, criticize all you want. Or praise. Whatever works.

Until next time,

PJ

P.S. I just remembered, I have a question for all you wise fanfiction people. The question is this: What's a 'beta'? I've heard people talk about them (well, read), but I'm still not entirely sure what they do. Anyone wanna enlighten me? Stick it in a review...